Thick cumulus clouds had gathered in a compact herd and covered Montroyal with their stifling fleeces, so that dawn broke without anyone noticing. The city's port was awakening with a slight buzz. A few sailors, already sweating profusely in the heat, began maintenance maneuvers; trawlers docked with their night catches; vans arrived to collect the fragrant cargo. On board the Havets Perle, in a small cabin lulled by the gentle lapping of the ocean against the hull, four beings were soundly asleep. From above, the scene must have been tender to observe. Lyra was lying on her side, with Will nestled against her back, his hand resting on her waist. On her other side, their two dæmons were intertwined. Kirjava's fur gently brushed against the young woman's belly as she breathed in. Slowly, Will stirred slightly. He reached out his arm and blindly plunged his hand into the fur of one of the dæmons. Upon hearing Lyra's long, pleasured sigh, he realized that the coat beneath his fingers belonged to Pantalaimon. Lyra turned around to curl up against his chest, interlacing their legs.

"We need a bigger bed," she muttered.

"And curtains," added Will, his voice hoarse with sleep.

He held her close, allowing a comfortable silence to settle for a few long minutes and felt sleep beginning to claim him again when suddenly, Lyra raised her head, fully awake.

"Did you hear that?" she asked.

Will opened one eye as she climbed over him to reach the porthole.

"Someone's shouting," she added, opening the window.

A thin stream of warm air entered the room. Will propped his arm under his head, rubbed his eyes, and turned his gaze towards Lyra. She had risen to her knees, still naked, and leaned her ear towards the porthole. He smiled slightly, admiring her in that pose as she focused on the sounds outside. His gaze shifted to her tousled hair and serious face before settling on her forearm. He furrowed his brows. A large purplish mark covered half of her bicep, a remnant of their unfortunate encounter from the previous day, contrasting with the whiteness of her skin. His eyes then slid down her waist, coming to a halt at her hip, and froze. Three distinct, reddish rounded marks adorned her skin. Three marks, like three fingers.

"Oh my God," he whispered in horror. "Did I do this?"

"Hush!" Lyra scolded him, waving her hand.

She lowered her gaze towards him, amused.

"Of course it's you. Who else could it be?"

Will was alarmed. Love wasn't supposed to leave marks like that.

"I think it's Mette," Lyra added. "She seems angry. She's arguing, well, shouting at people, but I don't recognize the voices. Maybe she needs help?"

With swift movement, she left the bed and hastily began to get dressed. Will then noticed the presence, in an almost perfect symmetry, of a second mark on her other arm and, most notably, the five rounded traces on her other hip. He stared at them as he grabbed his tunic. Lyra noticed his panicked gaze.

"It's nothing," she reassured him. "I bruise easily, don't worry."

She buttoned her skirt. At that moment, Morten's seagull dæmon, Snefrid, landed on the windowsill.

"Stay here," she declared. "Don't go out. We'll come to fetch you."

And she left immediately, not giving them any more time to find out what was happening. Lyra leaned out again, trying to discern the source of Mette's anger, but the voices had ceased. They heard hurried footsteps in the corridor, and then the door swung open, revealing a visibly upset Mette Rasmussen.

"You two. My office. Now," she ordered.

They followed her without a word, accompanied by Morten. The latter closed the door behind them and stood next to the captain, who had settled behind her desk. She glared at them while tapping angrily on the wood.

"What happened to you?" she asked Lyra, pointing to the bruises on her arms.

"Nothing," the young woman simply replied. "We had an bad encounter, but everything's fine. What's going on?"

Mette took a long breath and exhaled deeply, her jaws clenched.

"What's happening is that two agents from the Magisterium arrived on my ship early this morning," she announced slowly. "They were asking for a certain Lyra Belacqua. I replied them there was no Lyra Belacqua here. There is a Lyra Silvertongue, but I didn't tell them that because you're not even officially registered on my ship."

As the captain spoke, Lyra grew increasingly pale.

"Listen," Morten began in a calm voice, "what we would like..."

"Damn it, Morten," the captain interrupted, "we don't have time for nice, sweet phrases!"

She slammed her hand down on the desk with a sharp gesture.

