"You should come and sit down."

The port of Bodø was bustling on a cool July morning. A radiant sun warmed the walls of the houses and the bodies. Sitting on a bench, facing the pier, a man was braiding strands of wool with a small wooden hook, creating a succession of knots and interlacing patterns. What he was crocheting, only he knew. He inserted his crochet to pull a thread, passed it over another, and started again, the wool slipping through his fingers. He had stretched out his long legs, and his dog-dæmon sat by his side. Standing a few meters in front of him was a woman, her gaze earnestly fixed on the horizon, fists firmly planted on her hips. She was waiting. Waiting for someone, something, a boat that was late to arrive. A fresh breeze rose as if to remind the inhabitants that, despite the summer's gentleness, they were indeed in the North. The gust tousled the curls of the woman's thick ebony hair. She wrinkled her nose to adjust her tortoiseshell glasses.

"They should have arrived by now, don't you think?" she said to the man.

"If they had already arrived, we would have seen them," the man replied, his eyes still fixed on his work. "We're at the entrance of the harbor, we can't miss them. Come and sit down."

But the woman remained standing, firm and concerned. Her blue tit dæmon flew over to perch on the back of the bench. The man looked up and let out a sigh.

"Louise, you're wearing me out. Come and sit down."

Louise rolled her eyes and reluctantly took a seat beside him. Tomas lifted his arm to encircle the woman's shoulder, still keeping his hands on his work.

"I received her letter three days ago," she sighed, leaning against him. "A cargo ship is supposed to be fast, isn't ? Maybe I should have just replied and invited her to Berlin."

"Huh?" said Tomas quite surprised. "What's all this? Who are you, Madame Who-Doubts ? What have you done with Louise Broncard?"

Louise chuckled.

"It's just that I really like her. She'll probably find me quite intense."

"Oh, you know, I think she appreciates intense people...," the German said with a small smile. "Just look at Will."

"Hmm, I'm not so sure. He seems very serious, but intense..."

"Ah, that's because you haven't had the opportunity to have a serious conversation with him and see his gaze, as dark as the abyss, filled with an intensity that would frighten you."

"Now you are being intense," Louise gently mocked, closing her eyes.

Around them, the port teemed with life in a cheerful commotion of greetings, scrapings, and sea scents. The shadows of passersby slid over their faces. One of them stopped. Anke let out a bark, and Tomas exclaimed, "Hey, look who's here? Aren't they handsome?"

Lyra and Will stood there, astonished, facing them. Louise got up and hugged the young woman.

"What are you doing here?" the latter exclaimed.

Despite the surprise, she was delighted with this unexpected reunion.

"I received your letter," Louise replied. "I was very worried."

"And you know, it's easier to pack quickly and take a zeppelin to come here rather than write to you for more information," Tomas added with a hint of irony, getting up to embrace her as well.

"I need you to explain what happened with Siméon," the Frenchwoman added.

Will and Lyra exchanged a glance. They had other, more important plans than staying in Bodø, but Louise and Tomas had traveled all this way to find them. And Lyra felt touched by Louise's concern. Will let her decide. She was the one who knew where they were going, she was the one guiding them.

"Okay," she said, "I think we have a bit of time for a coffee."

They settled into a small café with a green front corroded by salt. Sitting on small wooden chairs, they waited for the manager to bring their drinks. The walls were adorned with oil paintings depicting the faces of sailors and their dæmons, stormy landscapes, and the port of Bodø. Lyra recounted their encounter with the Skraeling, the fight, and the ensuing escape. Louise listened attentively. Occasionally, her gaze slid over Will's reserved face, as if searching for the intensity that Tomas had mentioned. And when the young man's eyes met hers, she shivered and redirected her attention to Lyra's narrative.

"It's curious," the Frenchwoman eventually declared, stirring her coffee. "This doesn't resemble the methods of the Magisterium. Normally, they would arrest you right on the street without any intermediaries. They might set up ambushes, but it's quite rare. This is something new. We tried to get in touch with Siméon, but there's no trace of him. It's worrying. Our members on-site are actively searching for him."

"They must be really afraid of you, Lyra," Tomas added.

