She pressed her free hand to the cold wall and closed her eyes. Was she mad for thinking he was alive?
She remembered the arguments before he left—how Solace had begged her to come with him when the surface crumbled. How she’d refused, believing there was still something worth saving above.
And then the purge began.
And then the fires.
And then the silences.
Her lantern flame shivered, breaking her thoughts. She opened her eyes.
There—just ahead on the right.
A faint smear on the wall, barely visible in the light. Not a symbol this time. Not chalk. A handprint. Blackened with soot and grease. Large—his size.
She traced her fingers over it. Still faintly tacky. Not old.
He’d been here. Recently.
Lyra tightened her grip on the lantern and took a step forward. Then another. Her boots clicked softly on the damp tile.
Each breath drew her deeper into the belly of the city.
Each heartbeat told her she was getting closer.
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