Chapter 14 · The Obsidian Gear

"Pip?"

The storm-antler's ears twitched. A weak crackle answered him.

"That's not an answer I like," Rowan muttered, dropping to one knee. The stone platform groaned beneath him, long and exhausted. Around them the repaired channels of the ancient grid pulsed once, twice, then faded to dull blue.

Pip lay curled beside the broken core, tiny body trembling under Lyra's cloak. Sparks crawled through his fur and died.

"Then stop asking questions you already know the answer to."

Rowan turned. Lyra stood at the crater's edge, coat ripped at the shoulder, dark hair stuck to her cheek with rain and blood. One of the royal binding bolts had grazed her ribs. The broken remains of her investigation badge hung from her belt by a leather cord.

Beyond her, the last royal hunters were retreating toward their skiff. Moving fast. Not fast enough to hide the fear in their faces.

The island's machinery had gone silent. No blue fire. No pressure wave.

Only the cracked core.

And the black gear lodged inside it.

Rowan stared at the thing. No larger than his palm, cut from polished obsidian, teeth impossibly fine. Water slid over its surface without wetting it.