Lyra had forty-eight hours until the wormhole opened, and the entire Stone military was looking for her.
She crouched on the roof of an abandoned granary, watching the search parties move through the streets below like predatory insects. Torches flickered in the darkness. Voices shouted orders. The sound of boots on stone echoed through the night.
They'd been searching for two days ever since the library collapse had exposed her. Two days of constant movement, no sleep, barely any food. Her body was running on fumes and desperation.
But she'd survived worse.
The green tint of her skin was more visible now. She'd run out of ash to cover it, and her supplies were gone buried in the collapsed library along with most of her possessions. All she had left was the journal from her ancestor, tucked inside her jacket, and the knife strapped to her thigh.
And her powers, which she'd suppressed for so long that using them felt like greeting an old friend she'd abandoned.
A patrol passed beneath her position. Five Stone warriors, fully armed, moving in practiced formation. Their leader held a torch high, illuminating the alley.
"The commander wants her alive," one of them said. "He has questions about the other survivors."
Lyra's breath caught. Other survivors? She'd seen them in the Stone prison—thirty Plant people, enslaved, broken but alive. She'd thought about going back for them, mounting a rescue. But she was one person against an army. She'd die trying, and then there would be no one left at all.
No. First, find the King. Then come back with help. Then save them.
If they're still alive when you return, a dark voice whispered in her mind. If they haven't been executed for your crimes.
She pushed the thought away. Guilt was a luxury she couldn't afford right now.
The patrol moved on. Lyra waited until their torches disappeared around a corner, then dropped silently from the roof. Her landing was soft twelve years of survival had taught her how to move like a shadow.
She needed to get north. The old Wind observatory was three days' travel on foot, but she only had two days until the wormhole opened. Which meant she needed to move faster, take more risks, and hope her luck held.
The streets were too dangerous. Every intersection had guards. Every plaza was lit with torches. Commander Kragg had mobilized a significant portion of his forces for this hunt, which told Lyra two things: one, he really wanted to find the other Plant survivors, and two, he was terrified of what would happen if even one of her people escaped.
Good. Let him be terrified.
She moved through the back alleys and service corridors, the forgotten spaces between buildings where the city's infrastructure hid. Water pipes, drainage tunnels, maintenance shafts the veins and arteries of urban life that no one paid attention to.
Until now. Lyra dropped into a drainage tunnel and immediately heard voices echoing from ahead. They were searching everywhere.
She backtracked, climbed out, tried another route. Blocked again.
The net was tightening.
She found herself in a dead-end alley with high walls on three sides and voices approaching from behind. No drainage tunnels. No windows low enough to reach. Just smooth stone walls fifteen feet high.
Think. There's always a way out. Always.
The voices grew louder. Torchlight flickered at the alley entrance.
Lyra pressed her hands against the wall and let her power flow. It hurt like opening a wound that had scarred over. But thorny vines erupted from her palms, digging into the stone, creating handholds. She climbed fast, ignoring the pain as thorns pierced her own skin.
She reached the top as the patrol entered the alley below. She pulled the vines back into her body another spike of agony and rolled over the wall's edge just as someone shouted, "Check up there!"
She landed in someone's private courtyard. A small garden pathetic by Plant standards, but clearly tended with care. Vegetable plants grew in neat rows. A water feature burbled quietly in the corner.
The front door of the house opened. An elderly Stone woman emerged, carrying a watering can.
They stared at each other.
The woman looked at Lyra's green-tinted skin, her bleeding hands, her desperate expression. Understanding dawned in her weathered face.
"Please," Lyra whispered. "I'm not here to hurt anyone. I just need"
The woman held up a hand for silence. She glanced at the wall where voices could be heard on the other side, then back at Lyra. For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then the woman gestured toward a small shed in the corner of the courtyard.
Lyra's eyes widened. "Why?"
"My daughter married a Water man," the woman said quietly. "Mixed marriages used to be common, before the war. Now they're forbidden. I know what it's like to watch the world punish people for being born different." She gestured again, more urgently. "Go. Before they search this courtyard."