"Lyra, are you indeed the daughter of that scoundrel Asriel Belacqua?" the captain asked.

"Yes," Lyra replied, swallowing hard.

She was not accustomed to being intimidated or frightened, but now she understood better why the crew on this ship feared the captain's outbursts. The air grew thick, heavy, and charged with electricity.

"For fuck's sake!" Mette exclaimed, slamming her palms on the desk once again. She stood up and took a few steps, pressing her thumb and index finger against her eyelids.

"It's not really accurate to say he raised me, and..." Lyra began.

"So, that's what your stories about bloody windows to other bloody worlds were all about!" the captain interrupted. "Do you even realize the mess he caused?"

"Of course, I know!" Lyra exclaimed. "I was there! He killed my friend Roger for it!"

"And so you are the daughter of Marisa Coulter," Mette added, disregarding Lyra's response.

"They're inseparable, aren't they?" the young woman replied coldly. She had clenched her fists, digging her nails deeply into her palm. Will gently took hold if her wrist, and she released her fingers to hold his hand. "Do you know them?" she asked.

"I accompanied Lord Asriel on an expedition to the North several decades ago. He was a talented man, hot-tempered and passionate, driven by both financial interests and righteous causes... even if it meant destabilizing everything around him," Mette explained as she walked across the room, her hands clasped behind her back.

"And your mother," she exclaimed. "I have immense respect for your mother!"

"How can you respect her?" Lyra retorted, rigid. "She's cruel, and cold, and manipulative, and dangerous."

"I didn't say I liked her, mind you. I've heard about the experiments she conducted on behalf of the Church. And I've always despised the Church and its ideas. But I respect her, that's different. I've had the opportunity to accompany her on missions for the Royal Arctic Institute on a few occasions. Her intelligence and charisma have always fascinated me. You don't come across a woman as brilliant as her every day, succeeding in making her mark and earning respect in a world dominated by men."

The captain settled back behind her desk, cupping her chin in her hand as she looked at Lyra. The latter struggled to contain the anger resonating within her and was crushing Will's hand. Hearing someone she respected like Mette Rasmussen singing praises of her mother was hard to swallow.

"I don't appreciate being lied to, Miss Silvertongue," Mette stated very seriously. "Know that."

"I didn't lie to you," Lyra retorted, stung. "I changed my name a few years ago, I am indeed Lyra Silvertongue! And as for your respects toward my parents, I can do without it. I've nothing to do with them anymore."

Mette stared at her for a few seconds, impassive. Then, she rummaged through a drawer, pulled out a sheet of paper, and made a few annotations before handed it to the young woman. "Here, sign it," she ordered.

"What is it?" Lyra asked.

"It's a contract, of course," Mette replied with a hint of annoyance. "I had intended to offer it to you later, but time is running out."

Lyra flinched, and Will let out a sigh of relief as she settled into a chair facing the desk and took the paper with a trembling hand. Pantalaimon perched on her lap, squeaking with excitement and Morten looked at her with a proud smile beneath his mustache.

"This contract guarantees you a position in my crew," Mette explained. "But it also provides you with real security. My ship is under the international maritime laws. The Magisterium has no right to set foot on its deck without my agreement or an international warrant."

After reading through the details, Lyra signed at the bottom of the paper. Mette did the same before using wax to seal it with her stamp. She crossed her fingers and looked at Lyra, who couldn't help but display a delighted expression on her face.

"Now, I forbid you from leaving this ship," she declared.

Lyra's smile vanished. "W-what?" she stammered.

"You're not allowed to leave this vessel, nor even go out on the deck until we have set sail," Mette continued.

"But..."

"It's for your own safety. We know they are actively searching for you. And maritime solidarity is not exactly the same in New France as it is in Bodø."

"You can't do this!"

"It's an order from your employer and your captain," Mette concluded, clicking her tongue.

Lyra stood up, rigid with indignation, and stormed out of the room.

"Thank you," Will said to the captain before quickly following Lyra.

He found her in the small room, pacing back and forth.

"I'm not going to just sit here and do nothing!" she exclaimed, getting worked up. "This is ridiculous!"

