Lyra's hand on my shoulder was light, but urgent.
"Armand," she whispered. "Wake up."
I was awake before she finished the name. The soldier's habit: zero to ready in a breath.
I sat up. The tent was dark, lit only by the dying glow of the heat stones in the stove. The air was frigid; the copper wire warmth kept the floor from freezing, but the air above it bit at my nose.
"What is it?" I asked.
"Movement," she said. "Marrow is growling. Low. He hasn't stopped."
I grabbed my boots. I didn't bother with laces; I shoved my feet in and grabbed my coat.
Outside, the wind had dropped. The silence was worse. It was a heavy, dead silence that pressed against the ears.
The Centurion stood at the edge of our circle, its glass-plated arms locked together to form a wall against the dark. Marrow was crouched at its base, hackles raised, staring into the blackness beyond the ward-light.
