Lirael had not always been the Warden.
She remembered the valley where the rivers sang instead of flowing, where the trees kept every promise whispered beneath their leaves. That was her home once, in a world that had already been erased from every record but her own. She had been a Keeper of Threads then, walking the invisible lines that bound every living thing together. Memory to consequence. Joy to sorrow. Life to its necessary end. The balance was sacred. Fragile. Hers to protect.
She had loved the work. The quiet satisfaction of mending a frayed connection. The gentle cut when something threatened to tangle the whole. People trusted her. Children left flowers at her door. Her sister would wait for her by the river each evening, eyes bright with stories of futures only she could see.
Until the first anomaly.