Will leaned against the dresser, arms crossed. The incoming air had become uncomfortably humid. "It's very serious," he said. "You heard Mette, you're wanted. And we've seen what they're capable of..."

"Oh, but I'm not afraid!"

"I am," he replied.

Lyra looked at him, wordless. Of course, she was no longer alone now. Someone else cared about her. She couldn't act impulsively as she was accustomed to. Her shoulders sagged, and she let her forehead rest heavily against Will's chest, sighing.

"It's not fair," she lamented.

"I know," he said, embracing her. "I'll be quick."

She quickly raised her head.

"No! Don't leave me!"

"I need to go shopping to restock the pharmacy... but I won't be long, okay?" he said, grabbing his satchel.

Lyra slumped onto the mattress, feeling distressed. Once again, she was trapped on a boat because she was being hunted outside. The story repeated itself relentlessly. Will approached her and lifted her face.

"I'll be back soon, I promise." He kissed her and walked out the door with Kirjava.

Lyra lay down, grumbling. What was she going to do with her day, alone and stuck? She sat up on her elbows, scanning the room, eyebrows furrowed, and impatiently tapping her fingers on the bedsheet.

"Maybe Morten needs us?" Pantalaimon suggested.

"That's a good idea!" she exclaimed.

She stood up and quickly made her way to the kitchen, only to find it empty. She didn't let it get her down. She was Lyra Silvertongue, for goodness' sake. She always had things to do, discoveries to make. The first thing that came to her mind was to write the promised letter to Louise. She entered Mette's office, but found it empty as well. She wandered through the corridors in search of any signs of life, but the ship seemed deserted. She tried her luck in the wheelhouse and found Hassan, hunched over a clutter of papers, seemingly doing calculations. He spread out a large map on top of the papers, placed a long wooden ruler, and unfolded a copper pair of compasses when Lyra finally cleared her throat to get his attention. He looked up at her with dark, surprised eyes.

"Excuse me," she said, "I'm looking for writing paper and envelopes. Where can I find those?"

Hassan folded the compasses and placed them on the map, then invited her to follow him. It was perhaps the first time Lyra had directly spoken to him. They walked to the captain's office. Hassan's swallow dæmon turned on his shoulder and fixed her curious gaze on the young woman. Upon entering the room, Hassan opened a drawer and retrieved what she was looking for. She stammered a thank you, and he simply smiled at her before taking his leave. Lyra stood for a few seconds, listening to the echo of the footsteps of this peculiar man fade away. She composed herself and entered Will's office. He had a desk, pencils, and she needed all of it. Everything was so orderly organized, so well labeled in those large glass cabinets. She ran her finger along the aligned jars and randomly picked up one. The label read "Melissa." She opened it to inhale the intoxicating scent and then placed it back. She then settled at the desk, where neatly arranged sheets of paper, a thick book on medicine from his world, another on medicinal plants, and his pair of glasses were laid out. Lyra put them on her nose briefly before quickly taking them off, rubbing her eyes. Next to the books, she noticed a pile of small brightly colored papers. She reached out to take one and was surprised to find that the papers were stuck together. She delicately pulled at them with her fingertips until only one remained in her hand, stuck to her nail. Pantalaimon extended his paw, and the paper clung to his claw. He shook it vigorously to make it fall off, and Lyra chuckled softly. She noticed that Will had stuck several of these small sticky papers on the edge of the desk, on which he had written various things: names of medicines, plants, dosages, measurements. She smiled, imagining him so serious, immersed in his research. She opened a bottom drawer, only to find a series of documents separated by dividers with the names of the sailors written on them, and promptly closed it. It clearly contained private informations. She then opened a smaller top drawer to find a set of pens, a chrome pair of scissors, and a stethoscope. She picked up one of the pens, twirling it between her fingers for a moment before setting herself to writing her letters.

