They rode for three days, through rain and mud, through forests where the trees seemed to lean in to watch them pass, where the wind carried whispers of things that had died, of things that should have stayed dead. Thorne's wound festered despite Lyra's magic, the poison working its way through his body, spreading like black veins through his flesh, and by the third day, he was drifting in and out of consciousness, his mind fading in and out of focus, his hold on life growing weaker with every heartbeat.
On the evening of the third day, they saw it—a small cabin perched on the side of a mountain, smoke rising from its chimney, the only sign of life in a landscape of rock and ice. The Witch of the North's home.
Lyra helped Thorne down from the horse, half-carrying him to the cabin door, his weight too much for her small frame, his body too broken to support itself. She knocked, and the door opened before her hand could fall, as if it had been waiting for them, as if it had known they were coming.
An old woman stood in the doorway, her face a map of wrinkles, each line telling a story of hardship, of survival, of things seen that should have driven her mad. Her eyes were the color of storm clouds, gray and deep, carrying the weight of too many years, too many deaths, too much knowledge. She wore robes of black and gray, fabrics that had seen better days, that had been mended and remended until they were more patch than cloth. Around her neck hung a bone pendant carved into the shape of a dragon, ancient bone that carried the power of something that had died long ago, that had refused to stay dead.
"Thorne," she said, her voice like dry leaves, like the sound of autumn, of endings. "I've been expecting you. The Plague told me you were coming. The dead whispered your name."
Thorne collapsed, his strength finally giving out, his body surrendering to gravity, to the darkness that had been reaching for him for days. Lyra caught him before he could hit the ground, her small frame surprising him with its strength, with her refusal to let him fall.
"Help him," Lyra pleaded, her voice tight with fear, with the sight of death shadows that coiled around Thorne like snakes, showing her the end that was coming if something didn't change. "Please. He's dying. The poison's too deep. I can feel it spreading through his blood, turning his heart black, his organs rotting while he still breathes."
The old woman stepped aside, her movements slow, measured, the movements of someone who had seen too much to hurry, who had nothing left to prove. "Bring him in. The darkness waits for no one, but it can wait a little longer."
The cabin was small but packed from floor to ceiling with books, scrolls, strange artifacts that hummed with power, with magic, with things that shouldn't exist. Dried herbs hung from the ceiling, casting strange shadows in the firelight, shadows that moved when no one was looking, that seemed to have lives of their own. In the center of the room, a cauldron bubbled over a fire, its contents thick and dark, carrying the scent of things that had died, of things that should have stayed dead.
The old woman—Morgana—guided them to a bed in the corner, the only bed in the cabin, the only place where Thorne could rest, where he could surrender to the darkness without falling. Then she began mixing herbs from jars on her shelves, her movements practiced, certain, the movements of someone who had done this a thousand times, who knew exactly what each herb did, exactly how much to use.
"His wound is cursed," Morgana said without looking up, her voice carrying the weight of knowledge, of things she had seen too many times. "The Church's bolts are dipped in holy water, blessed to prevent healing, to make the death slow and painful. It's a poison that works its way through the body, turning organs to mush, rotting flesh while the victim still breathes. It's designed to make him suffer, to make him beg for death before it comes."
"Can you save him?" Lyra asked, her voice barely above a whisper, carrying the weight of hope, of desperation.
Morgana turned to look at her, storm-gray eyes searching her face, seeing the fear there, the desperation, the love that drove her to keep trying when all hope was gone. "You're the Moonwhisper girl. I've been waiting for you too. The blood whispered your name, told me you were coming. The dead whispered your power, told me you had the sight."
"Me? Why?"
"Because you're the only one who can," Morgana said, and there was weight in her words, weight that went beyond simple statement, beyond simple fact. She returned to her mixing, her hands moving with practiced certainty, adding herbs to the mixture, stirring it with a spoon that had seen too many uses. "Thorne's dragon blood will keep him alive, will fight the poison, will keep his heart beating long after it should have stopped. But it won't heal this wound. The poison's too deep, the curse too strong. Only you can heal this. Only silver magic can push back the darkness, can give the body strength to fight the poison."
She handed a bowl of paste to Lyra, the mixture thick and dark, carrying the scent of things that had died, of things that should have stayed dead. "Mix this with your silver light. Pour it into the wound. It will hurt—will hurt more than anything has ever hurt—but it will work. The silver magic will give the paste power, will make it burn through the poison, will make it heal what the Church tried to destroy."
