Aetheria had been built where no kingdom had any business being.

It floated above the clouds.

Not metaphorically.

Actually floated.

Its mountains drifted through the sky.

Its forests grew on islands of stone.

Its rivers poured from cliffs and disappeared into clouds hundreds of miles below.

And every evening, when the sun began to set, the whole kingdom became a constellation.

Lyra had grown up beneath that constellation.

She knew every neighborhood of the lower city.

She knew which bakery gave away broken honey cakes.

She knew which bridge creaked in strong winds.

She knew which old woman on Lantern Street kept six cats and claimed each one was a different reincarnation of her husband.

She knew where the best view of the sunrise could be found.

And she knew the one place she was forbidden to go.

The western edge.

Beyond the final chain of islands lay the Veiled Reach.

Nobody traveled there.

Nobody even sailed above it.

According to the royal maps, the region was empty.

According to older maps, it wasn't.

Lyra had seen those maps once.

Her mother had burned them afterward.

That was twelve years ago.

Lyra remembered the fire.

She remembered her mother standing over the flames.

She remembered the smell of smoke.

And she remembered asking:

"Why are you burning them?"

Her mother had looked at her.

Her mother had been a beautiful woman with dark auburn hair like Lyra's and green eyes that always seemed to know when Lyra was lying.

"Because some places," she had said, "are safer when forgotten."

Lyra had never forgotten that sentence.

Now, standing on the roof of the Lantern Keeper's house, she watched the western sky.

The black storm was still there.

It had grown larger.

Much larger.

The market below was still in chaos.

Royal guards had arrived.

Merchants were packing their belongings.

People crowded around the public notice board.

Rumors spread faster than fire.

The western islands are collapsing.

The king is dead.

The old war has returned.

Dragons.

Ghosts.

Pirates.

An army.

Aetheria had always been a kingdom of stories.

Tonight, nobody knew which stories were true.

Lyra climbed down from the roof.

Inside the house, everything looked exactly as it had for years.

A narrow kitchen.

A wooden table.

Three chairs.

Shelves full of lantern oil.

Her mother's old coat hanging beside the door.

Lyra stopped.

She hadn't touched it in years.

She walked over and ran her fingers across the sleeve.

A faint scent remained.

Lavender.

Her mother always smelled like lavender.

Lyra closed her eyes.

For a moment she was eight years old again.

Small hands.

Bare feet.

Her mother's voice.

"A lantern isn't a prison, Lyra."

"Then what is it?"

"A promise."

Lyra opened her eyes.

She walked to the fireplace.

The brass lantern sat there.

Still glowing.

Still pointing west.

"No," she whispered.

"Absolutely not."

The lantern pointed west.

"No."

The flame grew brighter.

"You are not convincing me."

The flame flickered impatiently.

Lyra folded her arms.

"I have a job."

The flame remained bright.

"I have responsibilities."

Nothing.

"I have a perfectly respectable life."

The lantern dimmed.

Lyra narrowed her eyes.

"That was rude."

A knock sounded at the door.

Lyra jumped.

She quickly covered the lantern.

"Who is it?"

"Open the door."

The voice belonged to Captain Orin, commander of the Lantern Guard.

Lyra opened it.

He stood outside in silver armor.

Two guards stood behind him.

"Lyra Vale," he said.

"Captain."

"The Crown wants all Lantern Keepers to remain indoors."

"Why?"

"Until we understand what happened."

"How long will that take?"

"We don't know."

Lyra looked toward the darkening sky.

"You should find out quickly."

Orin's expression hardened.

"Why?"

Lyra hesitated.

She almost told him.

Then she remembered her mother's warning.

Trust the lanterns.

Not the Crown.

Never the Crown.

"I saw something in the storm," she said.

"What?"

"A creature."

The guards exchanged a glance.

Orin leaned closer.

"What kind?"

"I don't know."

"Describe it."

"Large."

"How large?"

Lyra thought of those golden eyes.

"Large enough that I didn't want to find out."

Orin looked toward the western sky.

Then back at her.

"Stay inside."

He turned.

Lyra watched the guards disappear down the street.

Then she shut the door.

Locked it.

Waited.

Ten seconds.

Twenty.

Then she went upstairs.

Her mother's old travel trunk sat beneath the bed.

Lyra hadn't opened it since she was twelve.

She pulled it out.

Dust covered the brass lock.

Her hands trembled.

She found the key beneath a loose floorboard.

The lock clicked.

Inside were maps.

Letters.

A silver compass.

A faded blue cloak.

And one small piece of black glass.

Lyra picked it up.

The moment her fingers touched it, a voice whispered from somewhere inside.

Her mother's voice.

"If the Heart Lantern ever begins to die..."

Lyra stopped breathing.

"Do not go to the palace."

A pause.

"Go to the Temple of First Light."

Another pause.

Then the voice became softer.

"And find the boy who came back from the storm."

The memory ended.

Lyra stared at the black glass.

"The boy?"

Outside, thunder rolled across the sky.

She looked toward the window.

Far beyond the city, a tiny light appeared.

A ship.

Flying toward Aetheria.

Alone.

Fast.

And heading directly into the storm.

Lyra's heart began pounding.

She grabbed her coat.

Her brass lantern.

Her mother's compass.

And the old black glass.

"All right, Mother."

She opened the window.

"Let's see what trouble you've left me."