Lyra barely slept that night. Her mind kept replaying the vision of Aron, trapped and terrified, and the strange symbols on the floor that had burned themselves into her memory. At dawn, she returned to his room, hoping the morning light would make sense of the impossible. It didn't.
Her hand hovered over the symbols. A shiver ran through her as the chalky lines seemed to pulse again. She closed her eyes, willing herself to focus, and the world went quiet around her.
Images flashed before her eyes. Not like dreams. Not like memories. Like glimpses of things she was never supposed to see. She saw her brother, chained in a dark room, his head bowed, a hooded figure standing over him. A cold voice whispered, but she could not hear the words. Only the intent. Only the danger.
Lyra gasped and staggered back. Her heart pounded. This power. She had always feared it, yet it was the only way to find him. She had to learn to control it.
The tap came again, this time from the floorboards outside her window. Lyra froze. Footsteps, light and careful, moving closer. She held her breath, dagger in hand.
A shadow detached itself from the morning haze. A figure stepped forward, tall, lithe, with a hood covering his face. He did not speak. He simply extended a hand, holding a small, folded note.
Lyra's fingers trembled as she took it. The note had only a single word: Find me.
Before she could ask who had left it, the figure melted into the shadows and was gone.
Lyra stared at the empty street, gripping the note so tightly her knuckles turned white. Whoever he was, whoever had left it, he knew more than anyone else about Aron, about the danger she was walking into.
And she knew there was no turning back.