The Chimera hit the floor with the sound of wet leather slapping stone. It was a rich man's nightmare—a lion's heavy forequarters stitched to a lizard's back, plated in anti-magic glass and studded with copper rivets.
It roared, a sound that wasn't animal. It was the sound of air being forced through brass tubes.
Civilians screamed. The "panic" we had drilled for was here, and it was wearing claws.
"Drill!" I shouted, my voice cutting through the shrieks.
Lyra moved before the echo died. She didn't run; she climbed onto a chair, her brass badge catching the light, her folio held high like a banner.
"Eyes on me!" she commanded. Her voice wasn't loud, but it was pitched perfectly to pierce the noise. "Funnel left! Move behind the oak tables! Do not run!"
Gareth and Pelham were already there. They didn't look at the monster. They looked at the furniture.
"Flip!" Gareth barked.
