Chapter 15 Lyria
LYRIA
Istand in the garden, pants around my knees, back still up against the cool stone as I watch him retreat. My mind reels even as my body rejoices. It was far from the romantic visions conjured up by minstrils…but it was somehow better than any fantasy could ever be.
I look down at myself and notice my state. I hike the trousers up and realize I can’t close them--he tore the laces. I have to retreat to my tiny quarters while holding them up with one hand. Thankfully no one accosts me with some random task on the way.
Once I am in the relative safety of my quarters, a giddy laugh escapes my throat. It bubbles up out of nowhere like a freshwater spring.
Then I recover my senses. My duties for the day are not done. I replace my torn garment and return to the garden, sore in all the right ways. That was…that was intense.
Which means I have to try and put it from my mind. If anyone guesses what just happened, we are both in terrible danger.
I do my best to return to my work in the garden as if nothing has happened. I soon discover a problem. The soil gives before it should.
It crumbles too easily beneath my fingers, dry grit sliding into the creases of my skin instead of clinging there. It should hold—dark and damp and alive—but instead it breaks apart like ash, like something already half-dead.
I don’t sigh. I don’t look up. I just shift the bucket on my hip and tip it slowly, letting the water fall in a steady stream at the base of the plant. The scent rises immediately—sharp and earthy, thick with minerals and rot—and for a moment it almost feels like something honest.
“Easy,” I murmur, more to myself than the plant, pressing the soil inward with the heel of my palm. “You’ll take it if you’re patient.”
The water sinks, inch by inch, darkening the ground in uneven patches. I watch the way it disappears, the way the roots drink greedily, and force my hands to keep moving—adjust, smooth, shift, repeat.
Routine.
That’s what keeps you alive.
But the rhythm is off.
It’s subtle, almost nothing, but it hums under my skin like a thread pulled too tight.
The air feels heavier today, thick with heat and something metallic that lingers at the back of my tongue.
Even the garden sounds wrong—the rustle of leaves too sharp, the scrape of tools too loud, voices carrying farther than they should.
I adjust my scarf, dragging it tighter across my hairline, tucking loose strands back into place with fingers still damp from the soil.
Invisible.
That’s the rule.
That’s always been the rule.
“Careful,” Fenrix drawls from somewhere behind me. “You keep whispering sweet things like that, the plants might start expecting it.”
I don’t turn. I don’t give him the satisfaction.
“They’ll be disappointed,” I say, keeping my voice even as I reach for the next plant. “I don’t repeat myself.”
He snorts, boots scuffing against stone as he steps closer. I hear the shift in his weight before I see him in my peripheral vision—too close, leaning just enough to make it feel deliberate.
“You used to talk less,” he says.
I press my fingers into the soil again, deeper this time, grounding myself in the feel of it.
“I used to have less to say.”
“Mm.”
The sound stretches, thoughtful in a way that makes something in my shoulders tighten.
“Before,” he adds.
There it is.
I tilt the bucket, letting the water spill in a slow arc.
“Before what?” I ask.
There’s a pause, long enough that I know he’s watching me instead of the plants.
“Before you got interesting.”
My hand stills.
Just for a breath.
The water overflows slightly, spilling past the roots and pooling along the edge of the row. I correct it immediately, dragging my fingers through the dirt to redirect the flow, smoothing it back into place like it never happened.
Nothing happened.
Nothing changed.
“Don’t know what you mean,” I say.
Fenrix crouches beside me, the movement sudden enough that I feel it more than see it—the shift in air, the heat of him too close at my side. He smells like sweat and leather and something sour that clings to the back of my throat.
“Guards have been walking this line more,” he says quietly. “Slowing down when they pass.”
I keep my eyes on the plant.
“They always do after inspection.”
“Not like this.”
I don’t answer.
Because I’ve felt it too.
The way the air changes when they step near. The way their attention lingers—not openly, not enough to call out, but just enough to be felt. A weight that presses at the edges of everything I do.
Nothing is ever nothing here.
Fenrix nudges a leaf with his finger, not damaging it—just testing, like he’s checking how much pressure it can take before it breaks.
“Did you upset one of your betters?” he asks.
“No.”
“You sure?”
I glance at him then, quick and sharp.
“If I had, I wouldn’t be standing here.”
That earns a quiet huff of laughter.
“Fair,” he says, pushing himself upright again. “Then someone likes you.”
My stomach turns, sudden and sharp.
I look back at the soil.
“That’s worse.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, already stepping away. “It is.”
He lingers just long enough to make sure the words land, then moves on, boots fading into the steady rhythm of the garden.
I exhale slowly, letting the breath slip out through my nose as I reach for the next plant.
Work.
Focus on the work.
The leaves brush against my wrist as I move, cool and slightly waxy, their edges catching faintly against my skin. A breeze stirs through the rows, carrying the scent of water and crushed stems and distant stone heated too long under a dull sky.
Normal.
Everything is normal.
I press my fingers into the soil again.
And for a moment—
His hand.
The memory hits without warning—heat at my throat, the weight of it, the way everything else seemed to still around that single point of contact.
I inhale sharply, forcing the thought down, shoving it aside like it never belonged there in the first place.
No.
No, that wasn’t—
It doesn’t matter what it was.
It doesn’t change anything.
I drag my hand through the dirt harder than necessary, grounding myself in something real, something simple.
This is what matters.
This.
“Lyria.”
Maira’s voice slips between the rows, soft but urgent.
I glance up, spotting her two lines over, half-hidden behind a cluster of deep red blooms. Her hands are still moving—always moving—but her eyes are on me.
“What?” I ask quietly.