At those words, Will's face frowned, and Louise caught a glimpse of that spark of intensity in his eyes. It almost frightened her.

"I'm sorry," Lyra said, placing her cup back down. "You traveled all this way for us, but we have some shopping to do before taking a zeppelin to Havøysund. We'd like to be there before nightfall."

"Don't worry," Louise replied with a friendly smile. "It was a bit bold of us to show up like this without warning. What are you going to do so far up North?"

"We need to go up to Svalbard," Will stated.

"We have to meet Iorek Byrnison," Lyra added.

Tomas let out a small cry of surprise. "Of course, you don't have room for an cumbersome German like me," he lamented jokingly. "I'm jealous."

Lyra chuckled, but Tomas added, quite seriously, "You're already aware that Svalbard is a very hostile territory. Humans are rarely welcome there. And it's said that the Tartars there are becoming increasingly aggressive, not to mention the Cliff Ghasts. Are you armed?"

"Yes, we have what we need," Will replied, tapping his bag.

Mette Rasmussen had somehow learned about their plan to go up to Svalbard. They didn't know how. She had ordered them to each carry a fire gun and had spent a day showing them how to use it, repeatedly urging them never, ever, under any circumstances, to stop between the shores of Svalbard and their destination. She had added that if they hadn't returned within a week, she would come looking for them herself. And it was clear that she would. They had protested, but she had given them little choice. The captain had also provided them with furs. They only needed to supply themselves with silk undergarments, fur-lined boots and provisions.

They left the couple in front of the café, promising to send updates upon their return, leaving Louise with even more worry in her heart. With their purchases completed, they made their way to the aërodock in Bodø to find a zeppelin bound for Havøysund, the northernmost city. They patiently waited for about an hour in the waiting hall before boarding the buzzing small zeppelin. Will sat by the window, keeping his gaze on the passing landscape below, remaining silent. His leg twitched involuntarily. Lyra placed her hand on his knee and offered him a comforting smile.

"Everything will be fine," she said softly.

He tightened his grip on her hand. The landscape slowly changed as villages became more scarce, and the Great Northern Ocean encroached upon the whitening tongues of land. The zeppelin gently docked at Havøysund. Lyra and Will put on their fur coats before venturing into the town to find a place to spend the night. It was a small, dreary, and damp town nestled along the glacial fjord and burdened under an accumulation of sad, gray clouds. A few deserted streets led to the harbor where fishing trawlers and merchant ships were moored. They settled on a small inn with red walls that stood adjacent to a fish canning factory. The place was dimly lit, filled with a blend of smells ranging from fish to the sweat of sailors, and the perfumes of boiled potatoes. A few scattered tables held men engaged in hushed conversations and card games, with beer mugs in hand and extinguished cigarettes between their lips. The inn was run by a friendly, red-faced woman named Katja; her poodle dæmon always at her side, kept his tail wagging constantly. She rented them a modest but comfortable enough room and offered them dinner.

"What brings you to our remote lands, travelers?" she asked, placing steaming plates of reindeer stew in front of them.

"We need to go to Svalbard," explained Lyra, instantly digging into from her plate.

"Svalbard? Odd idea," Katja remarked.

But she didn't question the reasons that led them so far north. No reason could justify such a risky journey. Nevertheless, she offered them sound advice. They would need a sled and dogs to travel quickly, and conveniently, her brother owned them. With her contact, they would get a good price. This same brother could transport them to the welcoming port in Svalbard.

"Above all, don't stop along the way, ever," she added. "Go straight to your destination without pausing. There's a dissenting clan of Tartars there who take advantage of lost travelers."

Lyra listened, engaging in conversation with the woman, while Will remained silent. Later that night, while Lyra slept soundly, he got up to observe the slumbering town in the emerging twilight. Pantalaimon rubbed against his legs and then jumped onto the windowsill. The pine marten looked at him intently. He didn't need to speak; he was Lyra, and he shared her worries and her thoughts.

"Well?" the dæmon asked, quite surprised. "It's the first time I've seen you so overwhelmed with doubts! Do you regret your decision?"

"No, never." Will replied, "But the Subtle Knife… What if there was another solution?"

