The forest stretched endlessly around them, an ancient cathedral of green whose towering trunks rose like pillars toward the sky. Shafts of dappled sunlight pierced the thick canopy, rippling across the narrow path in shifting mosaics of gold and shadow. The air was dense with the smell of wet earth and crushed leaves—nature still healing from the storm's violent passage.
Lyra's small rescue party moved with practiced caution. Each hoofstep was muffled by the soft bed of forest debris, every rustle of foliage bringing a subtle lift of heads and hands toward weapons. Even the distant calls of birds felt uncertain, tentative, as though the forest itself remained wary after the storm's wrath.
Ava rode slightly ahead of the group, her posture sharply alert. She slowed, leaned forward, and brushed her fingers along the edge of a broken branch. "Tracks heading deeper into the woods," she murmured. "The storm pushed them off the main road… maybe forced them to find shelter."
Lyra's gaze followed the faint trail, her expression composed, though worry gnawed quietly beneath the surface. "We'll move carefully," she said. "These conditions can turn a sprain into a fracture, and a misstep into disaster." She tugged the strap of her sword, checking its weight across her back. "Scout ahead, Ava. Return if you see or hear anything that feels wrong."
Ava dipped her head and slipped into the undergrowth, her movements blending seamlessly with the forest's dim green silence.
As the group pressed on, the evidence of hardship grew clearer: jagged branches snapped at odd angles, churned mud where carts had nearly toppled, scattered sacks and cloth torn by wind or desperation. The forest had swallowed their knights and left behind a trail of exhaustion.
Then—faint voices. A wavering exchange. The muted clank of armor.
Lyra raised a hand, signaling a halt. Through the veil of leaves appeared the figures of her knights, moving with slow, uneven steps. They emerged like ghosts—armor dented, cloaks torn, faces drawn from sleepless nights and relentless rain, but eyes burning with resolve.
Ava reappeared at Lyra's side. "They're alive," she whispered, relief briefly softening her tone. "Tired. Injured. A few limping. They tried to stay together, but the storm forced them apart."
Lyra dismounted in one fluid motion, boots sinking into the damp soil. The knights straightened at the sight of her, exhaustion replaced by a flicker of hope.
"General Lyra?" one called, his voice frayed at the edges. "We… we tried to return as fast as we could. I made a wrong turn. Some of us got lost trying to look for shelter. We… we're still looking for the others."
Lyra's eyes swept over their faces, counting them, assessing injuries, reading fear beneath bravado. Her voice, when it came, was steady—commanding, but warm.
"You've done well surviving," she said. "You're alive, and that is what matters first." She turned to her group. "Tend to the wounded. Ava—assemble a search team immediately. No one is left behind."
Ava nodded and darted off without hesitation.
Lyra's presence became a quiet anchor among the chaos—giving direction, offering comfort, stabilizing fear into focus. Under her guidance, the survivors rested, drank water, and allowed their wounds to be assessed. And soon enough, the forest echoed with renewed movement as Ava and her search party disappeared deeper into the wilds.
Two Days Later
It took two grueling days of combing through dense forest, navigating uprooted trees, and following the faintest signs of passage before all missing knights were accounted for. Together, the expanded party made their slow but steady return toward Berthold.
Lyra rode near the center, keeping steady pace with the most injured. Her group maintained tight formation, offering structure and safety. The forest—while still scarred—felt calmer, the storm's rage replaced by birdsong and the rhythmic clatter of marching armor.
Sunlight filtered through the trees in warm streaks, glinting off metal edges and dew-soaked leaves. Even the horses seemed to sense relief, their steps lighter as the path gradually broadened.
The moment Berthold's familiar farmlands came into view, a ripple of relief swept through the knights. They had survived.
Meanwhile in Berthold
With many knights missing, the town had grown tense, its defenses thin. In that atmosphere of uncertainty, Rory's training under Gessa intensified into a near-military regimen.
"Again!" Gessa barked, her stance rigid, every movement precise. "Feet shoulder-width! Knees bent! Your sword follows your center—stop fighting it!"
Rory swung the wooden sword with fierce determination. Sweat soaked his hair, streaked his cheeks, and dampened his collar, but he didn't falter. "I— I will!"
"You're stubborn," Gessa said, nudging his stance with the tip of her boot. "Just like Lyra was. Too stubborn to give up. Too stubborn to fall."
Rory's eyes brightened at the name. "I want to be strong enough to be a knight. To help her."
"And you will." Gessa's voice softened—but only slightly. "But strength is useless without control. Discipline. Timing. Precision. That's what makes a knight."
Rory nodded, gripping the sword tighter. His swings grew steadier—less frantic, more intentional.
From the sidelines, Vivian watched with fond amusement.
"I remember seeing Lyra training the same way," she said quietly.
"She learned fast," Vivian continued. "Not just because I buried her in books… though that helped." She smirked.
Rory paused mid-swing. "Books?"
Gessa chuckled. "Vivian made her read everything—tactics, legends and history And Lyra soaked it up like a sponge."
Vuvian smiled "When Lyra was 9, she took down four adults"
Rory paused "four?"
Gessa muttered "Vivian your disrupting my lessons again"
At Gessa's signal for a break, Rory hurried over, excitement overflowing. "You said the General fought adults when she was my age. Is that true?"
Vivian's smile turned conspiratorial. "Oh, it's very true. It was the kidnapping of Princess Rayah and Princess Kylie. Lyra was with them."
"She was nine?" Rory asked eagerly.
"No, love," Gessa corrected, pride blooming in her eyes. "She was eight."
Vivian leaned closer, voice dipping into storytelling cadence. "They were playing near the fountain—laughing, splashing, chasing each other—when shadows moved behind the hedges."
"Four men," Gessa said. "Paid to kidnap the princesses."
Rory's breath caught.
"Lyra noticed first." Vivian gestured with her hands, painting the scene. "The crunch of gravel. The sway of lantern light. The wrong kind of silence."
"And when two men lunged at her," Gessa said, "she grabbed the nearest thing—a garden stick."
Rory blinked. "A stick?"
"Yes," Gessa said proudly. "And she used it like she was born with it. She struck their knees, their shins—small but painful targets. She ducked behind the fountain, water splashing everywhere, and the men tripped over their own feet trying to corner her."
Vivian laughed softly. "She vaulted over a bench so gracefully I thought she'd practiced it for years. A lantern swung over her head, and she sidestepped it by inches, pivoting on wet stone as if she weren't eight years old in a soaked dress."
Rory's eyes sparkled with amazement.
"By the time guards arrived," Gessa said, pride thick in her tone, "the men were frustrated, bruised, tangled in their own failed attempts. And the princesses? Safe. Because one child refused to be helpless."
Selene rested a gentle hand on Rory's shoulder. "You have that courage too. But courage needs guidance. Practice. Focus. Let each swing mean something."
Rory took a deep breath, stood straight, and returned to practicing—each movement now fueled not only by determination, but inspiration.
The wooden sword no longer felt like a toy.
It felt like a promise.
A path.
A beginning.
And the world around him—the manor grounds, the training field, the forest beyond—was full of possibilities waiting to be shaped, just as Lyra Grey had shaped her destiny years ago with nothing more than a stick, a spark of courage, and the will to survive.