Dearest Louise,

How is your arm? I am writing to you as promised to let you know that we arrived safely at Montroyal yesterday. The weather here is incredibly muggy, very hot, and I can't wait to get back to the coolness of the North. We should set sail in two or three days. We had quite an interesting encounter last night. A man named Siméon Night-Wolf approached us. He was on Marcel Février's list, so I immediately trusted him, as you can imagine! However, it turns out he's in some trouble and being subjected to a disgusting blackmail scheme. Long story short, we had to fight. Yes, you read that right! But it was strange. I don't think he acted willingly. Maybe you have some information on your end? I hope that when we return, we'll have some time to come to Berlin and tell you everything in person.

I hope Tomas and you are doing well.

With all my love,

Lyra

Satisfied, she slipped the first letter into an envelope and grabbed another sheet to write to Alice Lonsdale. She apologized for her lack of news and tried to find the right words to explain that she had finally found what she was looking for, and even more. She could already anticipate the avalanche of questions from the governess once she reads the words "I have found someone very precious, and yes, it's a boy," and couldn't help but smile. Writing this letter felt good. It allowed her to put into words the whirlwind of emotions bubbling inside her: yes, it was unbelievable, yes, it was extraordinary, yes, it might be a little reckless, but yes, she was happy, and life seemed interesting again. The third letter was intended for Dr. Polstead, but as soon as she wrote three sentences, she crumpled the paper, feeling utterly ridiculous. Instead, she added a postscript at the bottom of the letter to Alice : "Please, send my regards to Dr. Polstead. He helped me recently, so perhaps he's a bit concerned."

Now, she needed to find a way to send the letters. She decided to go down to the engine room where there would surely be a technician. As soon as she stepped through the door, she came face to face with Achille, who startled. Perched on his shoulder, his European Green Tree frog dæmon hopped around anxiously. Achille was a nice chap, and Lyra liked him, but every time she spoke to him, he would start sweating, stammering, and his ears would turn bright red. This new encounter was no different. Lyra got straight to the point.

"Ah! Achille! I have a favor to ask you, or rather, two if you don't mind."

"P-please, go ahead."

He nervously fidgeted with a cap he held in his hand, avoiding eye contact with Lyra. She showed him the envelopes and first asked if there was a sort of post box in Bodø where she could receive a reply. Achille nodded. There was a communal one for the homeless sailors of the Havets Perle. Lyra took note of what he told her on the back of the envelopes, then handed them to him.

"Would you mind posting these for me? I'll reimburse you for the postage. I would have done it myself, but the captain has strictly forbidden me from leaving the ship."

"Aye, I see. Tough luck. Yeah, no worries. I'll take care of it this mornin'."

Lyra thanked him with a wide smile, which made the chubby man's ears blush even more and gave him a bit more courage.

"Err… I mean... " he stammered, "we're real fond of yer tales, and the lads were wonderin' when ye'll be settin' sail with 'em again?"

"Oh, I don't know..."

But Pantalaimon nudged her calf gently with his head. She remembered the words he had spoken the previous night, and confidence returned back within her.

"I promise I'll try tonight."

Achille looked satisfied and left the hallway with a wave goodbye.

The clouds had given way to a scorching sunlight. The sun at its zenith burned everything in its rays, and Will entered the ship, panting, with sweat glistening on his forehead. The interior of the vessel was only slightly cooler. He found Lyra where he had left her a few hours earlier, in the small cabin where the stifling heat had also settled. She had changed her clothes and was wearing a long navy linen dress with thin straps that revealed her freckled shoulders. She had gathered her hair into a hasty bun, in a desperate quest for some coolness. Sitting on the bed, she was engrossed in a book resting against her folded knees, the hem of her dress pulled up to the top of her thighs. The alethiometer glistening beside her. When she noticed him approaching, she looked up from her book. Will sat down next to her and placed his hand on her ankle.

"I'm sorry, it took a bit longer... I stopped by New York to pick something up."

He had prepared this sentence, but it still sounded strange.

"You went back to your world?" Lyra said, a little disappointed.

"Yes, but I bought something for you!"

She sat up as he handed her a thin envelope. She took out a small card and looked at it, filled with wonder. It depicted a Claude Monet painting she had admired at the museum, "Morning on the Seine near Giverny." And it was the first time Will had ever given her a gift.

"I love it! Thank you!" she exclaimed, her eyes sparkling. "Did you find what you needed?"

