Chapter 8 · The Heir in the Blank Ledger

"Don't move."

Rowan froze halfway down the quarry slope. Lyra's knife was already out, blade angled toward the tunnel mouth below.

"What is it?"

"Listen."

He listened. The farm above them groaned—soil cracking, water hissing into steam, copper pipes screaming as the capital pulled harder through the leyline. But beneath all that, something else. A rhythm. Like a heartbeat trapped under stone.

Pip's ears flattened. The storm-antler beast pressed against his ankle, silver fur bristling.

"That's coming from inside," Lyra said.

"Great. Love that for us."

She shot him a look. "You're bleeding through your shirt."

"Noticed that, yeah."

"Can you walk?"

"I'm walking right now."

"For how long?"

Rowan didn't answer. His ribs felt like they'd been replaced with broken glass. Every breath scraped. The wound beneath his coat was hot, wet, and getting worse.

Lyra grabbed his arm before he could take another step. Her grip was firm. Warm. Too close for someone who'd spent the last week threatening to arrest him.

"If you pass out in that tunnel," she said, "I'm leaving you there."

"No you're not."

"You don't know that."

"You came back for me during the fleet attack."

Her jaw tightened. "That was different."

"How?"