Damien POV
Lyra's fifth birthday dawned bright and clear, the kind of perfect autumn day that felt like the world itself was celebrating with us.
The bailey had been transformed into a festival ground over the past week. Lanterns of colored glass hung from every arch and tower, swaying gently in the breeze. Long tables groaned under platters of roasted meats, fresh bread, honeyed fruits from the southern traders, and barrels of spiced ale. Musicians from Kieran's Marches had arrived early, their fiddles and storm-wood harps filling the air with lively melodies. Flowers bloomed everywhere — moonbloom and starwort glowing softly even in daylight, as if Lyra's light had decided the whole fortress should shine for her day.
