Below her was a giant machine. It spun slowly and glowed with golden light. People were hanging inside it, held by shining needles.
They were not dead — but not truly alive.
Lyra recognized them. They were children taken twenty years ago.
The needles pulled golden mist from their bodies. As it drained away, they aged in seconds, turning gray and weak. When nothing was left, they were thrown aside like trash.
"The Mill," said a voice behind her.
It was the masked man. His mask was gone. His face looked stitched together and faintly glowing.
"The golden sun," he said, "is made from stolen futures. Dreams. Lives that were never lived."
Lyra felt sick. "You're killing them."
"If we don't," he said calmly, "the world freezes."
He told her the truth. If the Mill stopped, the sun would die that very night.
"Step forward," he said. "Save your people."
Lyra looked at the glowing gold. It was beautiful. And it was built on suffering.
"If the world can only survive by destroying children," she said, "then it does not deserve to survive."
She grabbed a heavy tool and threw it into the heart of the machine.
The Mill shattered.