The Shift

The cage smelled of old blood and wet earth.

Lyra pressed her forehead against the cold iron bars and forced herself to breathe slow. In through her nose, out through her mouth. The air tasted like rust and pine and the sour note of fear that lingered around Dylan's unconscious form. He lay on his side in the corner, wrists bound with silver-threaded rope, his face swollen and bruised. Alive. That was what mattered. Alive, but fading.