chapter 8. The first thread

The sunlight outside the window seemed like a betrayal. Outside, the world was going about its normal business: the hum of the market, the cries of vendors, and the laughter of children. But inside Gray's house, everything was enveloped in a cottony, ringing silence. His mother was silently cleaning the kitchen, her movements as sharp and precise strikes as a knife. There was no sound coming from the workshop, where his father had locked himself away, burdened by his own guilt.

The thought of trying to talk to any of them again made Gray feel physically sick. He could almost feel the wall between them—smooth, cold, and impenetrable.

His father's words, "She won't hear me now," echoed in his mind. Maybe they wouldn't hear him either. Maybe his voice was just background noise to them now.

But then what? Sit and wait for a new board with scary symbols to be nailed outside? Wait for that terrible man Vivant to come for him?

No.

The solution came to him suddenly, clear and cold. If the adults couldn't or wouldn't act, he would have to. He remembered the nervous, impulsive girl with the sharp shoulders. Lyra. She knew something. She had seen and heard the enemy. She was the only thread leading out of this enclosed space of fear, towards the real threat.

The only problem was that he didn't know where to find her.

Gray went up to his room, where Leo was quietly building a tower of blocks, too scared to make a noise.

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“Leo,” he called softly.

His brother looked up at him with big, frightened eyes.

“Do you know where the people who—who work with Dad live?” Gray asked, trying to make his voice as gentle as possible.

Leo frowned, trying to remember.

“In a big house with columns?” he said uncertainly. “Where the windows are all shiny?”

The Colorist Guild. Yes, of course. But going there was like throwing himself into the lion’s mouth. It was impossible.

“And then? Maybe Dad was talking about someone’s house? A girl named Lyra?”

Leo shook his head, his interest waning, and he returned to his cubes. It was a dead end.

Gray walked over to the window and looked out onto the street. His gaze, honed by years of living in a gray world, swept over the passersby, reading them not by the colors of their clothes, but by their walk, their silhouettes, and their mannerisms. And then he saw him.

Not Lyra. But a footprint.

The same guard who had hammered the plank into the square. He was standing on the corner, leaning lazily on his halberd, chewing something. His posture, his confident, slightly swaggering way of holding his head, Gray remembered it.

The idea was crazy. But there was no other option.

Gray pulled on the darkest, most inconspicuous cloak he could find and, holding his breath, slipped out of the house through the back door.

He moved like a shadow, using the protrusions of walls, blind fences and merchants' shops as a shelter. His gray vision, which was usually a hindrance, has now become his main weapon — he saw the slightest movement in the shadows, distinguished the textures of surfaces in order to move silently.

The guard, having finished chewing, lazily wandered along his patrol route. Gray followed him at a respectful distance, his heart pounding somewhere in his throat. He didn't know what he would do when they were alone. He only knew that he had to try.

The guard turned down a narrow, deserted alley, apparently taking a shortcut. It was a chance.

Gray took a deep breath, clenched his fists, and followed him down the alley.