The carriage lurches to a halt, the iron-rimmed wheels grinding against the frozen gravel of the Black Towers. Lyra Asterin steps onto the slush-slicked stones, her breath hitching as the mountain air bites through her thin novice’s robes. Above, the twin moons hang like unblinking eyes—one a pale, frigid white, the other a bruised silver-violet.
The Academy gate groans open, a throat of basalt and shadow waiting to swallow her whole. Lyra tightens her grip on the silver cord at her waist, her pulse thrumming against the onyx pendant at her throat. Behind her, the lantern light from the carriage catches the ground, casting a sharp, dark silhouette toward the entrance. But as she moves, a second shape ripples outward from her heels, longer and more deliberate, turning its head toward the ramparts as if scenting the wind.
From the high balcony above the arch, a figure steps to the railing. Crown Prince Caelen Vire does not look at the new arrival’s face; his sea-grey eyes drop to the stones, tracking the heavy, impossible twin shadow that bleeds across the snow.
