The morning sun spilled across the camp, breaking apart the uneasy silence of the night. Soldiers moved with weary precision, repairing gear, mending cloaks, and sharpening blades dulled from battle. The rhythm of routine kept their hands steady, but it could not erase the memory of the rift between their General and the healer.
Lyra strode through the camp, her posture sharp as steel. Orders left her lips like commands etched in stone, her soldiers jumping to obey. She was every inch the General they revered—unyielding, unshakable, impossible to read.
And yet, as she passed the healer's tent, her gaze betrayed her for half a heartbeat. Selene knelt beside Rory and Livy, demonstrating how to grind herbs into paste with a flat stone. Her hair shimmered pale as moonlight, and her startling green eyes softened as she laughed at Rory's crooked attempt. For a moment, she seemed untouched by the weight of the camp, untouchable in her quiet strength.
Lyra's stride slowed, just a fraction, though her face remained impassive. Shawn noticed immediately.
"You're glaring at her again," he muttered at her side, smirking under his breath.
"I'm not glaring," Lyra said, her voice low and controlled.
"No? Then what do you call that face?"
Lyra said nothing. Her jaw tightened as she forced her eyes forward, her boots carrying her past. Truthfully, she wasn't glaring. Selene infuriated her, yes—always standing against her, always certain her gentler way was right. But beneath that irritation was something Lyra could not name fully. Admiration. Respect. Something far too dangerous to acknowledge. Selene's calm strength, the way she could reach a child's heart with a smile, the quiet steadiness in those green eyes—all of it tugged at Lyra in ways she refused to admit, even to herself.
"Focus on your duties, Lieutenant," she said coolly to Shawn, shutting down his grin with her usual edge. But her thoughts lingered, tethered to the healer's laughter and the glow of moonlight hair.
The morning passed in a blur of drills and inspections. Lyra moved among her soldiers like a shadow of authority, sharp eyes catching every misstep, every lapse in attention. Yet, even as she barked orders, her mind wandered to Selene—her composure, her patience, her ability to command respect without steel or fire.
At midday, a wounded soldier was brought to camp. His arm had been caught in a tangle of roots while foraging. Lyra's first instinct was to direct him to the infirmary, to bark instructions and assert control. But Selene had already knelt beside him, examining the injury with practiced care.
Lyra stood nearby, arms crossed, watching. Selene's fingers moved deftly, gentle but precise. She murmured words of reassurance to the soldier, and his grimace softened.
Lyra's chest tightened. She wanted to step in, to assert authority—but every instinct she had to interrupt, to correct, was swallowed by… admiration. She hated the way Selene could command care and trust without a raised voice, without a sword. And yet, even as she clenched her jaw, she found herself respecting it. Respecting her.
Shawn leaned close, whispering, "You look like you're about to start glaring at her again."
"I'm not," Lyra said, though the sharp edge in her tone betrayed her.
By evening, the camp had quieted. Soldiers had retreated to their tents, leaving only the flicker of dying fires and the occasional rustle of leaves. Lyra sat near the armory, sharpening her blade. Each stroke of steel against whetstone was precise, mechanical—but her thoughts drifted, pulled back toward Selene.
From across the camp, Rory's laughter carried on the air, soft and unguarded, rising over the crackle of the fire. Lyra's hand paused mid-stroke. She hated it. Hated the warmth it stirred inside her. She focused back on the blade, forcing her mind to the discipline of steel, but the sound lingered.
Selene walked the perimeter alone, gathering herbs in silence. At the edge of the treeline she paused, staring into the dark. The forest was unnaturally still; no rustling leaves, no insects, no night birds. The tension pressed against her chest, a warning instinct she could not ignore.
"Stubborn woman," Selene whispered under her breath, thinking of Lyra. "You carry the world, but you won't let anyone help you."
Lyra would never hear the words, but if she had, she might have felt something unfamiliar stir—envy, perhaps, or admiration she would not admit. Selene's strength, her patience, her way of reaching others… it was everything Lyra wanted to respect, feared to love, and hated to admit she desired.
Her eyes flicked toward the healer's silhouette, outlined in firelight. The glow of moonlight hair, the calm grace in her stance, even the ease with which she carried Rory's happiness—it gnawed at Lyra, challenging her pride and discipline. She clenched her jaw and muttered under her breath, a confession to no one but herself:
"I hate that I like her."