It was during this restless age that a girl named Lyra was born.
Lyra's first wish, at six years old, was silly.......she wished her pet cat could speak. And suddenly Pip, once a lazy tabby, complained of his food being too chewy, his nap spot too lumpy, his disdain for humans too sharp to ignore. Her parents scolded Lyra for the trouble, but the wish was irreversible.
Yet Lyra was unusual in one way: she was curious about the costs of wishes. Where others delighted or despaired, she always asked, "But what was there before my wish?"
Pip, sharp-tongued, answered her when nobody else would. "Before you gave me words, I was happy enough. You thought it would be nice, but now I miss silence. Wishing is selfish unless you know the price."
By her fifteenth birthday, when most youths wished for beauty, strength, or wealth, Lyra asked instead: "I wish to see all the wishes of the world, as fireflies in the air."
Her village gasped, but the universe obeyed. That night, above every rooftop, every hill, every city, lights shimmered........thousands of floating firefly flames. Each was a wish, still burning, shaping reality with its glow.
And Lyra saw how they clashed: they tangled like spiderwebs, knotted until some dimmed entirely. The firefly of the widow's wife was a pale, shriveled thing. The girl's wish for a glass sea flickered fitfully beneath the stronger will of fishermen begging the tides back. The prince's star blazed too hot, scorching others near it.
Lyra wept at the sight. Wishes were not harmless. They were quarrels written into the fabric of the world.
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