The forest had changed.
Where the trees once whispered like old friends, they now watched in silence, their branches bowed beneath a heavy mist. The air tasted of iron and moss — the scent of rain waiting to fall.
Lyra moved through it with the careful grace of someone walking through a dream she half-remembered. Ursa padded beside her, his massive form dark against the fog. Nim darted ahead, the tiny fox's fur flickering like a flame. Crowley the raven rode on her shoulder, feathers glinting faintly green in the dim light.
None of them spoke for a long while.
The path wound upward through twisted roots and shattered stones until it opened to a ledge. From there, Lyra could see it — her mother's prison.
The Palace of Thorns rose from the valley below like a broken crown. Walls of once-white marble now coiled in vines black as night, pulsing faintly with red veins. At its heart, a single spire pierced the clouds, crowned in eerie light.
Crowley gave a low whistle.
"Well, that's… inviting."
Ursa rumbled.
"The curse grows stronger. The vines breathe. You feel it?"
Lyra did. Each pulse from the palace seemed to tug at her wrist, where the mark of her mother's sigil still glowed faintly.
"It's calling me," she said softly.
Nim flicked her tail nervously.
"Then we'd better call back with claws ready."
They set up camp beneath an ancient willow whose roots dipped into a small stream. The water shimmered faintly blue — enchanted, maybe, or tainted. Lyra couldn't tell anymore.
When night came, she couldn't sleep. The fire snapped softly, and the mist danced around its glow. Ursa was snoring, Nim curled against his side, and Crowley muttered in dreams about stealing shiny things.
Lyra stared at her reflection in the stream.
For a moment, she didn't see her face. She saw her mother's.
The same grey eyes. The same strength wrapped in sadness.
"Balance," she whispered, repeating the word her mother had spoken. "But how do I balance something I don't understand?"
The wind stirred. A whisper — faint, familiar.
"You listen, child."
Lyra's heart jolted. She turned. No one was there. Only the willow's branches swaying.
But she felt it — a pulse beneath her feet. The ground itself seemed to breathe.
Ursa woke, blinking slowly.
"You sense it too."
Lyra nodded. "Something's moving beneath us."
The bear tilted his head toward the palace.
"The roots of the thorns stretch for miles. They feed on fear. The closer we get, the more they'll test us."
"What kind of tests?" Nim asked, stretching awake.
Crowley chuckled darkly.
"The kind that makes your bones hum and your heart forget how to beat."
Lyra smiled faintly. "You're full of comfort, Crowley."
"It's a gift."
At dawn, they began to move again — carefully, quietly.
Every sound felt louder: the crunch of leaves, the rasp of steel as Lyra adjusted her sword, the steady thump of Ursa's paws.
Halfway down the slope, the mist thickened until the world became only shadows and silhouettes.
And then came the whispers.
At first, they were faint — like the forest breathing. Then words began to form.
"You left her."
"You could have saved them."
"You are no princess. Only a mistake."
Lyra froze. Her pulse thundered in her ears.
The mist thickened around her, shapes forming — half faces, half smoke. They reached toward her, eyes hollow, fingers stretching like vines.
Ursa roared, slashing at the air. Nim yipped, light flaring around her paws. Crowley dove and pecked at shadows that weren't really there.
Lyra gritted her teeth, gripping the sword until her knuckles burned.
"You're not real."
"We are your truth," one hissed.
Her eyes flashed grey.
"Then hear mine."
She swung the blade. Light erupted — silver and gold, slicing through the mist. The whispers shattered, echoing like glass.
The silence that followed was heavy, but clean — the kind that follows a storm.
Ursa studied her.
"You fought not with anger. You fought with clarity. That's what your mother meant."
Lyra sheathed the sword. "Maybe. But that was just the first test."
Crowley flapped back to her shoulder, feathers ruffled.
"If that was the first, I'm reconsidering my life choices."
Lyra smiled faintly. "You'd miss the adventure."
"Don't test me, princess."
By evening, the palace loomed close enough for them to see the shapes moving within its walls — things that weren't quite human, crawling among the vines.
They camped one last time before reaching the gate. No fire tonight — too much risk. The air smelled of roses and rot.
Lyra sat apart, her sword across her knees, eyes fixed on the faint glow from the palace heart.
Nim padded over, curling beside her.
"You're quiet."
Lyra didn't look away. "I'm thinking about what comes next."
"You mean, what comes back."
Lyra glanced down. "What do you mean?"
"Your mother's power. Your father's fire. You've only used sparks of it. But once we step through that gate, it won't let you stay small anymore."
Lyra thought of her mother's words — the song we never finished.
She closed her eyes. The wind shifted, carrying a sound from the palace — faint, rhythmic. Like a heartbeat.
Ursa spoke softly from the shadows.
"It's alive."
Crowley muttered, "Or hungry."
Lyra rose slowly. "Either way, we meet it at dawn."
She looked toward the horizon where night met the edge of a red sunrise.
In the distance, the palace throbbed again — light flashing through its thorny veins.
And for a heartbeat, she could have sworn it pulsed in rhythm with her own.