Chapter Thirty-Nine · The Mourning Fire

They rode deeper into the town. With every step, Lyra felt the space around her tighten, slowly pressing in.

Up close, the houses weren’t built of wood or stone. Their surfaces seemed woven from rough strips of blackened bark, dry and dark, yet somehow not quite dead.

A strip of white cloth hung at every doorway.

Lyra glanced around. A feeling she couldn’t name settled in her chest, as if something here wasn’t entirely right.

One question kept tugging at her.

What did those strips of cloth mean?

They stopped at a teahouse set firmly on the ground, not hovering like the others.

Sion slipped into a seat near the fire.

She rubbed her hands together, then pressed them against her cheeks.

“Gods… finally.”

Lyra remained standing, her gaze drifting back outside.

The shadow of the house across the street stretched out beneath her feet.

A Drazhune man stepped into it…

and vanished.

He didn’t go through a door. He stepped straight into the darkness at the base of the house.

A moment later, he appeared on the balcony above, reaching up to pull down one of the white strips.

Lyra blinked.

Not just a shadow.

An entrance.

The man pressed the strip of cloth to his forehead, then held it out between two fingers and gave a small flick.

Violet fire flared and consumed it.

In the houses around them, others were doing the same.

A server brought the tea and set two steaming cups on the table.

The scent of herbs drifted up. Lyra picked up a cup.

Sion pointed toward the house across the way.

“What are they doing?”

“The mourning period for the King has ended. We burn them when it’s over.”

Lyra had just lifted the cup to her lips.

She stilled.

“Which King?”

“We have only one King.”

“…Eryndar.”

Lyra froze.

For a moment, the name struck straight through her chest.

The cup trembled in her hand,

then slipped from her fingers.

It hit the floor.

Shards scattered. Hot tea spread across the wooden floor.

Sion and the server went still.

Lyra’s hand kept shaking.

“You’re… not lying, are you?”

“Why would I lie? The whole town knows.”

Lyra swallowed.

“When?”

“Seven days ago.”

She set a gold coin on the table.

“For the cup.”

Then she turned and hurried out of the teahouse.

“Hey—wait!”

Sion took one last hurried sip, then ran after her.

Lyra yanked the reins and drove the horse straight toward the heart of the town.

“That’s not possible…”

Her eyes stung. She blinked hard, trying to hold the tears back.

When she left… her father had been well.

It was too sudden.

She drew a breath and held it.

They rode past house after house—each one the same: white strips burning in purple fire.

Was this real?

Or was she still dreaming?

The pain rose.

Snow began to fall.

Wind cut through her, carrying flakes across her face.

Salty. Not from the snow.

Her throat tightened.

Her father’s face surfaced—

training in the yard,

riding at dawn,

the rare, quiet hours together at the outpost in the north.

She hadn’t known… that would be the last time.

He used to clean her blade for her.

That blade… had broken long ago.

Her grip tightened on the reins until her hands burned.

—

The horse slowed at a frozen lake.

It stood in the middle of the town, yet it was quieter here than the streets they had just passed.

Lyra slid down, drove her sword into the snow, and dropped to her knees.

A sob broke loose.

She folded in on herself.

Tears fell, pocking the snow with small dark dents.

“No… that can’t be…”

Her shoulders shook, the sobs coming harder.

Sion stayed behind her, not daring to come closer.

Then she moved.

Slowly. Very slowly.

She stopped beside Lyra and hesitated.

Her hand lifted… and hung there.

A tear fell before she noticed.

Sion drew a breath and sank to her knees.

Gently, she reached up and touched Lyra’s cheek.

Her fingers trembled as she tried to wipe the tears away, but more kept falling, slipping through her hand.

Lyra didn’t look up.

But she didn’t pull away.

Sion bowed her head and set a hand on Lyra’s shoulder, light and careful.

Just enough so Lyra wouldn’t feel alone.

Snow gathered over their cloaks.

Sion pulled her up, guided her onto the horse, and Lyra let herself be led.

They stopped at a small inn.

For three days, Lyra didn’t eat. She didn’t speak.

She lay facing the wall, eyes open, tears never stopping.

No sobs. Just silence.

Time kept moving. For Lyra, day and night no longer felt different.

Sion sat at the edge of the bed, changing the water and setting food down, but the tray always came back untouched.

On the third night, Lyra opened her pouch and took out the three map fragments.

She stared at them for a long time, not moving, her fingers tracing the faint lines.

Go on or turn back… she didn’t know anymore.

Every direction felt the same.

The Awakening Spring… it didn’t matter anymore.

She only wanted her father alive.

The snow had stopped.

The world remained dim, as it always was.

Lyra lay still, eyes open, staring into nothing.

Then—

The scar on her left wrist twitched.

It pulsed. Once. Then stronger.

Heat flushed the skin red.

Lyra frowned. She grabbed her wrist.

Not pain. A pull.

This feeling… was different.

Like someone was calling.

Lyra jerked upright—

Her strength gave out, and she hit the floor.

Sion rushed to her.

“Lyra!”

She caught her by the shoulders.

Lyra’s breath came fast, her eyes wide.

“I can feel it.”

Her grip tightened on her wrist.

“It’s pulling.”

Sion didn’t ask questions.

She reached for the tray, grabbed a piece of dark bread, and pressed it into Lyra’s hand.

Lyra ate quickly, barely chewing.

Sion stuffed the rest into her coat.

“In case we need it.”

A little strength returned after she ate. She pushed herself to her feet, pulled on her cloak, and buckled her sword.

She said nothing.

She opened the door. They stepped into the hall.

A black mirror shimmered into being in the air before them.

Lyra stepped forward. Sion followed.

The moment they touched it, the space twisted.

A heartbeat later, they were drawn beneath the inn’s shadow.

They went to the hitching posts, mounted, and rode in the direction the scar led.

They rode on, leaving the center of the town behind.

The houses thinned, their shapes fading into the dim light.

Ahead, the ground began to rise.

Not sharply at first. Only enough for the path to tilt beneath the horse’s hooves.

Then higher, until the twisted black structures gave way to a single, massive slope.

This wasn’t part of the town.

It only looked like it had always been there.

Lyra’s scar pulsed faster, each beat sharper.

This was it.

They slowed partway up the slope, scanning the rise for a way in.

A dark mist rolled in, thick at their feet, swallowing the path.

Far up the slope, a dark mark broke the surface.

As they approached, it deepened and widened into a perfect circle: a doorway.

Lyra pulled the horse onto a narrow stretch of steady ground and looped the reins around a jut of dark stone.

She turned to Sion.

“Let’s go.”

Sion caught her wrist and pulled her back slightly.

“Are you sure about this?”

“If it leads anywhere, I’m following.”

Lyra stepped into the dark.

Sion hesitated, then followed.

The world slipped beneath their feet.

Sound went first.

Then the weight of their bodies.

When it settled, they were standing inside a vast chamber.

The ceiling stretched high above.

Black columns rose on either side, carved with intricate patterns.

A tall, slender man in a noble cloak stood ahead of them.

His hands were pale, his fingers long, his nails sharp.

He faced away.

Not far. Just a few dozen steps.

He didn’t move.

But his shoulder… angled too far to one side.

Not wrong.

Just… built that way.

A faint crack.

His head began to turn.

Slowly.

Sion flinched.

She pressed in behind Lyra, eyes squeezed shut.