Lyra Vale slipped through the dripping stone corridor, every nerve screaming. Her chest tightened with each distant thunderclap from the city above.
In her right hand, she gripped a jagged wyrmbone dagger — a piece of a dragon's rib, dull and deadly — and in her left, the cracked vial of Lazarus-Blood, its golden liquid sloshing with stormlight.
Good luck, idiot. she thought.
This was far from luck.
The ruined Shadowed Chapel reeked of mold and old incense. Stalactites dripped rainwater that smelled like rust and decay.
Above, Seresthos—Ivory Spire City—trembled, floating on tantrums of wind.
Below, the drowned quarter slept, frightened, among broken halls and salt-stained stones.
Lyra was as gutterborn as they came, born in driftwood slums and raised on anger. Years of scrapping in alleys had stiffened her skin and sharpened her wit.
Tonight, neither of those traits lit away any fear. She brushed damp hair out of her eyes, muscles coiled to spring. The hush of dripping water was broken by thunder – or something heavier.
Boots. Not horseshoes, but heavy leather soles treading on stone.
She froze.
Wyrmwatch.
Polished-white knight-sergeants on dragon-killing patrol. If they found her with stormblood or relics… she'd be roasted in the heavens.
Slowly, Lyra crouched behind a gargantuan wyrmbone arch, the shattered ceiling above just beyond a reach of lightning's glow.
Her pulse throbbed in her neck as Wyrmwatch voices echoed.
Two green-armored soldiers and one in white – he was the commander, with a brass eyepatch and an ivory saint's-mask on his helmet – filed into view, flashlights licking at shadows.
One spat on the floor; another said, "Relic den, just as I thought. The storm's rising, masters want this place clean." They spoke like croaks of frogs, but Lyra's blood grew cold.
She squatted tight, dagger in one hand, the jar of Lazarus-Blood clutched to her chest. Behind the patrol, in a collapsed side-chamber, she heard it – a low, sorrowful humming.
Saints, they called themselves: fanatics praying to drowned gods and broken bones. Even Wyrmwatch mostly ignored them. But standing here, chanting, was suicidal.
Lyra's mind raced.I've got the goods. Tonight everything could change. She imagined slipping through Seresthos on the Skybridge tomorrow, Lazarus-Blood sold for enough skyshards to vanish. Maybe she could buy her own small shack, finally be quiet.
But profit was a fools game when you're hidden in a monster's ribcage. The Wyrmwatch chief knelt and prodded at scraps. The soldiers exchanged bored looks. Lyra's breath came in shallow hisses.
She eased back, pressing herself flat against the walls of the chapel's giant rib-cage arches. Every tendon sang. The patrol finished their wordless search and turned to leave. The footsteps faded, swallowed by thunder and dripping.
When Lyra was sure the soldiers were gone, relief washed through her. She exhaled into the stagnant air.
It's over. Slowly, her grip on the relic jar loosened – and then nothing felt right.
A hot trickle ran down her palm.
No, no no… She looked at the jar: a crack had formed along its side. The night-gold stormlight seethed out in a silver flash, splashing onto the stone.
Lyra hissed and clamped her fingers together too late – the warm blood that fell onto her palm wasn't hers. It spilled like liquid lightning, writhing.
Behind her, in the corner of the chamber, a giant silhouette stirred. Lyra's heart froze in a torment of realization. The last of the Skywyrms. The legend was true. A black wyrm, scales glittering with every color of storm, lay wounded against the far wall. One wing hung, torn and smoking. The stormblood dripping from her hand was the dragon's life. In his molten-gold eyes she saw outrage... and hunger.
Lyra had never expected this night to end on her back, facing a dragon eye to eye. But it was happening. The dragon inhaled slowly, nostrils flaring with white lightning. A voice thundered in Lyra's skull.
Bloody hell.She thought, Here we go.
The wyrm's voice was low and old, full of smoke and deep hurt."You have company," it said, as if commenting on the patrolling soldiers. The sound resonated inside her like a headache.