Lyra didn't hesitate. She crossed the garden in three quick steps and slipped into the shed. It smelled of earth and fertilizer. Garden tools hung on the walls. She crouched behind a stack of pots, making herself as small as possible.
Through a gap in the door, she watched the old woman calmly water her plants.
A minute later, two Stone warriors vaulted over the wall and landed in the courtyard, weapons drawn.
The woman didn't even flinch. "Is there a problem, officers?"
"We're searching for a fugitive. Plant." The lead warrior looked around suspiciously. "Have you seen anyone?"
"Plant?" The woman's voice was convincingly confused. "I thought they were all dead."
"Not all." The warrior moved closer. "She's dangerous. If you see her, report it immediately."
"Of course." The woman continued watering her vegetables. "Though I don't see how a Plant could be dangerous. They were always such gentle folk."
The warrior's expression darkened. "Gentle folk who poisoned our water supplies and tried to overthrow the rightful government."
"Is that what happened?" The woman's tone was maddeningly neutral. "I always wondered."
The warrior looked like he wanted to argue, but his companion was already moving toward the shed. Lyra tensed, her hand moving to her knife.
The shed door opened.
The warrior looked directly at where Lyra was hiding behind the pots. His eyes scanned the interior, moving right past her
No. Not past her. Through her.
Lyra looked down and realized she was completely still, barely breathing, and her skin had taken on a mottled brown-green tone that perfectly matched the shadows and earthenware around her. Camouflage. Another power she'd suppressed for so long she'd almost forgotten it existed.
The warrior grunted, apparently satisfied, and closed the door.
"Nothing here," he told his companion. "Let's check the next block."
They vaulted back over the wall and were gone.
Lyra stayed frozen for another five minutes, not daring to move, barely daring to believe she'd survived. Finally, the shed door opened again.
The old woman stood there, holding out a small cloth bundle. "Food," she said. "And a water skin. It's not much, but it's something."
Lyra emerged slowly, her camouflage fading back to her normal green tint. "Why are you helping me?"
"Because someone should have helped my daughter when she needed it." The woman's eyes were sad. "They took her and her husband during the first purges. Mixed blood, they said. Corrupting the purity of Stone. I never saw them again."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry. Be alive." The woman pressed the bundle into Lyra's hands. "And if you somehow manage to end this war, remember that not all Stone people wanted it. Some of us just... didn't know how to stop it."
Lyra took the bundle. "What's your name?"
"Better you don't know. Better I don't know yours." The woman glanced at the wall. "There's a loose section three houses down. You can slip through to the next district. Head north. And child?" She met Lyra's eyes. "Whatever you're planning, do it fast. Kragg is executing prisoners to draw out survivors. Ten yesterday. Ten more today."
Lyra's blood turned to ice. "The Plant prisoners?"
"Among others. Anyone who might be sympathetic. Anyone who questions the war." The woman's expression was grim. "He's making examples."
Thirty prisoners. Lyra had seen them. Survivors of her people. And Kragg was killing them to draw her out, to force her to reveal herself.
She could go back. Try to rescue them. Die trying, most likely, but at least she'd die fighting for something that mattered.
Or she could run. Find the wormhole. Find the King. Come back with the only person who might actually be able to end this war.
It wasn't even a choice. Not really. Because going back would mean certain death and no hope for anyone. Moving forward meant a chance. A slim one, but a chance nonetheless.
She hated herself for the decision. But she made it anyway.
"Thank you," she said to the old woman. "I won't forget this."
"Don't thank me. Just survive."
Lyra found the loose wall section and slipped through into the next district. The streets were quieter here—residential rather than commercial. Families lived in these buildings. She could hear children's voices, smell cooking fires, see laundry hanging from balconies.
Normal life. The kind that continued even during wartime, because people still needed to eat and sleep and live.
She moved through it like a ghost, just another shadow among many.
By dawn, she'd reached the northern edge of the Stone district. Ahead lay the borderlands the contested territory between Stone and Wind where neither side had firm control. Dangerous, chaotic, but also less heavily patrolled.
She paused at the district border, eating some of the food the old woman had given her. Dried meat, hard bread, and an apple that was probably the woman's own breakfast. Each bite tasted like guilt and gratitude in equal measure.
