By late winter, the fortress smelled like boiled bones and smoke from the constant fires.
Iron Claw still looked like a citadel from the outside. The walls were uncracked, gate teeth bared, and torches burned steadily in their iron brackets, but inside, everything had narrowed even further. Stew became broth, and broth became lightly flavored water without a hint of apology. Bread was sliced so thin that light could be seen through it. The pack spoke in shorter sentences, as if language itself cost too much energy to waste.
Lyra learned to get through the day by turning it into a series of small victories: coaxing the hearth to wake, catching the leaky cup before it dripped on her apron, humming the right tune to make a wounded man unclench his jaw. She moved the way she’d learned in h
