The cottage was quiet—but not the kind of quiet that soothed. It was the kind that made your skin prickle, the kind that seemed to press against the walls from the inside.

  The hearth still glowed from the fire that had warmed Lyra’s entrance into the world just hours ago. Faye had added logs, though none of them could remember seeing her move. Maelis stood with Lyra in her arms, wrapped in thick cloth and worry.

  Ysel was crouched beside the cradle, her fingers spread against the floor. She hadn’t spoken in several minutes. She was listening.

  "You're staring again," Faye said, her voice hushed. “You’ve been staring since the birth.”

  “She moved the cradle,” Ysel said without looking up. “Without touching it.”

  “The baby?” Faye asked.

  Ysel nodded.

  “That’s not possible,” Maelis whispered. “Newborns can’t even lift their heads.”

  “I didn’t say she lifted it. I said it moved. Just slightly. Like it... breathed.”

  Lyra stirred in Maelis’s arms. Her tiny brow furrowed, and her lips parted as if to speak, though her eyes remained closed. A small sound escaped—too soft to be a cry. It was more like a murmur caught in dream.

  Two syllables, just like before.

  The same ones that hadn't been uttered aloud for centuries.

  They passed between the midwives like a chill breeze.

  “No one ever speaks them,” Faye said. “Not even the Sisters. They won’t even write them down.”

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  “They weren’t in the old tongue,” Ysel said slowly. “They were older.”

  “Stop,” Maelis snapped, too loud. Lyra flinched in her arms. She rocked her gently and softened her tone. “We mustn’t give those sounds power.”

  “But they already have power,” Ysel replied. “Look at her. Listen to the air.”

  The fire popped. Somewhere outside, an owl screamed—too close.

  Faye stepped nearer the cradle and leaned down, peering beneath. Shadows bled together there. No matter how the fire flickered, it refused to cast light under it.

  She reached forward slowly.

  Ysel’s hand darted out and grabbed her wrist.

  “Don’t.”

  “What?”

  “You’ll wake it.”

  Faye swallowed. “What’s it?”

  “The thing that remembers,” Ysel whispered. “Whatever it is that heard her first.”

  “You think something heard her?” Faye scoffed, though her voice was shaky. “You think some old ghost was just waiting beneath her cradle for her to arrive?”

  “I think some things are bound to sound the way a lock is bound to a key,” Ysel said. “And Lyra... she’s not the lock. She’s the knock.”

  Maelis exhaled, slow and deep. She looked down at the child. “She’s still just a baby.”

  “No,” Faye said after a moment. “She isn’t. Babies don’t shape the air. They don’t send the trees quiet. They don’t make words that were buried before kingdoms were born.”

  Thunder rumbled in the distance. All three women turned their heads toward the window, but the sky remained eerily clear.

  Maelis set Lyra into the cradle—slowly, as if placing her on holy ground. The baby settled, her breath even. Peaceful.

  The cradle rocked once, gently, without anyone touching it.

  Ysel flinched.

  “Did you see that?” Faye hissed.

  “Yes,” Maelis said. “And I’m not going to pretend I didn’t.”

  The cradle creaked again. Beneath it, a faint sound scratched along the floorboards—like wind trying to remember how to speak.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t stay the night,” Faye murmured. “We’ve delivered her. That’s all we were meant to do.”

  “No,” Ysel said. “We were the ones who brought her into this world. We’re part of it now. Whether we like it or not.”

  “She’ll need us,” Maelis added, her voice strangely distant. “Even if she doesn’t remember.”

  The whispering returned. All three froze.

  This time, it wasn’t coming from Lyra.

  It was coming beneath her.

  A slow syllabic scraping. Like a name trying to form but never finishing. The cradle didn’t move, but the room felt like it tilted.

  Faye took a step back. “What does it want?”

  Ysel’s gaze never left the base of the cradle. “Not what. Who.”

  The fire flickered out.

  They were alone in the dark, save for a baby who had already spoken what should never be spoken—and a whisper that wasn’t ready to stop.