The sun rose, painting the sky in shades of amber and gold. Lyra watched it and allowed herself one moment of peace. One moment to remember why she was doing this.
She thought of her parents. Her mother's laugh. Her father's patient teaching. The forest where she'd grown up, so green and alive that the very air had seemed to sing.
All gone now. Burned and buried and forgotten.
But not by her. Never by her.
She would find the King. She would bring him back. She would restore her people.
Or she would die trying.
But she wouldn't give up. That wasn't in her nature. The Plant Civilization had been pacifists, yes, but they'd also been survivors. They'd weathered droughts and famines and plagues. They'd endured because they refused to surrender to despair.
Lyra stood, shouldering her small pack, and looked north toward the distant mountains where the old Wind observatory waited.
Twenty-four hours until the wormhole opened.
She started walking.
The borderlands were worse than she'd expected.
The land itself was scarred from years of fighting. Craters marked where Wind warriors had called down lightning. Stone fortifications crumbled into rubble. The ground was hard and cracked, devoid of the vegetation that should have grown in the fertile valleys.
Lyra moved carefully, watching for patrols from both sides. The Wind had scouts everywhere fast, aerial warriors who could spot her from miles away. The Stone had ground troops, slower but relentless.
She traveled during the day, when she could at least see threats coming, and hid at night when her exhaustion made her sloppy.
By the second day, she'd covered impressive ground. The mountains were closer now, jagged peaks that clawed at the sky. Somewhere in those mountains was the observatory and the wormhole.
She was going to make it. Against all odds, she was actually going to
The arrow missed her head by inches.
Lyra dove behind a boulder as more arrows followed, clattering against stone. She counted at least three archers, firing from elevated positions.
Wind scouts. They must have spotted her from above.
"Identify yourself!" a voice called out. Male, young, with the precise diction of the Wind scholarly class.
Lyra considered her options. Run they'd shoot her. Fight—she was outnumbered and outpositioned. Surrender they'd either kill her or hand her to Stone.
Unless...
"I'm looking for the King!" she shouted back.
Silence. Then: "The King is dead."
"I know. I'm looking for where he came from. The wormhole. The door between worlds."
More silence. Lyra could almost hear them conferring.
Finally: "Show yourself. Slowly. No weapons."
Lyra stood, hands raised, her knife left behind the boulder. Three Wind warriors descended from the rocks above two men and a woman, all lean and sharp-featured, with the characteristic silver-white hair of their people.
The woman landed in front of Lyra, studying her with intelligent gray eyes. "You're Plant."
"I am."
"We heard your civilization was extinct."
"Almost." Lyra met her gaze steadily. "I'm the last."
The woman's expression shifted something like respect, or perhaps pity. "Why do you seek the wormhole?"
"To find the King's world. To bring back help."
"The King abandoned us. Why would his world help?"
"Because I'm going to ask them." Lyra lowered her hands slowly. "The wormhole opens tomorrow night. I need to reach the observatory by then."
The three Wind warriors exchanged glances. Some silent communication passed between them—Wind people were known for their ability to coordinate without words, using subtle air currents to carry messages.
"Commander Kragg is hunting you," the woman said. "Every Stone patrol between here and the observatory has your description."
"I know."
"You won't make it alone."
"I have to try."
The woman studied her for a long moment. Then she made a decision. "My name is Zephyr. These are my patrol mates, Gale and Drift. We'll take you to Sky-Scholar Ventus."
"Why would you help me?"
"Because," Zephyr said, "the Wind Civilization remembers what it was like before the King. We remember the chaos. And we remember that the Plant people always stood for peace." She gestured to the mountains. "Come. Ventus will want to hear about this wormhole."
Lyra retrieved her knife and followed. She didn't trust them she couldn't afford to trust anyone—but she also didn't have much choice.
The Wind warriors moved fast, bounding across the rocky terrain with supernatural grace. Lyra struggled to keep up, her exhaustion finally catching up with her. But she refused to slow down. Refused to show weakness.
They reached a Wind encampment by afternoon a series of platforms built into the cliff face, connected by rope bridges and accessible only by flight or extremely dangerous climbing.