Lyra took the bowl, her hands trembling, the mixture heavy in her grasp, its scent making her stomach turn. She knelt beside Thorne, who was barely conscious, his breathing shallow and ragged, his skin gray with the poison's progress. She raised her hands, silver light glowing around her wrists, and mixed it with the paste as Morgana had instructed, her movements careful, certain, the movements of someone who knew this was the only chance, the last hope.
Then she poured it into the wound.
Thorne screamed, his back arching, his body going rigid as the paste hit the poison, as silver magic and ancient herbs fought the darkness in his blood. Black flames erupted from his skin, flickering and dying like dying embers, as the dragon blood responded to the foreign substance, to the magic that was invading its territory. Lyra held him down, tears streaming down her face, as the paste hissed and bubbled in the wound, as it fought the poison, as it burned through flesh that the Church had tried to destroy.
After what felt like hours, after what felt like a lifetime of screaming, of burning, of fighting, Thorne collapsed back onto the bed, his breathing steadying, his body relaxing. The wound was still open, still bleeding, but the blackness was fading, the poison's progress slowing.
"He'll sleep now," Morgana said, her voice soft, carrying the weight of relief, of a battle won, however temporarily. "For days. The healing takes the time it takes. The poison's deep, the curse is strong. But the silver magic is stronger. You saved him."
She turned to Lyra, storm-gray eyes searching her face, seeing the exhaustion there, the toll the healing had taken. "Now. Tell me everything. What happened at Thornwick? What did you see? What did the dead show you?"
Lyra told her everything—the hounds, Valerius's arrival, the dead, the figure in black armor with the crown of bone. She told her of the death shadows she had seen, of the dragon fire she had felt, of the wrongness in the dead's movements, of the organization that shouldn't exist.
Morgana listened without interrupting, her expression growing darker with each word, with each revelation. When Lyra finished, the old woman was silent for a long time, her mind racing with implications she didn't want to face, with truths she had hoped never to hear.
"A Death Knight," Morgana said finally, her voice barely above a whisper, carrying the weight of fear, of a horror she had hoped never to see again. "That's not supposed to exist. The Death Knights were all destroyed during the Dragon Wars, a thousand years ago. The last Dragon Lord hunted them down, burned them, scattered their bones to the corners of the world. They were gone. They were supposed to stay gone."
"Could it be someone new?" Lyra asked, her voice tight with hope, with the desperate need to believe that this was something new, something that could be stopped, that could be understood.
"No," Morgana said, and there was finality in her voice, a certainty that came from too many years of knowing, of remembering. "Death Knights are created, not born. Someone is raising the old knights, is calling their bones back from the corners of the world, is giving them form again. Someone with access to forbidden magic, with knowledge of rituals that should have been forgotten, that should have stayed buried. Someone who knows the old ways, the old words, the old powers."
She stood and walked to a shelf, her movements slow, measured, the movements of someone who had seen too much to hurry, who had nothing left to prove. She pulled out an ancient book bound in black leather, the cover cracked with age, the pages yellowed and brittle. "I need to check something. I need to see if what I fear is true."
She opened the book and began flipping through pages filled with strange symbols and diagrams, with images of things that shouldn't exist, that had been destroyed long ago. After several minutes, she stopped on a page depicting a figure in black armor with a crown of bone, a figure that carried the weight of death, of power, of something that had refused to stay dead.
"Morthos," Morgana whispered, the name carrying the weight of a thousand years, of a horror that had destroyed kingdoms, that had ended ages. "The Death King. He was the greatest of the Death Knights, the one who led the army of the dead during the Dragon Wars, the one who nearly destroyed the world before the last Dragon Lord stopped him. He was destroyed, or so the legends said. His bones were scattered, his phylactery was hidden, his soul was bound where no one could find it."
She looked up at Lyra, her eyes filled with fear, with the weight of a truth she had hoped never to face. "If Morthos has returned, then the Plague isn't just spreading. It's the beginning of the end. The Dragon Wars are starting again. The darkness is waking up, and this time, there may be no one left to stop it."
And Lyra knew, with a certainty that went beyond her sight, beyond her magic, that the world had changed forever, that nothing would ever be the same again.