Scene 1: The Lair
Lyra sat with her back against the wall, staring at the candle.
The flame was small—she had twisted the wick down to the limit to make it last longer. It flickered, casting jagged shadows on the walls, and in that flickering was something hypnotic. You could watch and not think. Or think—but slowly, thickly, as if through a dream.
Three days.
Three days had passed since she left Hector's and set out for Fullers' Street. Back then, leaving the shack, she had still felt the thrill—cold, mean, familiar. The thrill of a hunter on the trail.
Now, not a trace of it remained.
The initial excitement had drained away quickly, like water into sand. She reached the abandoned house—the very one, third from the corner, with the collapsed roof. Carefully, rat-like, she slipped inside. Searched every corner.
Empty.
No traces of habitation, no smell of a person, not even the rubbish left behind by those in hiding. Only damp, mold, and rat droppings.
The mage wasn't there. And hadn't been for a long time.
Lyra was about to leave when she heard voices. Many voices. Heavy footsteps, the brittle echoes of commands. She froze, pressed herself into the gap between the wall and a fallen beam—and saw them.
The Razors. A dozen and a half, maybe more. They moved in a line, combing the street, peering into every cellar, every hole.
She had to leave quickly. Over the roofs, through a breach in the back wall, through courtyards—she knew these places better than they did. She lost them. But the trail she'd been lucky enough to spot—flattened grass where someone had recently sat, a fresh cigarette butt of a kind not smoked in the slums—that trail she'd had to abandon.
The next two days were worse.
She admitted defeat—temporary, she told herself—and changed tactics. If she couldn't find the mage herself, let those who were looking for him find him. And she would find them.
Tailing the Razors turned out to be easy. They weren't hiding. Arrogant, confident in their strength, they plowed ahead like a herd of bulls—without concealment, without listening, without looking back. Lyra followed them like a shadow, shifting positions, using every hole, every pile of rubbish for cover.
She waited for them to lead her to the mage.
But a day passed, then another—and they were just marking time.
And then Lyra understood.
They weren't tracking a trail. They were being directed.
Several times a day, messengers approached the groups—small, nimble boys impossible to track through the crowd. They whispered something to the leaders, and the leaders changed direction. Converged on a new place. Combed through it. Waited for further instructions again.
Someone was directing this hunt. Someone higher up, in safety, pulling the strings. And that someone knew more about Corvin than Lyra did.
By evening of the third day, the search circle had narrowed to this district. An old residential quarter where houses clung to each other like beggars in a soup line. There were places to hide here. There was a chance.
But time was running out.
Lyra exhaled heavily and surveyed her refuge.
A tiny room in the attic of a burned-out house. There'd been a fire here once—long ago, maybe a year, maybe two. Most of the building had collapsed, but this corner had miraculously survived. Fallen roof beams had blocked the only entrance, leaving only a narrow crawl space—only a child or a very thin adult could squeeze through. An ideal place for someone who didn't want to be found.
It smelled of soot, old ash, and damp. But it was safe.
Lyra's gaze shifted to herself.
Her skin and clothes were dirty again. A familiar state, almost native. After the cleanliness of Erlenholm, after hot water and herb-scented soap, this was... strange. But her body remembered quickly. Dirt was armor. Dirt was invisibility.
Hunger had returned too. The advance Aina had given her had gone to Hector. The meager savings hidden in old bolt-holes had melted away over three days. Bread, water, some jerky once—that was all. The strain of the last few days and physical exertion were draining. The reserves of her young body, never plentiful, were visibly dwindling.
Another heavy sigh escaped on its own.
Her gaze fell on the window opening.
There, on the narrow sill, black as night itself, sat a raven.
Grey.
Lyra froze, looking at him. The bird sat motionless, only its head turning slightly, tracking something in the darkness outside.
She'd found him about two years ago. Also in one of her bolt-holes—then it had been the cellar of a collapsed warehouse. He was small, sick. Lay in the corner and didn't even try to dodge when she approached—just watched with that black bead of an eye. She didn't know herself why she hadn't passed him by. Maybe because there was something familiar in his gaze.
She nursed him back to health. Tore meat into strips, gave him water from her palm, carried him to her den, though he might have pecked her or carried disease. And he—survived.
From that day, Grey never flew away. Sometimes he'd disappear for a day or two, but he always came back. Would settle somewhere nearby and watch. Sometimes caw, warning of danger. Sometimes just sat—a silent black guardian, asking nothing in return.
As if sensing her gaze, the raven turned his head. The black bead of his eye gleamed in the light of the dying candle. He cawed dully—once, twice. As if asking: well, still alive?
Lyra felt the corners of her mouth twitch on their own. A warm, rare, almost forgotten smile.
