For three days, Lyra drifted downriver in a stolen fishing boat.

She wore the clothes of a servant girl and kept her hair hidden beneath a gray scarf. Every village she passed had already heard the news: Princess Lyra had died in a palace fire, and Lord Varyn had taken command until a suitable ruler could be chosen.

At dusk, she reached the Blackwater docks.

A hooded merchant offered her food in exchange for the silver ring she still wore around her finger. It had belonged to her mother, and Lyra nearly refused. But hunger won.

As she handed it over, the merchant studied the royal crest.

“You should not wear that,” he said.

“I know.”

His eyes narrowed. “Then you should leave before the king’s hunters find you.”

Lyra looked toward the smoke rising from the northern road.

“They are not the king’s hunters,” she said. “They are mine.”