The silence after the Guardians froze was heavier than the ocean itself. In Oakhaven, there was always noise—hammers hitting hulls, gulls crying, and the constant crash of waves. But now, even the wind seemed to hold its breath. It was so cold that the air's moisture turned into tiny, diamond-like dust, sparkling under the big, silver moon.
Lyra stood in the middle of this new, quiet world. Her chest felt empty, but also had a scary, buzzing feeling. The seed inside her wasn't asleep anymore; it was a spinning swirl, pulling in all the moon energy from the sky.
High Priestess Valerga was still on the ground, her face pressed into the frosty dirt. Mercy, she gasped, her voice raspy. Great Spirit of the Tides, have mercy on us.
Look at me, Valerga, Lyra said.
The Priestess hesitated, then slowly lifted her head. When she saw Lyra's eyes—like two bright stars that held the whole ocean—she whimpered and sobbed.
I am not a spirit, Lyra said, her voice sounding strange, like a few different voices at once. And I'm not the girl you pushed off the cliff. That girl died the moment she realized her life was worth less to you than a bucket of salt.
Lyra stepped forward. With each step, a ripple of frost spread out, turning the muddy path into a road of shiny white glass. She walked towards the village square, where the Great Hearth, once the pride of Oakhaven, was now just a pile of black, frozen logs. This fire was supposed to be blessed by the sun-gods to keep them safe from the moon's chill.
As she reached the square, windows creaked open. Villagers peeked out, their faces white with fear. They saw the glowing girl; they saw the two frozen Guardian statues on the cliffside; and they saw the tall ice tower where their holy fire used to be.
Listen to me! Lyra's voice didn't need to be loud to reach everyone in the valley. It vibrated through the floors and the very bones of those listening. The time of your fear is over. You begged the Moon to stay away, and you gave blood to keep it from coming. But the Moon has answered differently. It has sent me.
A man stepped out from a big house. It was Elder Bram, the richest trader in the village and the one who ordered Lyra's sacrifice. He held a heavy iron crossbow, his knuckles white as he aimed it at her.
I don't know what kind of evil this is, Bram shouted, his voice shaking. But a Tributary doesn't come back. You're a curse! You're why we're so cold!
Put it down, Bram, Lyra warned, her eyes narrowing.
Die again! Bram screamed, pulling the trigger.
The heavy iron bolt whistled through the air, heading straight for Lyra's heart. Before, she wouldn't have even blinked before it hit. But now, everything seemed to move in slow motion. She could see the bolt spinning, see the rust on its tip, and feel the air rubbing against it.
She didn't move. She didn't even lift a hand.
Six inches from her chest, the bolt hit an invisible wall of pure cold. It didn't just stop; it lost all its power instantly. The iron turned brittle, shattered into a thousand sharp pieces, and fell to the ground like rain.
Lyra looked at the pieces, then back at Bram. My turn.
She flicked her wrist toward him. She didn't want him dead—not yet. She wanted him to get it. A thin silver mist shot from her fingertips, wrapping around Bram's legs. He shrieked as the mist tightened, lifting him into the air by his ankles. He hung there, ten feet above the frozen ground, as frost began to creep up his pants.
Please! he begged, the crossbow falling from his numb fingers. I have kids! I have gold!
You had a girl named Lyra, she replied coldly. And you traded her for a few months of dry land.
She turned her back on him, leaving him hanging as a warning. She walked toward the village temple—a stone building on the highest point in the village. This is where the Solar Scripts were kept, old scrolls that talked about a time when the sun ruled and the moon was just a harmless light in the sky.
She kicked open the heavy oak doors. Inside, the air was stale and smelled of old incense. She went to the inner room, where a golden bowl sat on an altar, meant to catch the first rays of the morning sun.
Lyra reached into the bowl and picked up the small, golden sun-emblem inside. As her fingers touched the gold, it started to hiss. The metal turned black, the sun designs twisting and melting from her strong moon presence.
This is why I was born, she realized.
This wasn't just a thought; it was like a flood of old memories. She wasn't just lucky to survive. Her family, the Van-Heals, had been part of a secret group of Moon Cultivators who were hunted almost to extinction during the Sun Purges centuries ago. Her parents had kept it a secret, hiding her power to keep her safe. But by throwing her into the Silver Maw, the villagers had accidentally given her the perfect conditions to awaken her powers.
She sat down on the altar, crossing her legs in a way she'd never learned but somehow knew perfectly. She closed her eyes and started to move the energy in her body.
This was the first step of the Silver Path: The Dew-Drop Stage.
In this stage, a cultivator had to gather the moon's scattered energy—the Lunar Dew—and turn it into a single drop of liquid in their Dantian (the energy center below the belly button). For most, this took years of chanting and meditating.
But Lyra was sitting in a village she'd turned into a freezer, right under a nineteen-year lunar surge.
She breathed in. The silver mist in the room began to swirl, forming a tiny cyclone around her. Every pore of her skin sucked in the cold like a vacuum. In her mind, she saw her inner self as a dark, huge ocean. In the middle of that ocean, a single, glowing silver drop began to form.
It was tiny, no bigger than a grain of sand, but it held the power of a thousand winter storms.
As the drop fell into the center of her ocean, a wave of power rushed through her. Her skin turned pale like porcelain, and her silver hair grew longer, fanning out around her like a halo.
She had reached the Early Phase of the Dew-Drop Stage.
Outside, the sun began to rise. The horizon turned a sickly, pale orange, trying to get past the heavy moon clouds. Usually, sunrise meant the moon's power was ending. But today, the sun seemed weak. Its light hit the ice spire in the village square and bounced off, unable to melt even a single crystal.
Lyra opened her eyes. The temple was now covered in a thick layer of blue ice. She felt stronger than ever, but also a deep, hungry feeling. To get to the next stage—to truly become a ruler—she'd need more than just one village's energy. She'd need to find the Lunar Veins of the continent.
A shadow fell across the temple doorway.
Lyra didn't turn around. She could feel the new person's heat. It wasn't the weak heat of a villager. It was the strong, burning heat of a fighter.
I was sent to Oakhaven to collect the grain taxes, a deep, male voice said. I didn't expect to find a frozen grave.
Lyra stood up slowly, her silver robe rustling like dry snow. She turned to see a man in the doorway. He wore red and gold armor and had a heavy sword on his back. His eyes were like hot coals, and a faint steam rose from his shoulders as he battled the cold she had made.
He was a Sun Cultivator from the Imperial Capital.
You're late, Lyra said, her voice sounding cold. The taxes are frozen. And so is the old law.
The warrior narrowed his eyes, his hand going to the hilt of his big sword. I don't know what you are, girl, but the Emperor doesn't like his land being turned into an icebox. You have two choices: melt this place, or I'll burn you where you stand.
Lyra smiled, and for the first time, it was a smile of true excitement. I've never seen a fire I couldn't put out. Why don't you try?