The Boy Who Must Choose Which World Survives

Ren fell through a ring of blue fire and landed face-first on a carpet that smelled of dust, cedar, and extremely old magic.

Bookshelves climbed beyond the clouds.

Somewhere overhead, a brass bell rang thirteen times.

Okay. Either I'm dreaming, or the school library has received a very aggressive renovation.

Please don't move.

A girl in a silver librarian's coat stood on a ladder thirty feet above him.

Every book on the shelf behind her began to whisper at once.

That's usually what people say right before something attacks me.

Nothing is going to attack you.

A cloth-bound atlas snapped open and tried to bite his shoe.

Nothing important.

Ren kicked free.

Pages whipped through the air like startled birds.

Lyra slid down the ladder, caught one glowing page between two fingers, and pressed it to his chest.

The library fell silent.

What did you just do?

Confirmed the prophecy.

Please tell me it says I go home.

It says the boy with no magic will choose which world survives.

Beyond the nearest window, there was no sky—only thousands of doors floating in a violet void.

One of them shuddered.

Something enormous knocked from the other side.

I have a math test tomorrow.

If we fail, there won't be a tomorrow.

The knocking came again.

Dust streamed from the ceiling.

Ren looked at Lyra's steady hand, then at the terrified way she held her breath.

Fine. But when this is over, you're writing my absence note.

Deal.

The infinite shelves rearranged with a thunderous groan, opening a path toward the forbidden door.