The first time Lyra saw it, she thought it was a trick of the light.
The mirror in her chamber was old, its glass warped slightly by heat and years of polishing. Sometimes torchlight bent strangely across its surface, turning shadows into shapes that weren't there. But when she leaned closer that morning, pulling back her sleeve, the truth struck like ice.
Silver.
It threaded through her veins like strands of molten glass, pulsing faintly beneath her skin. Not everywhere—only in her wrist, where blood ran closest to the surface. She pressed her fingers against it, half expecting pain, half expecting fire. But it only pulsed back at her with the rhythm of her own heart.
She yanked the sleeve down and stepped away. Her breath came too fast.
Not real. Not real. Just the light. Just the mirror.
But the whispers already began in her head. Serrin's last stare before Kael struck him down. The nobles in the gallery muttering "She bleeds poison." The council's cold eyes.