Sky-Scholar Ventus was waiting for them.
He was old, ancient even by Wind standards. His silver hair had gone completely white, and his face was weathered like stone. But his eyes were sharp and intelligent, missing nothing.
"So," he said, studying Lyra. "The last daughter of Verdania comes seeking the door her King used to abandon us."
"To save us," Lyra corrected.
"Is there a difference?" Ventus gestured for her to sit. "The King left. The world fell apart. Now you want to follow him. How is that not another abandonment?"
"Because I'm coming back." Lyra's voice was fierce. "With help. With hope. With whatever it takes to end this war."
Ventus was quiet for a long time. Then he said, "Your ancestor, Keeper Silvan Verdell, was a friend of mine. Did you know that?"
Lyra's eyes widened. "You knew him?"
"I was young then, barely more than a scholar's apprentice. But yes. Silvan studied the King's arrival extensively. He believed the wormhole followed a pattern lunar cycles, magnetic fields, gravitational alignments." Ventus stood and moved to a shelf covered in books and scrolls. "He shared his research with me before... before the Plant Civilization fell."
He pulled out a familiar-looking journal. Not the one Lyra had found, but similar. Same handwriting. Same careful observations.
"Silvan gave this to me for safekeeping," Ventus said. "He feared the Stone would destroy all Plant records. He was right." He handed the journal to Lyra. "It contains the complete calculations for predicting the wormhole's appearance. Coordinates, timing, everything."
Lyra took the journal with trembling hands. "Why are you giving this to me?"
"Because Silvan believed in the King. And I believe in you." Ventus's expression was somber. "The Wind Civilization has fractured. We have no unity, no purpose. But perhaps... perhaps if you succeed, if you bring back something that can end this war, then we might remember what it means to stand together."
"I won't fail," Lyra said.
"You might die trying."
"Then I'll die trying."
Ventus almost smiled. "Spoken like a true Plant stubborn to the end." He turned to Zephyr. "Take her to the observatory. Get her there safely. And Zephyr?" His voice became grave. "If Stone patrols intercept you, do not engage. Run. She must reach the wormhole."
Zephyr saluted. "Understood, Sky-Scholar."
They traveled through the night, moving fast across terrain that would have killed Lyra if she'd tried to navigate it alone. Zephyr and her companions carried her across gaps she couldn't jump, guided her up cliff faces she couldn't climb.
By dawn, they reached the old observatory.
It was a ruin partially collapsed, its great dome cracked open to the sky. But it still stood, defiant against time and war.
"The wormhole will open at midnight," Zephyr said, consulting the journals. "On the northern platform, according to these calculations."
Lyra looked up at the broken dome. Twelve hours. She just had to survive twelve more hours.
"Thank you," she said to Zephyr. "For everything."
Zephyr inclined her head. "May the winds carry you safely, last daughter of Verdania. And when you return if you return know that the Wind will remember this day."
Then she and her companions were gone, disappearing into the morning sky like ghosts.
Lyra climbed to the northern platform and settled in to wait.
The sun rose. The day passed with agonizing slowness. She ate the last of her food, drank the last of her water, and thought about everything that had led to this moment.
Twelve years of hiding. Twelve years of surviving. Twelve years of hoping for something better.
Tonight, it all came to an end.
One way or another.
As the sun set and the stars began to appear, Lyra stood and faced north. The first moon was rising—the Harvest moon, full and bright. Exactly as the calculations predicted.
The air began to shimmer.
Lyra's heart pounded. This was it. This was real.
A tear appeared in the fabric of space small at first, then growing. Light spilled out, alien and wrong and beautiful.
The wormhole.
Lyra took a deep breath, thought of her parents, of her people, of the old Stone woman who'd risked everything to help her.
She thought of the King, who had walked through this door and never returned.
And she thought of hope that dangerous, persistent, impossible thing that refused to die even when everything else had.
She stepped forward.
The wormhole swallowed her whole.
And Lyra Verdell, the last daughter of the Plant Civilization, fell between worlds, screaming into the void, reaching desperately for a salvation she wasn't sure existed.
But reaching nonetheless.