The rain had not stopped for three nights.
Lyra sat under a crashed eave of an abandoned station, wrapping her arms around her knees. Each drop landed on the ground like a stopwatch, ticking away for her what she didn't have anymore—time. Not quite enough for dreams. Not quite enough for safety. Enough for just barely tomorrow.
Arkwright city did not sleep. Its spires winked with fake stars, neon lights hinting at power, riches, loveliness, and magic… for those who were prepared to pay. Not in coins, not in blood, but in something much more costly.
Years.
In this world, people could barter pieces of their future in exchange for power today. Sell three years and you could buy a spell strong enough to light up a street. Sell thirty and you could bring armies to their knees. Sell it all… and you'd shine like a sun before you'd blow back to dust.
Lyra had seen it happen. She recalled the vacant stare of beggars who had wagered away decades in exchange for a single day of fame. She recalled the shaky hand of her mom as she autographed her remaining decade away in attempts to cure Lyra's illness when she was a youngster. Never did her mom recover from that deal.
And her father—he had lost himself in the world of commerce and contracts much too early for her to understand what a "future debt" was.
That was why Lyra had run.
No more contracts. No more chains. No more being instructed on how much time she was worth. She was only sixteen—her years belonged to her.
But fate had something different in store.
The rain shifted, as if the storm itself held its breath. Lyra lifted her head. Across the deserted alley, a light had appeared where there should have been none. Not the buzzing orange glow of streetlamps, nor the violet blaze of neon, but something older—pale, steady, and beckoning.
It emerged from a door.
The door hadn't been there yesterday. It didn't belong to the cracked brick wall it pierced. The wood was dark, carved with symbols that seemed to shimmer like living veins. And above the brass handle, words had burned themselves into the frame:
THE LIBRARY OF STOLEN TOMORROWS.
Lyra blinked. Fog materialized out of her breath. She should have run. All stories spoken of prohibited things that only showed up for those desperate, those reckless, or those damned.
She had no where to go though.
And the light was warm.
She rose, boots squelching in puddles, and stepped out of the alley. Her hand hesitated over the handle.
"Just a glimpse," she whispered, as though saying it aloud might make it real. "If it's dangerous, I'll leave."
She reached out and clasped the brass.
Soundlessly, the door swung open.
Inside was not a room. It was a universe.
Rows and rows of shelves extended into an unthinkable distance, reaching up so high they were lost in a golden blur. Books. Scrolls. Crystals vibrating with light. Each relic throbbed dully, as though the heartbeat of a living thing.
Lyra stepped inside, her breath stolen. The air smelled of ink, old paper, and something sharper—like lightning captured in glass.
She walked through the nearest aisle, tracing the spines of the books with her fingertips. They all had a name on them. Thousands. Millions. More than there were digits for.
Her skin prickled.
"This. is every life," she muttered. "Every deal."
"You catch on quickly, little trespasser."
The voice was from above.
Lyra spun, her heart in a tumult. A figure stood easily against a ladder that did not appear to have any end. Shrouded in darkness, his face was obscured beneath his hood, but his eyes shone gold, as melted coins.
"Who are you?" inquired Lyra.
"A librarian," the being responded, his voice both facetious and tired. "This place chronicles every transaction in exchange for time. Every borrowed future, every pilfered tomorrow. Every frivolous desire that mortals such as you etch out of your futures."
Lyra's throat went dry. "So it's real. It's all of it."
The librarian tilted his head. "You weren't to find your way here. Which means you are either very lucky—or your thread of fate was severed so violently that the Library pulled you in to… set things right."
"Right
"Yes. Because someone has been tampering."
They sprang lightly down the ladder and came softly to a stop before her. Shading on their cloak curled up like ink in a pool. "Follow."
Lyra longed to run, but her feet obeyed. She was brought by the librarian through a passageway, past high shelves until they stopped in front of a pedestal. It contained a single book bound in deep red leather. Her name was embossed faintly on the cover.
LYRA MARIN.
She experienced a jolt in.
No," she breathed. "No, this can't.
"Open it," the librarian told her.
Her hands shook as she touched the cover. The book warmed, pulsing like it recognized her blood. She opened to the first page.
It started innocently enough—her birth, first steps, sickness in childhood, sacrifice of mother. All penned in elegant handwriting that changed as if from a living hand.
She turned the pages faster. Her runaway night. Her hunger. The rain.
Then nothing.
The rest of the pages were blank.
Lyra stiffened. "Where's the rest
Golden librarian's eyes grew dull. "Sold."
"Eh
"Your entire future," they said softly. "Every year. Every tomorrow. Traded away. You should not even be standing here. By all rights, you are a hollow vessel, destined to collapse the moment the ink dried."
Lyra stepped back. "No. That can't be done. I never did sign anything! I never made any contract!"
"Then someone sold it for you."
Her chest constricted. Images flashed—her absent father, the strangers who whispered deals in shadowed alleys, the way people looked at her with pity.
"Who?" she croaked.
"That," the librarian replied, "is the question you alone can answer."
Their shelves creaked, as though the Library came to life. Candles burst into flame, throwing harsh shadows.
Lyra's fists curled up around the book. Anger burst out, supplanting the terror. "If my future's been taken, then I'll steal it back."
The librarian's lips had curled up slightly. "A dangerous oath.
„I don't care" Ihr bäumte sie hoch und sah ihn aus funkelnden Augen an. „Wer immer mein Morgen
The librarian studied her for a long, unreadable moment. Then they extended a hand, palm open. In it appeared a single silver key, etched with the same symbols as the door outside.
"Then start your search," they whispered. "But remember this: every foe you encounter shall have stolen futures armed against you. They shall hold against you decades of power, lifetimes of experience, whole pilfered destinies. You, on the other hand…"
They bent forward, their golden eyes intense.
"You have nothing left to lose. And that makes you very, very dangerous."
Lyra took the key. It burned cold against her skin.
The moment she closed her fingers around it, the shelves trembled. Far away, alarms tolled—low, resonant bells that shook the Library's bones.
The librarian's eyes became wide. "Too late. They've spotted you."
"Who?" asked Lyra.
But before the response could arrive, the aisle in front blew up in blinding light. A figure emerged—a boy not more than eighteen years old, his eyes afire. Flames curled around his fists, each rotation searing the air.
"Lyra Marin," he declared, voice ringing out with authority not his own. "By decree of the Contract Guild, your life is forfeit."
The librarian shoved her back. "Run." Lyra's heart thudded. The flame boiled towards her. Her grip on the silver key became tighter. She ran.