"Yes, it took a while to gather everything I was missing for the infirmary. But in New York, I also took the opportunity to find a book on meditation. Maybe it will help me... I also got these," he said, holding up two boxes of condoms and placing them on the bedside table.

"We might need to be careful," he declared seriously, "because I don't know when I'll be able to buy more."

"There's always the Gyptians' potion," Lyra added.

"Hmm, not sure I full trust that."

"You should trust me when I tell you it works!"

She stretched her legs on his lap.

"What did you do all this time?" he asked.

"Wrote some letters, questioned the alethiometer about the motivations of the Magisterium, but there was nothing we didn't already know. And then I started reading this. It's from your world, isn't it?"

He looked at the cover of the book she was holding. He had packed some thick novels to keep him occupied during the long days of sailing.

"You've read all that?!" he exclaimed, noticing that she had read almost half of it in less than three hours since he left.

"Will..." she replied very seriously, "I'm almost a scholar, I read fast."

"And do you like it? The book, I mean."

"I don't know, it unsettled me… Is there really a planet covered in sand where people search for a spice in your world?"

"No," he replied with a little laugh, "that's what we call science fiction. It's a literary genre. It's fictional."

Lyra opened her mouth in surprise and looked at the book resting on her lap.

"I think I'll have to start over," she said.

As she was speaking, Will had slid his hand down her calf. His index finger caressed the inside of her knee, where the skin is soft and warm. His fingers continued to move up, but he stopped at mid-thigh. The temperature was on the verge of being unbearable.

"Damn, it's so hot!" he sighed, "I can't wait to get back on the road to Bodø."

He gently pushed aside Lyra's legs and stood up to remove his tunic. Ah, that birthmark again, and another little smile playing at the corners of Lyra's lips.

"By the way," Will said, opening a drawer of the dresser to find something else to wear, "I saw Morten heading into the kitchen with his arms full."

"Ah! Finally!" Lyra exclaimed, setting the book down with a sharp thud.

She left the bed, the folds of her dress falling along her legs with a light rustle. She placed the card depicting Monet's painting next to the drawing Tomas had given Will and the photo of Elaine Parry. Then, she kissed the young man's shoulder. His skin was warm like sun-kissed sand. She sighed with a smile and kissed it again. He held her by the waist.

"Maybe he can wait a little longer?"

He slid his finger under the strap of her linen dress.

"Morten doesn't know yet that you're aware of his return," he murmured in a seductive voice.

The strap slipped off Lyra's shoulder.

"You wouldn't handle the heat, Will Parry," she said mischievously.

He began to hum, "It's getting hotter, it's a burning love, and I just can't seem to get enough of." He pulled her closer to kiss her, but the moment their skins touched, they became damp and sticky.

"Ugh... you're right," Will sighed, a hint of regret in his voice.

Lyra kissed his cheek, left the room, lefting him in the stifling heat.

That evening, Lyra kept her promise to Achille and settled herself on one of the sofas in the common room to tell a story. The sailors gathered around her, some holding glasses of aquavit, others sipping on herbal tea. Mette was also there, leaning against the door frame, a long ivory pipe in her mouth, exhaling wisps of white smoke, with narrowed eyes. This time, Lyra invented a story. The tale of a boy who lived in the gloomy woods of the North with his mother. A brave and valorous boy, willing to do anything to protect her from the Nälkainens, the headless spirits that haunted day and night. She wove the story, adding cunning witches, powerful bears, and magnificent mermaids who set traps. Traps that this courageous boy fearlessly overcome, tirelessly watching over his beloved mother so she could sleep in peace. Her audience listened with mouths agape, soft breaths to not disturb her narrative. Pantalaimon lay on the back of the sofa, his eyes closed, shivering with delight as he listened intently. Seated a little further away, Will also listened, his chin resting in his hand, his body filled with emotion. He understood that it was not just an made-up story. And this emotion resurfaced later in the night, as he held Lyra in his arms, kissing her bare and cool skin. Because she was the only one who could fill him with such intense feelings, mixing love and turmoil within him and applying it all like a soothing balm to his inner wounds. The love they shared that night was tender, accompanied by the storm that finally unleashed its fury, bringing a refreshing coolness to the air.

