The voice spiraled toward her like a throwing knife. Lyra froze, one hand on the pine’s rough bark and the other pressed to the throbbing pain in her ribs. Snow bit through her meager clothing. The cold had teeth, and it was biting through her now. The sky above glowed a sick orange, the flame painting the fortress in colors normally absent in the dreary existence the winter forced them into. Her hand dipped low enough to feel the solid handle of the knife still hidden in her clothes.
At least it had not punctured her.
“Move,” Iris urged.
Lyra took as deep a breath as her ribs would allow and bolted.
Branches tore at her hair, snatching and snapping. The slope pitched and rolled underfoot. She slid, caught herself, and slid again. Behind the wall was a light with shouts and a new ch