"You know there isn't. You know well that if you could have done without it, you would have. If the disobedient Angel hadn't acted, if Xaphania hadn't come to ask for your help, you would have done things differently, we would have done things differently."

"And if Iorek refused to reforge the Subtle Knife?"

"He'll accept. Lyra will convince him, I have no doubt about that."

Pantalaimon jumped back onto the floor and once again rubbed his coppery body against Will's leg.

"She won't judge you if you ever give up," he stated.

"I'm not going to give up."

"I know. You should rest, get some sleep. Tomorrow will be a challenging day, but everything will be fine."

He leaped back onto the bed to join Lyra's neck. Will's gaze briefly lingered on her sleeping face before shifting back to the outside.

At the first light of dawn, they left the inn, wrapped in layers of clothes and fur, heading towards Katja's brother's warehouse. There, they found exactly what she had told them: a man with the same friendly red face as her, named Cæsar, accompanied by his arctic hare dæmon. He had a sled, dogs, and a boat to take them to the shores of Svalbard. During the crossing, Will remained silent, leaning against the railing, his eyes fixed on the icy island that grew larger as they approached. Lyra chatted with Cæsar, who advised her to take a longer route, bordering the island's only forest, but safer to avoid the Cliff Ghasts. He also urged them, in turn, never to stop along the way. He helped them unload the sled, harness the dogs, and load their bags before heading back to the sea. He would return the next evening, hoping they would be there too. Then the deafening silence of Svalbard enveloped them. A silence that wasn't truly one. The ice cracked and rumbled, deep and powerful; troops of walruses grunted in the distance, and the wind whistled over the desolate land. Lyra turned to admire the vast snowy plains, crowned in the distance by towering mountains. Those mountains she knew and hated to the depths of her soul, those mountains that held Roger's body within them like a vast open-air tomb. The wind began to sting her face, and she pulled up her hood.

"Sit down," she said to Will, pointing at the sled.

He gave her a skeptical look, so she added, "I know how to handle it; I learned with the Gyptians. And Cæsar gave me some instructions. Trust me."

Will consented and settled in as best as he could, with Kirjava and Pantalaimon finding a place on his lap. Lyra took her place at the back, shooting commands to the dogs, and the sled shot forward into the powdery snow. They glided past groups of seals lounging lazily on the soft snow, crossed the vast and lifeless plain, the wind and snow whipping at their faces. If they kept up this pace, they would reach Iorek's before nightfall.

And then, without warning, the dogs abruptly stopped. They started barking and turning around in panic. Will stoop up, his body numbed by the cold, and approached Lyra, who was trying to calm the pack. Kirjava and Pantalaimon sniffed the air, on high alert. Someone or something was there, behind the trees, watching them.

Above all, don't stop along the way.

"Lyra..." Will began slowly, his voice low, as he scanned the silent surroundings.

Three enormous wolves emerged before them, their snarling lips revealing their sharp, menacing fangs. They were quickly followed by three massive figures wrapped in thick, dark furs. Three Tartars faced them, approaching with open aggression. They exchanged words in a language that neither Will nor Lyra understood, but their intentions were clear from the repugnant looks they directed at the young woman. Pantalaimon and Kirjava retreated towards their humans, their backs arched, fur bristling, in a futile attempt to intimidate the three wolf-dæmons staring at them with ferocity. Will reached for the firegun Mette had entrusted to him, nestled in his jacket pocket, but the Tartars were quicker, much quicker. One of them lunged at the young man, knocking him to the ground with such force that he lost his breath. He didn't have time to counter the attack as the man held him firmly by the hair, lifting his head and trapping it with his arm, announcing with a coarse laugh: "We, fun, and you, watch."