The Havets Perle prepared for its departure for two days. For Lyra, it felt like two long days confined to the central building, passing the time in the kitchen, reading, wandering through the corridors, and observing the life of the port through the porthole, while Will busied himself in herbal shops, pharmacies, or his cabin with his supplies and plants. One morning, the captain took advantage of a particularly dense sea fog to discreetly and slowly navigate the ship out of the port of Montroyal. Finally, when the cargo ship broke through the fog and passed the channel, Lyra rushed to the deck. The large sails of the ship stretched out before her, catching the wind with a joyful snap. Lyra's hair fluttered in the breeze as she took a deep breath, watching the seagulls soar back towards the shore. She felt the waves playfully crashing against the ship's hull, as if the ocean was roaring with delight, and she had the sense of being free once again. Free and safe.

The journey began on a much calmer sea than the one they had encountered on the way there. The day after departure, Lyra got her period. At first, she felt strangely relieved and wondered if each month would always bring anticipation and relief. But then, she became thoroughly annoyed. Firstly, because of the unpleasant symptoms: bloating, painful cramps, hot flashes exacerbated by the motion of the ship. Secondly, she was annoyed because the entire male crew seemed to panic, and she found it ridiculous. Ridiculous that they asked if they needed to wash her laundry in boiling water, ridiculous that they told her to rest over and over again, ridiculous when even Morten - of all people! - insisted she should eat lentils and black pudding for breakfast, and ridiculous when they asked if she was annoyed because she had her period, when in fact, she was annoyed because all of this was ridiculous. The only one who remained perfectly calm was Will, of course. From the first day, he brought her a cup of sage tea, apologizing for the taste and assuring her that drinking several cups throughout the day would help alleviate the cramps. And indeed, it did. He regularly brought her the steaming cup, even adding a bit of mint for its invigorating properties and to soften the taste. Morten observed this affectionate gesture with a benevolent expression before nodding knowingly and declared, "Ah, love language."

Lyra turned around, slightly surprised by his words. "What are you talking about? Will's caring like that with everyone."

"Do you really think he bothers to come and serve tea regularly to every sick sailor?" Morten replied, shaking his head. "Of course not, silly. He provides his care, gives advices, the medicines or plants we need, and it's up to us to manage. Sure, he keeps an eye on things, but that's it. Whereas here, he's just expressing his love language."

As Lyra looked at him with a perplexed expression, he elaborated on his point: "When you care about someone, you take care of them. And that's where your love laguage comes into play, through how you take care of the other person, without expecting anything in return, simply out of love, kindness, support and pleasure. It's like an exclusive bonus of yourself, developed solely for the other one. For Will, it's obviously a way for him to show that he cares about you."

"And what about you?"

"Food, of course! Why do you think I bothered to prepare a wonderful revitalizing broth for you after your bout of fatigue, huh?"

He returned a tender smile, Lyra felt a blush creeping up her cheeks. She concealed her emotions behind the swirling vapors of the tea, wondering what her own love language was.

As the ship steadily made its way, carrying cargoes of wood from the dark forests of New France, Lyra and Will would take a daily break on the roof of the central building. And that particular afternoon was like all the others. Lyra lay down, resting her head on Will's thighs. She closed her eyes, letting herself be lulled by the gentle rolling of the ship against her back. Will had opened a book, although he wasn't really reading it. His gaze wandered to the horizon, and his fingers absentmindedly stroked the blonde hair spread out on his legs. Deep within him, he felt a growing certainty. He had made his decision long ago, of course, but this certainty had remained lurking in a corner of his mind, never daring to manifest itself. Now that it was asserting itself and taking its place, Will felt a weight lifted off his shoulders.

"We need to go to Svalbard," he declared suddenly.

Surprised, Lyra opened her eyes and sat up.

"We need to go see Iorek Byrnison," he said, focusing his attention on her.

"Iorek? But wh…" Her sentence hung in the air. Will's determined gaze said it all. A flicker of surprise passed across her face.

