It did not take long for word of Lyra’s storytelling to reach the Harmonist elders. They had been content to let the debate over her question simmer in private, but this was a different matter entirely. This was a direct assault on their narrative authority, a public dissemination of dangerous, unsanctioned stories.
The more conservative faction of the elders, led by a stern traditionalist named Kael, demanded immediate action. Lyra, he argued, was a threat to the very fabric of their society. Her stories were poison, and she was the serpent who was delivering it. He called for her to be silenced, for her stories to be forbidden.
The more moderate elders, who had been moved by Lyra’s question, urged caution. To silence her, they argued, would be to make her a martyr. It would only amplify her message and turn the youth against them. But their voices were drowned out by the chorus of fear.
And so, the First Edict was issued. It was a simple, unambiguous decree: the telling of any story not sanctioned by the Harmonist elders was forbidden. The punishment for disobedience was severe: exile. The elders had drawn a line in the sand. They had made it clear that there was no room for dissent, no room for questions, no room for any story but their own. The time for quiet rebellion was over. The conflict was now out in the open.