Horrified, Will saw the other two Tartars rush at Lyra to hold her against the sled. But they underestimated the adrenaline of fear and the strength it could unleash. On one side, Lyra fought back fiercely, kicking and punching the faces of the two men like a lioness, like a she-wolf, ferocious and angry. But what could she do against two giants? The pain from their grips on her arms and legs was compounded by the one Pantalaimon experienced as he faced two wolves larger and stronger than him, fighting with all his claws and fangs bared. Each blow that hit the pine marten pierced through Lyra as well. On the other side, Kirjava bristled her fur, slashed at the wolf-dæmon's muzzle, and leaped at the the third Tartar's face, who released his hold with a cry. Will struck him with his elbow in the nose. The man cursed in his language before drawing a knife as long as his forearm and waving it threateningly in front of the young man. But Will was ready, fists clenched, almost eager to fight. In one quick move, the man struck his shoulder, the blade cutting deeply into his sleeve and skin despite the thick fur of his jacket. But Will retaliated, and the Tartar's jaw met his fist not once, but twice, and finally a third time. The Tartar collapsed in the snow. Will grabbed the long knife and put his hand into his pocket.

Meanwhile, the other two Tartars continued to overpower Lyra, who fought back relentlessly. One of them held her arms from behind, while the other, on top of her, used his powerful legs to immobilize her hips and pressed a sharp blade against her throat. She froze, breathing heavily.

"Shhh," he whispered with a horrible voice. "Good girl. Stay still."

With a swift motion of the blade, he tore through Lyra's jacket, revealing the thin merino wool sweater she was wearing. Lyra spat in his face, and he responded with a violent backhand slap. He let out a sinister laugh. A sharp surge of pain in her lower abdomen warned Lyra that her dæmon, whom she couldn't see, was in a perilous situation. There was a gunshot, followed by another. The Tartar in front of her slumped to the side, while the other one released her hands in surprise. She quickly backed as she saw the wolf-dæmon vanish into thin air.

"Lyra!" Will shouted.

She stood up, clutching a weakened Pantalaimon, and ran to take refuge against the young man as the second Tartar chased after her. Will glanced down at her for a split second. Her cheek was crimson; her eyebrows and eyelashes, speckled with thousands of ice crystals, framing her fiery gaze; and she breathed heavily, exhaling a thick, white vapor.

"Shoot him," she ordered, her eyes fixed on the approaching man.

Her voice radiated anger. Will pointed the still-smoking barrel of the pistol at the second Tartar. But the third one had risen and lunged at them with rage, causing them to tumble into the snow. The gunshot went off nonetheless. Lyra's fury was unstoppable as she rushed at the man on top of Will, who was crushing him beneath his weight and raining punches upon him. She grabbed his neck, scratching his face while the two dæmons leaped at the dæmon-wolf's throat. Suddenly, a massive shadow loomed and brushed past them in a terrible roar. Just a few meters away from the fight, the second Tartar, wounded in the side by Will's bullet, found himself thrown under several hundred kilos of enraged fur. The armoured bear placed its huge white paw on the man's head, who begged for mercy. But the Pansebjørne could be merciless, even worse than the Tartars themselves, and the paw came down with a gruesome crunch. A scarlet pool slowly spread across the immaculate snow. The bear turned towards the three humans. The last Tartar got up, wrenched the knife from Will's hand, and rushed at the bear, screaming. The bear swatted him away almost casually, sending him flying like a mere fly. The man crashed to the ground with a dull thud, and his wolf-dæmon dissipated into nothingness with a whimper. The Pansebjørn approached slowly as Will and Lyra stood, still clinging to each other like two shipwrecked survivors. Of a youthful appearance, the bear wore a gleaming armor, and his off-white fur was stained with blood and dirt. He analyzed these two upright, fierce, and wounded beings, and their disheveled daemons with his black and shining eyes. Will's sleeve was gradually soaking with blood, dropping a few scattered droplets onto the glistening snow.

"You are not Tartars," the bear said. "Speak."

Lyra caught her breath. A freezing wind seeped her torn jacket, whipping her chest and causing her to shiver despite her determination.

"I am Lyra Silvertongue," she declared confidently. "This is Will Parry. We have come to see King Iorek Byrnison."


