The sound of armored boots echoed through the narrow village paths. Dust rose as the royal army marched in, cloaked in crimson and black, bearing the seal of the Dragon Kingdom—sharp wings wrapped around a burning flame.
They came with purpose. Silent. Focused.
Lyra stood at the edge of the well in the village square, a basket of dried herbs in her arms. She didn't flinch. Her back straightened. Her chin lifted.
"They've come," someone whispered behind her, the words barely audible over the clanking steel. Panic rippled across the villagers. Mothers clutched their children. Shopkeepers ducked behind stalls. Doors slammed shut.
But Lyra didn't move. Her green eyes narrowed, her grip tightening on the basket.
The captain of the guard, a towering man with a jagged scar running down his cheek, dismounted from his black steed. "We are looking for the offering," he announced, his voice slicing through the thick air. "She is nineteen, with eyes like green fire. Her name is Lyra."
A hush fell over the crowd.
They didn't know her face. Only her name.
The soldiers began to search, eyes scanning every face, every corner.
Lyra placed her basket gently on the ground. "No need to search," she said, stepping forward, voice calm. "I am Lyra."
Gasps broke out. Children cried. A woman wept and dropped to her knees.
The guards froze, taken aback by her boldness. The captain raised a brow. "You offer yourself freely?"
She nodded once. "Better me than another who might scream or run."
From a shaded doorway, an elderly man muttered, "She's her mother's daughter, that one. The healer's blood runs bold."
Indeed, her mother, Mira, known for her bravery and gentle strength, had served the village for decades. And Lyra—fiercely independent, clever with herbs, and brave in silence—had grown in her shadow.
The captain motioned to his men. "Bind her."
"No," Lyra said firmly. "I will walk."
There was a pause. Then, a nod.
"No," Lyra said firmly. "I will walk."
The captain paused for a breath, studying her. Then he nodded once, signaling his men to stand down.
But as Lyra took her first step forward, a cry broke through the hush.
"Lyra!"
Mira.
Her mother pushed through the crowd with trembling hands, her silver-streaked braid coming loose as she stumbled forward. Her face, usually composed and wise, was crumpled with grief. Tears streaked down her cheeks. "No—please, not my daughter. Please!"
Lyra's steps faltered.
"Mama…" she breathed, her voice cracking. Her eyes filled in an instant, lips trembling. Her brave exterior began to waver.
Mira reached her, falling to her knees and clutching at the hem of her daughter's cloak. "They said it wouldn't be our village again so soon," she sobbed. "They said the last offering bought us five more years! You're all I have, Lyra. Don't go—please, don't let them take you."
Lyra knelt before her mother, wrapping her arms tightly around her, letting the basket of herbs tumble away. "I have to," she whispered. "You know I do."
Their foreheads pressed together, the weight of inevitability between them. Lyra's tears finally fell—hot and silent. Her fingers gripped Mira's tightly, as if holding on would stop time.
Around them, the village watched in hushed silence.
Then, slowly, the whispers began.
"She should go," muttered a woman behind the tailor's stall, arms crossed over her chest. "Better her than my Shira. My girl's just thirteen."
Another voice, brittle and sharp: "One life for the safety of all. It's cruel, but that's the way of things."
"She's the healer's daughter. They think they're better than us anyway," someone sneered. "Let her go. Maybe now the choosing will end."
A cluster of women stood together under the overhang of the bakery, whispering in bitter tones, their eyes darting toward their own daughters peeking from doorways and windows. "We've buried too many girls," one said. "If it must be someone, let it be her. Let it stop here."
"I heard the dragon picks them young now," another murmured. "If she goes, maybe mine will be safe next season."
Their words were not shouted, but they sliced deep—sharp and cold, edged with fear and resentment. The fear of mothers. The cruelty born of desperation. They'd all lived too long in the shadow of the sacrifice, watching daughters vanish into fire and legend.
Lyra heard it all. Every word. Every poisoned breath.
She didn't lift her head from her mother's shoulder, but her heart clenched with the weight of it. They were thankful… not that she was brave—but that she was not their own.
Mira, still clinging to her, shook her head desperately. "You are not a lamb to the slaughter. You are not meant for this. I should've taken you and run."
Lyra gently cupped her mother's face. "And we would've been hunted. I'd rather walk with dignity than live in hiding, Mama. If this stops it… even for a little while…"
She swallowed hard.
"…then maybe it's worth it."
The captain cleared his throat from the side. Impatient. But not unfeeling.
Lyra looked up at him, then back to her mother.
"Let me go," she whispered. "Please."
Mira's sobs quieted into soft, broken breaths. Her hand lingered against her daughter's cheek, then slowly dropped.
With shaking legs, Lyra stood, wiping the tears from her face. The crowd parted again. This time with murmurs of approval, of guilt, of silent relief.
She walked, barefoot and unchained, toward the waiting horse.
The Captain rode beside her on a black horse, his armor clicking with every slow trot. His name was Captain Draven — tall, cold-eyed, and feared by every man, woman, and child from the valleys to the ridge.
Lyra broke the silence first, her voice calm but sharp.
"This won't work, you know."
Draven didn't look at her at first, but when he finally did, his eyes flickered with something unspoken—surprise. She was more beautiful than he expected, and that unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
"The sacrifice," she continued. "It won't please your dragon. It won't save your kingdom."
Still, his gaze stayed locked on her, cold but curious.
"I'm from Miravale," she added bitterly. "We were once your enemies. We still are. You burned our lands, slaughtered our kin. My mother stayed to heal those your wars left broken. And now you take me — as an offering? Do you really think the blood of your enemy will bring you peace?"
Captain Draven's lips curled into a twisted smile. "You talk too much, young woman," he said, voice low. "And you speak of things you don't understand."
"I understand plenty," she shot back.
He laughed—a terrible, dry thing that echoed over the hills.
"Spare your wisdom for the dragon," he said, voice suddenly mocking. "Maybe he'll care about your history lessons more than I do."
His eyes darkened as he added, almost to himself, "But you… you might just be the surprise even I didn't expect."
Lyra's heart clenched, but she held his gaze, unblinking.
The mountain loomed ahead, silent and brooding. Somewhere deep inside, the fire waited.
And with every step closer, the sacrifice—and the danger—grew.