As if in a dream, Rory heard the familiar shriek of steel being drawn. His head snapped up just in time to see a blur of motion—Lyra, her sword flashing silver as it cut through the night.
The half-blind orc turned too late. Lyra's blade sang as it met flesh, the beast's roar cracking into a wet gurgle as it staggered back. Blood sprayed across the dirt, but Lyra didn't falter. She pivoted, shouldered into the creature, and pressed forward with ruthless precision.
The orc swung wildly with its crude axe, missing her by inches. Lyra rose from her crouch in one fluid motion, slashing upward and splitting the weapon's haft in two. The broken axe clattered uselessly to the ground.
"Stay down!" she barked—whether to the beast or to Rory, even he couldn't tell.
The orc, reeling and snarling, clutched its ruined side. Lyra advanced without hesitation, each step relentless, measured. With a final thrust, she drove her blade through its chest. The creature gave one last shudder and collapsed at her feet.
Silence followed. Rory realized he was holding his breath, fists clenched so tight his nails dug into his palms. He had seen Lyra fight before—but never like this. Never with such cold, merciless fury. She wasn't just a soldier in that moment; she was a storm given flesh.
Then, movement at the edge of his vision—Selene. Rory's heart dropped. She was down, blood seeping through her side.
Lyra was already there, dropping to her knees, her hands trembling as they pressed against the wound. Her mask of iron composure cracked, replaced by something rawer: fear. She lifted Selene's head with desperate care, fingers searching for a pulse. Relief flickered across her face when she found it—weak, but there.
The soldiers rushed in moments later, Shawn and Rita at the front. Lyra had ridden ahead, leaving them far behind. They froze at the sight of the fallen orc, then at Selene lying pale in Lyra's lap. Rory, still clutching his slingshot, abandoned it to throw his arms around Livy and Enzo, pulling them close. His small body shook with sobs, caught between relief and shame—he had been brave, but not brave enough.
Selene's breathing was shallow, ragged. Lyra's calloused hands—hands that had felled countless foes—now trembled as they cradled the healer's face.
"Captain," she rasped, her voice sharp with command despite the terror in her eyes. "Get the children to Robin. Now. And have Selene looked at immediately."
Rita nodded quickly and led the children away. Lyra turned to Shawn, her eyes blazing.
"Split the soldiers into groups. Sweep the area. These some of the escaped orcs from the bandits' hideout. Secure the perimeter."
Shawn obeyed, barking orders as the soldiers scattered. In moments, Lyra was alone again with Selene. The General who had never flinched in the face of death now looked utterly undone.
"Selene," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Stay with me."
The healer's eyelids fluttered, unfocused. A faint, almost apologetic smile touched her lips. "I told you… I needed him," she rasped, each word fragile.
Lyra's breath hitched. She had faced warlords, monsters, assassins—but this, watching Selene slip away—this was a battle she could not command.
"Don't you dare," she snarled, her voice fierce, unyielding. "Don't you dare close your eyes."
Selene's clammy hand found Lyra's and squeezed weakly. "It's… cold," she murmured, her head lolling.
Lyra gathered her close, wrapping them both in her cloak, as if sheer will could keep her alive. She pressed her face against Selene's hair, her whispered prayers raw and desperate.
"Stay with me," she begged. "Just a little longer."
The healers arrived, moving with practiced urgency. They gently unwrapped Selene and used bandages to staunch the bleeding.
"General, we have to bring her back to the camp," one of them said.
Lyra nodded, her gaze never leaving Selene's face. She lifted the healer into her arms, holding her as if she were the most precious, fragile thing in the world. The General, a symbol of unshakeable strength, now moved with a purpose born of pure terror.
Behind them, the ground where Selene's blood had spilled bore silent witness to her gift. Tiny green sprouts pushed through the dirt, delicate flowers blooming from the bloodstained earth. In the chaos, no one noticed the quiet miracle.
The healers moved swiftly, supporting Lyra as she carried Selene back toward camp. Soldiers fell in around them, their formation tightening, weapons drawn. Every shadow beyond the treeline felt alive with threat.
Lyra walked on, her steps sure but her grip trembling. Selene's shallow breaths brushed against her collarbone, each one a fragile thread threatening to snap. Lyra lowered her head, her jaw set like iron.
Not here. Not like this.
When they reached the healers' tent, Robin was already waiting, sleeves rolled up, eyes sharp with focus.
"Lay her here," he said, voice steady but urgent.
Lyra obeyed, lowering Selene onto the cot as if she might shatter. Her hands lingered at Selene's shoulders, unwilling to let go.
Meanwhile, the other healers were treating the children's scrapes and cuts, their work a quiet, efficient hum in the background.
"General," Robin said firmly, "we'll do what we can. But you must give us space."
For a long moment, Lyra didn't move. Then, with a sharp inhale, she stepped back—though her eyes never left Selene.
The flap of the tent closed, shutting her out.
Outside, the soldiers waited, tense and watchful, the air thick with the weight of unspoken fears. Shawn stood near the firelight, arms crossed, his expression grim.
Lyra remained apart, silent as stone, her cloak stained with Selene's blood. The General who had faced down every enemy without hesitation now stood utterly still, staring at the tent where a single life—her life—hung in the balance.
The flap of the healer's tent closed, shutting Lyra out.
For a long moment, she stood there, her bloodied cloak heavy on her shoulders, her hands still tingling where they had held Selene. The night air felt thin, every breath dragging in her chest.
Around her, the camp had fallen into uneasy quiet. Soldiers lingered near the firelight, their voices hushed. Rita guided the children to a bedroll, keeping them close. Rory sat between Livy and Enzo, his slingshot forgotten, eyes fixed on the flames. Shawn paced just beyond the circle, barking orders to the patrols, his grim expression betraying nothing.
But Lyra noticed none of it. Her gaze never left the tent.
Stay with me, she thought, the silent plea hammering in her chest. Just a little longer.
Without meaning to, she had learned to care for Selene—her… friend—more dearly than she could admit.
Above them, the campfires hissed, and the wind carried the mingled scents of steel and ash. And beyond the perimeter, where Selene's blood had spilled into the dirt, the forest floor had begun to stir. Sprouts of green pushed through the soil, pale flowers unfurling toward the moon—silent witnesses to a power no one yet understood.
Lyra remained at her post outside the tent, her shadow long against the lantern light, a sentinel to the one person she could not afford to lose.