Lyra dropped her satchel and grabbed for her quill before she even saw the bird. She always wrote first, asked later — it was the only way she kept anyone from slipping out of her pages. A library of lives, that was her work. And the man chasing the streak of fire through the market stalls was already half a book in her bag. The firebird wheeled above the crowd, burning bright on one wing and flickering like dying embers on the other. Two states at once. People screamed and ducked beneath awnings. Lyra did not duck. She ran toward it. Artur stumbled past a fruit cart, robes flapping yellow. He saw her and his face tightened. "You. Move people back. I cannot catch it if they panic." Short words. No wasted breath. Lyra obeyed, waving arms, herding bodies behind overturned crates while Artur whistled a low note up at the sky. The bird answered. It dipped, circled once, and streaked away over the rooftops. Artur was already running. Lyra ran after him, quill still in her teeth, scrolls bouncing against her hip. They arrived at a temple with stone steps and a brazier burning in the doorway. The firebird settled onto a perch inside and folded its wings like a tired friend coming home. Artur lifted a hand to its breast. A young woman with a glowing lantern stepped from the shadows, smiling at him. Behind her stood a tall lizard-man, arms crossed, yellow eyes steady. Lyra stopped at the threshold, breathing hard. Three lives. Standing together. She pulled the quill from her teeth and opened a fresh page. "I am Lyra Inkwell," she said. "And I would very much like to write you down."