Lore
At the old bridge, the caravan stopped. The next marker was hidden somewhere in the white. One driver wanted to press ahead; another wanted to follow the stream. Lyra asked them both to wait while she unfolded a map beneath the shelter of her cloak.
She counted the turns they had already taken. She checked the slope of the ground and the direction of the water. Then she marked the bridge on the page. The road ahead could wait until the group knew where it was standing.
They moved only when visibility improved, keeping close enough to hear each other. By the time the next marker appeared, no one was calling for speed. At the inn, a child asked whether Lyra had been afraid. “Yes,” she said. “That is why I checked the map twice.”