"Goodnight to you too, Grey," she said quietly. Her voice was hoarse from long silence, but the raven didn't care.
She blew out the candle.
Darkness enveloped the room instantly, only the pale square of the window faintly glowing—out there, beyond the glass, was night, full of stars and dangers. Grey cawed once more—briefly, as if saying goodbye—and fell silent.
Lyra closed her eyes.
Thoughts flowed slowly, thickly, tangling. On the edge of sleep, Hector's face with its white eyes flickered. Then—the Earl, his calm, firm voice: tool. Then—Aina with hot water, the smell of lavender, a cleanliness that made her dizzy.
And Grey on the windowsill—the black guardian, the only one who had always been with her.
Sleep came quickly and without dreams.
Scene 2: Through the Roof
A pecking at her shoulder yanked Lyra from sleep instantly—without waking up, without mental fog. Her body reacted faster than her mind: muscles tensed, her hand slid under the rags where the dagger lay.
Grey.
A familiar signal. A quiet warning the raven used only in extreme danger—a short, almost inaudible tap of his beak. Not a caw, not to attract attention. Just to signal: wake up. Someone's near.
Lyra froze, becoming all ears.
Silence. Only the familiar night sounds of Ebros somewhere far off, muffled by the walls. And her own heart—too loud, too fast.
She waited, unmoving. Seconds stretched like resin.
And then—a rustle.
Light, almost weightless. Someone had landed on the roof directly above her. Footsteps—creeping, cautious. An animal? No, a human. From the weight, from the way they stepped—a man.
Lyra pressed into the wall, gripping the dagger. In the darkness, her eyes had adjusted, distinguishing the outlines of objects. The crawl space leading outside was two steps away—but if they were waiting out there, she couldn't stick her head out.
A voice came through the boards—quiet, full of annoyance, an almost irritated whisper:
"Damn stone. Why now?!"
Lyra didn't have time to process the words.
The roof boards above her suddenly cracked—first warningly, then with the outright crunch of breaking wood. Lyra rolled aside a split second before part of the ceiling crashed down.
Crash. Clouds of dust. And a quiet, pain-filled curse, cut off mid-word.
Lyra coughed, clamping her hand over her mouth to avoid giving herself away. Dust rose in a column, swirling like a living thing in the moonlight streaming through the new hole in the roof. In the center of this cloud, someone was moving—a dark figure trying to stand, cursing quietly, stifled, through clenched teeth.
Lyra tensed, ready to pounce. The dagger in her hand—cold, reliable, the only thing that had never failed her.
The figure, rubbing its back, finally rose. Through the settling dust, outlines emerged—a young man, fair-haired, thin. Dressed in dark clothes, but not beggar's—a good jacket, boots without holes.
And then the moon emerged from behind a cloud, and Lyra saw his face.
His eyes.
One light—gray, almost transparent. The other dark—deep brown, almost black. Even in the dim light, this contrast was striking, making his face strange, foreign, otherworldly.
Corvin.
The mage she'd been searching for three days. Whom the Razors were searching for. Who had hidden so well no one could find him.
He'd just fallen through her roof.
Corvin froze, also making her out in the half-darkness. His eyes—both of them, light and dark—widened for an instant. The pain in his back, the absurdity of the situation, the unexpected encounter in the dead of night—all of it reflected on his face in a complex mix of emotions.
And then he squinted—still wincing in pain—and gave a slight wave of his hand. The gesture came out awkward, almost apologetic.
"Um..." His voice was hoarse from the fall, but unmistakably carrying that same smirk—bitter, self-deprecating. "Good evening."
Lyra didn't lower the dagger. But she didn't attack either.
She just looked at him through the settling dust, feeling, inside, beneath her ribs, a strange, almost absurd feeling growing.
Three days of searching. Hector, twenty silver, the Razors, hunger, filth, powerless rage.
And here he stood before her. In the flesh. Dropped like a sack of shit right into her den.
If it weren't for the absurdity of the situation, I might have laughed, Lyra thought.
But she didn't laugh. Instead, she said—quietly, evenly, not lowering the dagger:
"Sit down. Talk."
Corvin blinked. Then, still rubbing his bruised back, carefully lowered himself onto the pile of rags that had until recently been Lyra's bed.
"I think I came to the wrong place," he said cautiously.
"Wrong place to fall," Lyra corrected. "If you'd come through the door, I'd have been more polite."
He snorted—shortly, unexpectedly.
"Doors are for people who aren't hiding from fifty thugs."
Lyra said nothing. Just loosened her grip on the dagger slightly.
The raven on the windowsill cawed—quietly, as if in approval.
The night was just beginning.