"Are you sure about this?" asked Pantalaimon, "It's a heavy responsibility…"

"I am. I can't stop thinking about what Xaphania said, and I'm starting to think that it might be something to consider, that I might have a positive role to play with the Knife, finally."

Another brief pause. Lyra remained focused on what he was about to say.

"...and besides, I need to go back to my world to take care of some things before staying here forever."

She gasped in surprise and her dæmon flinched as well. "What are you talking about? Will, we need to discuss this together. You can't just give up on everything like that!"

He recoiled slightly, taken aback by her reaction. "It's not like you're discovering my intentions, are you?"

As she seemed hesitant, he exclaimed, astonished, "Lyra! Come one! I've been telling you this literally every day! You can't act as if you're just finding out."

"It's not that! It's just... sometimes I wondered if maybe you were saying it to please me, to reassure me..."

"To please you?" Will retorted, feeling hurt. "It's not something I say lightly. I am deeply sincere every time."

"I know... I'm sorry... it's just that I don't want you to rush into anything."

"It's not rushing, and I like things to be clearly defined."

"Well, they can't be defined only in your head... Every time you tell me that you're staying, it fills my heart with unimaginable joy, but it doesn't replace a real discussion!"

"It's a personal decision... I didn't want to bother you with it."

"Bother me?" Lyra exclaimed, "How could you bother me with that? And besides, it concerns both of us."

Will opened his mouth to say something but thought better of it. This conversation was taking a turn he had not anticipated at all. He reached out and held her hands. They were in the midst of an important moment, and it was not the time to argue.

"I know we're still young, and our lives have time to change and evolve, and we don't know what the future holds. But I feel like this is what I need to do," he said.

"But... your world... It's important, isn't it?" Lyra replied, her voice weakened by emotion.

Will made a face. "Maybe, but I've never fit in that world, and it has never fit me. I've always been a lonely and depressed boy, having to take care of a ill mother and fend for myself without a father. But here, I feel like I've a purpose, you know? I feel useful, like I truly belong. I have friends, and most importantly, I have you."

"But Will..." Lyra said, her voice trembling. "It's too risky, I can't promise you a child..."

"I'm not making this decision for that!" he exclaimed, his tone stern. "I would never expect that from you, of course not! Listen, of course I'm staying for you, that's a given. I love you, I've never felt anything so strong. But also because here, I feel good. I already feel connected to this world. And besides, Serafina said…"

He stopped. The words had come out a little too quickly, and Lyra stared at him, hanging on his words.

"Serafina what? What did she say?" she pressed him.

He hesitated. Lyra had been hurt by the secrets that had been kept from her, but on the other hand, he still remembered her panick attack that followed the witch's revelations. He took a deep breath.

"Serafina told me that you and I, we would have a child, maybe even multiple children."

Lyra looked at him, stunned. "Wh-when did she tell you that?"

"The day she came. You had left in anger, and I tried to find out what would happen if we didn't have a child, and she said, 'Oh, you will.'"

He mimicked the witch's voice, and Pantalaimon chuckled in his whiskers.

"Some truths are best kept until they come to pass" Lyra sighed wearily.

"I told her exactly that," Will added with a small smile.

But Lyra frowned. "Wait," she said, "you didn't make this decision just because of what she said, did you?"

Will vehemently protested, dismayed that she could think that. Then he composed himself, still holding her cool hands in his.

"Lyra," he said softly, "deep down inside me, I've known what I want ever since I stepped into that little room in the Far East. If you had rejected me, my heart would have been broken forever. But since that's not the case..."

Lyra's lower lip trembled with emotion. He was saying everything she had dreamed of.

"When Mary and I realized it was indeed a window to your world, I was so excited that I charged ahead without thinking, even though she tried to advise caution," he continued. "She was right. I was going without really knowing what I would find, or if you were truly on board with it. I started to have so many doubts as the boat approached Alexandretta. And when we arrived with Morten, I was terrified. But, oh Lyra, the very moment I saw you in that room and held you in my arms, I knew. I sound like I'm from an old romantic movie, but it's genuinely how I feel..."

"I have no doubt," Lyra replied, "but I don't know what an 'old romantic movie' is."

