The foundation beneath Lyra’s boots groaned, the hairline fracture splitting wider with a sharp report like dry bone snapping in two. She threw herself backward, her hand instinctively flying to the hilt of her blade as a small, pale hand shoved its way through the shattered masonry.The fingers were pitifully thin, tipped with dirt and stained with old soot—too small, by half, to belong to the abyssal horrors that haunted the lower reaches of the mountain.Cael stared down at the opening, his breath catching in his throat. For a long, agonizing heartbeat, the only sound was the grinding of settling stone, the physical shock of the presence beneath them freezing the air in their lungs. Across the chamber, the woman who wore Lyra’s face had gone utterly rigid, the color draining from her cheeks until she looked as carved of marble as the statues lining the hall."Mother," a voice drifted up from the dark gap.It was a child’s voice, soft and threaded with a terrible, misplaced con
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