She hesitates, glancing toward the far end of the garden before leaning slightly closer.
“You hear about the routes?” she murmurs.
My chest tightens.
“No.”
She swallows.
“They’re saying another one got hit. Supply line. North side.”
The words settle heavy, like stones dropped one by one.
I straighten slightly, brushing my hands against my skirt. The fabric is rough, stiff with dried dirt, the texture grounding even as something cold begins to spread through my chest.
“Bandits?” I ask.
Maira shakes her head.
“No.”
The single word carries more weight than anything else she could have said.
“What then?”
She leans in closer, voice dropping further.
“Orcs.”
The world doesn’t stop.
The garden doesn’t go quiet.
Leaves still rustle. Water still drips. Someone laughs somewhere near the outer rows.
But it all feels distant, like I’m hearing it through something thick and muffled.
“Not just one place,” she continues. “They’ve hit multiple.”
My fingers curl slightly against my palm.
“How far?”
“Far enough they’re changing routes,” she says. “Cutting around some of the outer villages.”
Outer villages.
My mind shifts without permission.
Fields stretching wide and open.
Low wooden fences.
The narrow path that runs between the grain rows back home, worn smooth by years of feet passing over it.
I press my thumb into the edge of my palm.
Stay here.
Stay present.
“That’s why quotas went up,” Maira adds.
I look at her sharply.
“What?”
“They doubled them,” she says. “Courier came through this morning.”
The words hit harder than they should.
Because they don’t just mean more work.
They mean loss.
They mean something isn’t coming in that used to.
They mean something is being taken.
I turn back to the soil, but I’m not seeing it anymore.
I’m seeing movement.
Patterns.
Lines.
Routes I’ve memorized without ever meaning to—carried in pieces, overheard in fragments, stitched together over years of listening and watching and surviving.
North routes feed inward.
Outer villages supply the next layer.
Everything funnels toward Orthani.
And if something starts cutting from the edges—
“They’ll keep moving,” I murmur.
“What?” Maira asks.
I shake my head.
“Nothing.”
But it isn’t nothing.
Because I can feel it now, the shape of it forming behind my eyes. Not clean. Not perfect. But there.
A path.
Not straight—but deliberate.
Advancing.
Testing.
Taking.
My breath tightens.
No.
It could still be scattered.
It could still be—
“Lyria.”
Fenrix again.
I look up, irritation flashing before I can stop it.
“What?”
He jerks his chin toward the perimeter.
“Guards.”
I follow his gaze.
Two of them, walking slower than they should, their attention drifting—not scanning, not routine.
Watching.
The weight of it settles over my shoulders like something physical.
“They’ve been doing that all morning,” he mutters. “Figured you’d want to know.”
I nod once.
“Thanks.”
He studies me for a second.
“You sure you’re fine?”
“Yes.”
He doesn’t look convinced.
But he doesn’t push.
Good.
I don’t have room for that right now.
Because the pattern is still forming.
Still shifting.
I crouch again, dragging my finger through the dirt at the edge of the row without thinking, sketching lines that only make sense to me.
North.
Then inward.
Then—
“Lyria.”
Maira’s voice again, quieter now.
I glance up.
She’s not looking at me.
She’s looking past me.
I follow her gaze.
And everything in me stills.
He stands at the far edge of the garden, near the reflecting pool where the water cuts a dark, unmoving line through the stone. The surface mirrors the sky in dull silver, broken only by the faint ripple of something unseen beneath it.
Verr.
He isn’t moving.
Doesn’t need to.
The space around him feels…held. Like everything near him has been forced into stillness.
Watching.
My breath catches.
Just for a second.
Then I look away.
Immediately.
I bend back over the soil, pressing my fingers into it harder than necessary, letting the grit scrape against my skin.
He’s not looking at you.
Even if he is—
It doesn’t matter.
It can’t.
“Cutter.”
The word is quiet.
Close.
Too close.
I freeze.
Slowly, I lift my head.
He’s there.
Closer than he should be.
Always closer than he should be.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
My pulse stutters, then steadies.
“Working.”
His gaze drops to my hands, to the soil, to the uneven line I’ve carved without realizing it.
Then back to me.
“Are you?”
I straighten slightly.
“Yes.”
A pause.
“You’re distracted.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
The certainty in it grates.
“With respect, my lord,” I say carefully, “I have work to finish.”
His eyes narrow just slightly—not anger, not quite.
Focus.
“Answer the question.”
My fingers press into the dirt again.
“What question?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say.
He studies me.
“Liar.”
The word lands soft, but certain.
“Villages are being attacked,” I say, the words slipping out before I can pull them back.
His expression doesn’t change.
But his attention sharpens.
“Where?”
“North,” I say. “But not just north.”
“How do you know that?”
I glance down at the dirt, at the lines I’ve already drawn.
“I just do.”
“Show me.”
My breath catches.
“This isn’t—”
“Now.”
I swallow, then shift slightly, dragging my finger through the soil again.
“Here,” I say, tracing a rough line. “Outer routes.”
Then another.
“They hit here. Then they cut around.”
My hand moves without thinking now, mapping what I’ve seen in pieces, what I’ve carried in the back of my mind for years.
“And if they keep moving like that…”
I stop.
Because I can see it now.
Clear.
The direction.
The endpoint.
My hand stills.
“Finish it,” he says.
I look up at him.
And this time, I don’t lower my gaze.
“They’ll reach the central plains near the tree line,” I say quietly.
His eyes sharpen.
“And?”
My throat tightens.
The words scrape on the way out.
“My village is there.”
Silence settles between us.Then he turns and sweeps away without another word. All I can do is hope he helps.