Will let out a small laugh before continuing, "Listen, despite whatever a prophecy or witches may say, I'm not so sure our lives are set in stone. I love you, and I'm ready to stay here and see where the path takes us. Whatever happens."

He sighed and scratched the bridge of his nose. His heart was pounding so loudly in his chest that his breathing became difficult. "You must think I'm a bit foolish to get carried away like this," he said.

"No," she replied sincerely. "You know, in Oxford, I never stopped expecting to see you appear in a corner of an alley, handsome and present, like you are now - except that you're more handsome and present than I imagined. I spent my time wondering what your life must have been like, what it would have been like if we had never been separated. And now that you're here, I imagine what our lives could be like in two, five, or ten years. I feel like growing up and growing old doesn't scare me anymore because you're here with me. It's exciting, it's terrifying…"

The wind swept the rooftop in gentle gusts, brushing against the fur of their dæmons snuggled close together. They had unknowingly intertwined their fingers and looked at one another, suddenly feeling vulnerable from these confessions. Lyra remained silent for a moment, contemplating the man before her, the one who had transformed her life, the one who was with her today and had never left her thoughts in seven years, the one who now showed her a reassuring and exhilarating path ahead of her, ahead of them. Will, the father of her child? Her heart raced. Of course, he would be wonderful, there was no doubt about that. But her? A mother? Seriously? What example of parenthood could she have? Certainly not her own parents. She shivered, shook her head, and stood up.

"Wait here." she declared and she entered the building, followed by Pantalaimon. Will turned his head towards the azure horizon that lay before him, trying to regain a calm breath. He felt Kirjava gently nudge against him.

"Everything's fine," she reassured him in a silky voice.

Lyra reappeared a few moments later with the alethiometer and settled down on the floor, facing him.

"Don't you believe Serafina?" he asked nervously.

"Of course, I do. But it doesn't hurt to have double confirmation, does it?" she replied.

She pushed her hair behind her ears and nervously turned the needles, focusing her gaze and mind on her question. When the fourth needle started moving, she widened her eyes. Her face took on a rosy hue, and she cast an amazed glance at Will.

"So?" he worriedly inquired. His voice betrayed his impatience. But Lyra remained silent, she just looked at him, speechless and overwhelmed. The emotion was so strong in her throat that it was difficult to speak.

"Lyra?"

"I'm not sure if I should tell you," she teased abruptly, "After all, you kept Serafina's words from me!"

"I – but – no!" Will stammered, his cheeks ablaze. "I was waiting for the right moment!"

She let out a small, soft laugh, leaning towards him to slowly whisper, her voice filled with warmth: "So, it confirms what she told you..."

Will's heart skipped a beat. Of course, he knew the witch had spoken the truth. But to hear it from Lyra's own mouth was different, more authentic, more powerful. She pulled back to immerse herself once again in the alethiometer.

"What are you doing?" Will stammered, his voice caught by emotion.

"I want to know when it's going to happen," she said.

"Oh no!" he exclaimed by snatching the alethiometer from her hands.

"Give it back to me!" Lyra exclaimed, reaching out her arms.

They both stood up, and she tried to retrieve her alethiometer, but Will, being much taller, held it above him.

"Is it really important to know if it will happen in 2 months, 2 years, or 10 years?" he asked. "I'll give it back to you only if you promise me that you won't try to seek further information about it. Otherwise, I'll throw it overboard."

"You wouldn't dare!" she challenged him.

"I'm serious, Lyra. Promise me," he insisted.

"Will is right," Kirjava chimed in, attempting to calm Pantalaimon, who was hopping around them. "We already know so much. Maybe we can allow ourselves some surprises, can't we?"

Lyra paused, feeling frustrated, her breath rapid as the wind continued to beat against her face.

"Fine, fine," she grumbled.

"Do I have your word?" he asked.

"Of course! Who do you think I am?"

He lowered his arm, and she eagerly grabbed the alethiometer. Will pulled her closer by the waist, drawing her in for a kiss filled with newfound emotion. They exchanged a long gaze, and Lyra had to admit that all of this had moved her more deeply than she had anticipated.

"Then let's go convince a armoured bear king," she said with a conquering smile.