They had to take a few minutes to calm and reassure the panicking sled dogs. Lyra took her place at the back of the sled, with Pantalaimon clutched tightly against her, while Will sat in front with Kirjava curled up on his lap. With Lyra's help, he had tied a piece of cloth around his shoulder to try to stop the bleeding. She urged the dogs to follow the lead of the sergeant bear. The journey lasted another long and grueling hour, their bodies sore from the cold and the blows they had endured. The sled slowed down, and Lyra shadowed her eyes with her hand as she looked ahead. Despite the clouds and swirling snowflakes, the snow was so white that it dazzled them. The palace of Iorek was nothing like the one Lyra had known, where Iofur Raknisson ruled. Nestled against the dark mountain slopes were thick walls of stone and dark ice. In the distance, they could heard the majestic cracking of glaciers above them and the roars of bears out on the hunt.

Another bear took charge of the sled and the dogs, while Will and Lyra continued on foot. A few female bears with their cubs watched them pass with curiosity. One cub detached itself from the group and approached Lyra. She smiled, reaching out her hand, but the cub was quickly called back by its mother as the small group entered the palace.

The heavy footsteps of the bear who led them echoed along the stone corridor. He brought them to a large doorless room with a vast circle of stone in the center. Several bears were gathered in the circle, consulting, and among them was Iorek Byrnison. Tears filled Lyra's eyes as she saw her old friend.

"I apologize for the interruption," said Iorek, addressing his ministers, "but this is a visit I wasn't expecting anymore."

The bears left the room, and the king of the Panserbjørne approached Lyra. She pressed her face against his snout, burying her nose in his soft and warm fur. Iorek exhaled, and his warm breath enveloped her. She was trembling all over as if she was just realizing everything they had endured.

"Oh Iorek," she said with a muffled voice, "I missed you so much."

"Hello, young Lyra. Your presence was not expected. I am happy to see you."

She had almost forgotten the soothing vibrations of his voice, the power emanating from his robust and imposing body, like an indomitable fortress, and the majestic and intimidating gaze. She had almost forgotten how much she loved this bear. Iorek lifted his head and looked at Will, who stood a little apart. The young man greeted him with a respectful nod.

"Hello, Will Parry," said the bear. "You are very far from home. You are all welcome in our territory."

He pointed his snout at the young armoured bear who had escorted them.

"You have met one of my sons," he declared.

Lyra turned with astonishment to the bear, who humbly lowered his head.

"This is Siguróli Iorekson, my son and my successor." Iorek said.

The young woman's surprise shifted back to Iorek.

"I am getting old, Lyra. Soon, I will die, and my family will honor my body to keep it from the talons of scavengers and the fangs of the Cliff-Ghasts. And Siguróli will take my place."

"Don't speak nonsense, Iorek Byrnison," said Lyra sternly, "You will live for several hundred more years."

If Iorek could have smiled, he would have.

"You didn't come just to visit an old friend, Lyra," he added.

"Indeed. We are here because we need you. We must reforge the Subtle Knife, once again."

Iorek froze. He fixed his piercing gaze on Will and then shifted it back to her.

"The Subtle Knife should never have existed, you know that. And if it was destroyed, there was a good reason for it. But there must be a greater reason that brings you to my territory to make this request. So speak, Lyra. I shall then make a decision."

And Lyra recounted everything they had learned from Kaisa and Xaphania, from Will's initial wish to never reforge the Subtle Knife, to the necessity of reopening the window to the North, and their shared desire to stay together no matter what. Iorek listened attentively, never interrupting her speech, his imposing and massive stature seated like a human, his dark and benevolent eyes fixed on her. When she finished her account, he gazed at the couple for a moment before addressing her:

"You know how to speak and persuade, Lyra Silvertongue. You can wield words and rally people's will around you, just as you did years ago. And as your father did before you."

Lyra wrinkled her nose.

"My remark displeases you, I see. But an armoured bear never lies. The Subtle Knife is a powerful tool that must be used wisely, and you are well aware of that, Will Parry. The idea of reforging it for use again does not sit well with me. However, we, the armoured bears, have noticed subtle changes in our territory. The elements are returning to their rightful places, a new balance is taking shape. And if what you tell me is true, Lyra, my child, then you need me."

Will's mouth was dry. He dreaded every word from Iorek and flinched with each utterance. Yet he remained still, attentive to every word.

"We will go to the forge," declared Iorek. "But tomorrow. You are exhausted and injured. You need rest. You can stay here, and we will provide everything you require. Rest now."

