A few days passed, and the day of departure for Oakhart finally arrived, bringing with it the crisp, cool air of a new dawn. Sunlight spilled over the horizon, painting the sky in soft oranges and pinks. The village square, usually quiet at this hour, was alive with hushed voices and the shuffle of feet. Families had gathered, some clutching small bundles of food, others holding children who refused to let go.
Horses stood saddled and restless, steam curling from their nostrils in the morning chill. Supplies were packed tightly—sacks of dried meat, waterskins, coils of rope—carefully balanced for the long road ahead. Armor gleamed faintly in the light, polished until it caught the sunrise. It was a scene at once solemn and hopeful: a farewell not just for the warriors leaving, but for the uncertain journey waiting beyond the horizon.
General Lyra stood tall at the heart of it all, her presence commanding yet calm. Her polished breastplate and deep red cloak contrasted sharply with the villagers' plain homespun clothes. She had commanded that several soldiers remain behind as assurance of the village's safety, and that they were not to return until the village was fully restored. It was a reminder to all that Oakhart's mission could not come at the expense of those already saved.
The village chief, a kind-faced old man with a stooped back but a clear voice, approached. He bowed low, his words catching on the morning air. "General, we are truly thankful. You saved us when we had lost all hope. We owe you more than we can ever repay."
Lyra's expression did not soften, but her gaze held steady. "It was our duty," she said firmly. "The soldiers I leave behind are some of my best—and so are the healers." She nodded toward Robin. "Trust them as you would trust me."
Her eyes shifted then—not to the chief, but to the small cluster of children gathered near Selene. They clung to her skirts and hands, their cheeks streaked with tears. Selene knelt among them, whispering gentle reassurances she hardly believed herself. Her healing touch and kind smile had bound them to her in ways she still struggled to understand. Watching their sorrow tugged at something deep inside Lyra's chest—an ache she barely recognized as hers.
A short distance away stood Rory. Unlike the others, he held himself stiff, his head bowed, fists clenched at his sides. His small body trembled—not with tears, but with the sheer effort of refusing them.
"Rory," Lyra's voice cut across the square, low but sharp. "What are you doing?"
His head jerked up, startled. "Huh?"
"You ride with the lieutenant," Lyra said. The tone allowed no room for doubt.
"Kid, don't slow us down," Shawn added, his voice gruff but tinged with humor, a rare smirk tugging at his mouth as he swung up into his saddle.
Rory blinked. "I'm… coming?" His voice cracked between disbelief and hope.
Before anyone could answer, a blur of motion broke from the crowd. Livy, her eyes red and cheeks damp, rushed forward. She pressed a small cloth bag into Rory's hands—bread, maybe, or keepsakes—and threw her arms around him in a fierce hug.
"Come back when you're a knight, Rory," she whispered into his ear, voice thick with tears.
He stood stiff in her embrace, torn between pride and the ache in his chest. When she finally stepped back, he caught sight of Enzo, Finn, Elara, and the others. Their gazes were fixed on him—not mocking, not resentful, but filled with something heavier. Sadness, yes, but also awe. In this moment, Rory was no longer just one of them. He was something more.
The village chief met his eyes and gave a slow, knowing nod. Rory straightened his back, gripping the bag tightly. He understood then—this was not simply goodbye. This was the first step into a new life.
Lyra turned at last to Selene, her gaze softening in a way few ever witnessed. Every instinct in her wanted to linger, to feel the weight of Selene pressed close, to memorize the warmth radiating from her. "Are you ready?" she asked quietly.
Selene nodded, though her gaze lingered on the children clinging to her skirts. Ready or not, choice had long since slipped from her hands.
Without a word, Lyra moved closer. She lifted Selene with surprising gentleness, placing her not in the saddle proper but in front—cradled securely, her back pressed to the general's armored chest. The position spoke not of command but of protection, absolute and unyielding. The heat from Lyra's body, the solid rhythm of her breathing, and the faint scent of leather and steel wrapped around Selene like a shield. Her heart fluttered, and for a single impossible moment, the world narrowed to that steady beat.
Across the way, Ava leaned toward Elise, whispering just loud enough. "You're right. There's something with the General and Selene."
Elise's sharp look silenced her at once, but not before her eyes flicked toward Lyra's back. Whatever it was, it was not for careless words.
Lyra did not look back. Her focus was outward—on the road, the soldiers, the unknown. But inside, a current of worry threaded through her chest. Selene's vulnerability, the warmth of her body, the small tremor of her fingers—it made her pulse quicken in ways she barely understood. She pushed it down, burying it beneath the armor of command.
"Let's go," Lyra said finally, her voice carrying steady authority that cut through the charged stillness. She gave a sharp nod to the soldiers who would remain behind.
The party moved out, hooves striking a new rhythm against the dirt road. Villagers parted silently, some weeping openly, others pressing charms and blessings into the soldiers' hands as they passed. For a heartbeat, even the world seemed to pause. Then the sound of departure echoed in the dawn—a mingling of clattering tack, muffled sobs, and the distant caw of crows.
Rory rode beside Shawn, his small hands clinging to the reins. He kept glancing back, tracing every thatched roof, every plume of smoke curling from the chimneys. The familiar warmth of home slipped further behind with each step. His throat ached, but he held his head high, carrying pride and fear alike.
Selene, too, looked back. The children stood in a cluster, waving through their tears. She raised a trembling hand in answer, her own eyes stinging. Leaving the village felt like stepping into the void, yet here, cradled against Lyra, she felt a strange anchor—one she could not name.
Lyra's gaze remained fixed ahead, cold and unyielding to the outside eye, though deep within she bore the weight of every farewell. The tremor of Selene against her, Rory's silent tension at her flank, and the quiet grief of the villagers pressed on her like iron. Duty demanded a steady face, but her heart carried it all. And somewhere in the mix was something she did not yet fully understand—an attraction, a tether, a small, quiet ache that made her grip Selene a little tighter than necessary.
The village fell away, shrinking to a cluster of roofs on the horizon, then finally to nothing at all. The road stretched ahead—long, uncertain, and waiting.
The journey back to Oakhart had begun.