Chapter 9 · The Last Living Key

"Don't move."

Rowan froze. The voice didn't come from Lyra—it came from the walls.

Dust peeled off the vaulted ceiling in silver sheets. Somewhere below, gears ground awake, each rotation shaking through his boots. The air tasted like copper and burnt ozone, that sharp bite before lightning.

Pip growled.

The storm-antler crouched between him and the black crack splitting the floor open. Blue sparks crawled across its antlers. One leg was still wrapped in a blood-soaked bandage, ribs shivering with every breath, but it wouldn't back down.

Rowan leaned against the ancient pillar, one hand pressed to his side. Blood seeped between his fingers—his or the magic's, he couldn't tell anymore.

Across the chamber, Lyra had her sword out.

The broken investigator badge she'd given him was tucked in his coat, over his heart. A ridiculous weight for something so small. A promise made of tarnished silver that could get them both killed.

The crack widened.

Light spilled out—not white, not blue, but a color that made his eyes ache. It pulsed like a vein under skin.

Then the voice came back.

NOT BLOOD. NOT CROWN. NOT NAME.

The words formed inside his bones.

LAST LIVING KEY.

Lyra's jaw tightened.