The bears had built a few wooden cabins to accommodate merchants and political figures who visited their remote territories, and Iorek had them settle in one of them. A large bed covered with a fur blanket, a small table, a chair, and a black cast-iron stove furnished the cabin. It was enough to bring some warmth and comfort. While Will loaded logs into the fireplace, Lyra went outside for a few moments. The stove began to roar, and Will sat on the bed, rubbing his face for a long time. Lyra returned in a flurry of snowflakes, holding two small wrought-iron buckets in her hands. She took a seat beside him and began to remove his fur.

"What's this?" he asked, pointing to one of the bowls filled with a green, frosty substance.

"Bloodmoss," Lyra replied. "It's what the bears use to treat their wounds. Show me your arm."

"No, wait, we have..."

"Forgotten half of our belongings at the inn," Lyra interrupted. "Including the medicine you had prepared. We left in a hurry this morning, but I think Katja must have set it aside. Let me see."

But Will squirmed; he knew a bit about this moss, but he refused to let his wound touch it without having analyzed it beforehand.

"For God's sake! Will!" Lyra exclaimed, "Look at me!"

Fatigue consumed her patience and composure. Will froze and met her gaze for the first time since they had boarded the zeppelin. His throat tightened as he saw her large ocean eyes, shining with concern and exasperation, her swollen cheek and clenched jaw. She was there, and he had been blinded by his own apprehensions to see that she shared them entirely.

"I know how you feel because I feel the same," she said, trying to hide her irritation. "And I hate it. I hate being afraid. Afraid for your life, for mine. That's not what I want for us. Those guys, they were really... I don't know what would have happened if the bear, if Siguróli, hadn't intervened. I..."

Her voice broke. The memories of their sinister gazes, their laughter, and the very motivations that led them to attack her with such force, just because she was a woman, made her feel nauseous. She shook her head and took a long breath.

"And I know you have doubts," she continued in a softer voice. "It's normal. It would be strange if you didn't. But I also know that you won't give up, and I admire you for that. And we're with Iorek, okay? We're safe; this is the safest place in the world. Now, for heaven's sake, take off your shirt and let yourself be healed. Please."

Will lowered his eyes, feeling ashamed, and complied. His silk top was soaked with blood and sweat, just like his arm. The wound was deep, but not as bad as he had feared. He shivered and winced under Lyra's care. She cleaned the wound and applied the bloodmoss mixed with ice before wrapping his shoulder with a bandage as best as she could.

"There you go," she announced. "I'm not as skilled as you, but it will hold until tomorrow when we return to Havøysund."

She stood up to place the buckets on the floor and remove the rest of her furs. Standing in front of the stove, her silhouette was outlined in the orange light. Her neck and back were stiff. She rubbed her eyes for a long moment. They sparkled, two brilliant beads of exhaustion and anxiety. Pantalaimon and Kirjava had curled against each other, basking in the warmth of the fire. Will reached out to take her hand. She turned her head towards him. Both of them looked worn out after the long day.

"I'm sorry," he murmured.

"It's me, I shouldn't have lost my temper. It's counterproductive. I was just scared, really scared. And I'm tired."

"And your cheek? Is it okay?"

"It'll be fine. The cold numbed the pain. Don't worry. It will be okay."

She settled beside him, and he took her hands, gazing into her eyes. Of course, it would be okay, despite the wounds and fatigue, because things were where they were meant to be. Her and him. No matter what would happen. Him and her.

"Fear is an instinct for survival," Will mused. "It can amplify our strength. And I found you to be very strong."

"You weren't too bad yourself," she admitted with a small smile.

He traced his fingers along her face, gently pushing back the strands that fell in front of her eyes.

"I promise you a peaceful life, Will Parry," Lyra said quietly. "A calm life, in a quiet place, with a view of the sky, far from the tumult of the world. After all this, you'll see..."

The hearth purred like a contented cat, caressing their faces with its warmth.

"I believe you, Lyra Silvertongue." Will replied with a smile.

"Good. Cause I never said when it would happen."

He laughed and pulled her close so that they could lie down. Slumber enveloped them like a thick blanket, and they embraced it with relief.