Chapter 17 Lyria
LYRIA
The garden doesn’t feel the same after my talk with Verr.
It looks the same. The rows are still too precise, the hedges trimmed into shapes no one actually enjoys, the reflecting pool cutting through everything like a blade laid flat against the earth.
But the air sits differently against my skin now, heavier somehow, like something has already started moving and the rest of the world just hasn’t caught up yet.
I push my hands into the soil harder than I need to, feeling the grit press into my palms as I work water down around the roots. The scent rises thick and damp, clinging to the back of my throat, grounding me in something real while my thoughts refuse to settle.
He didn’t say no.
That’s the problem.
If he had, I could’ve left it there. Filed it away with everything else that doesn’t matter because it can’t matter. But he didn’t. He stood there, listened, and didn’t shut it down.
That’s worse.
“Careful,” Fenrix mutters as he passes behind me. “You’re about to drown that one.”
I glance down. The soil is already dark, nearly oversaturated, water pooling just slightly at the edge of the roots.
“Yeah,” I say, pulling the bucket back. “I see it.”
“You usually do,” he says, not slowing. “Today’s off.”
I don’t answer.
Because he’s right.
And I don’t have time to be off.
I smooth the soil back into place with the side of my hand, pressing it down until the surface looks even again, controlled, like nothing underneath it has shifted. My fingers come away coated in dark earth, the texture rough against my skin, grounding in a way everything else isn’t right now.
Think.
Not feel.
Think.
If the attacks keep moving the way I saw them—if that pattern holds—then this isn’t just about my village. It’s about everything feeding into Orthani. Grain, livestock, labor. You cut enough of the outer supply, and eventually the center feels it.
Not immediately.
Not cleanly.
But it comes.
“Lyria.”
Maira again, closer this time.
I look up.
She’s watching me like she knows something’s wrong but doesn’t know what to call it.
“You’re still thinking about it,” she says quietly.
“Yes.”
She glances around, lowering her voice. “You shouldn’t.”
“I don’t get to choose that.”
“You do if you want to survive,” she says.
I let out a quiet breath, pushing back onto my heels.
“Surviving doesn’t mean anything if there’s nothing left to go back to,” I say.
Her expression tightens.
“That’s not how this works,” she replies. “You survive here. That’s it.”
“That’s not it,” I say, sharper than I mean to. “That’s just…what they want it to be.”
She doesn’t answer right away.
Because she knows I’m not wrong.
But knowing that doesn’t change anything for her.
“Just be careful,” she says finally. “You’re drawing attention.”
“I know.”
“Not the kind you can shake off.”
I nod once.
“I know.”
She hesitates, like she wants to say more, then doesn’t. Smart. There are too many ears even when it feels quiet.
She moves off, leaving me alone with the rows again, with the steady repetition of work that’s supposed to make everything else smaller.
It doesn’t.
Because now I can see the shape of it.
And I can’t unsee it.
By the time the light shifts toward late afternoon, I’m still thinking about it. Still mapping it out in pieces, connecting what I’ve heard, what I’ve seen, what I know even if I’ve never been allowed to look at a map long enough to prove it.
And underneath all of it—
Him.
The way he didn’t dismiss it.
The way he listened.
That’s the crack.
That’s where this changes.
I don’t wait for him this time.
I don’t pretend I’m not looking.
I don’t stay in my row and hope the moment comes back around.
I move.
The path toward the manor feels longer than it should, each step measured out of habit even as everything in me wants to move faster. The stone under my feet is still warm from the day’s heat, radiating upward through the thin soles of my shoes, grounding and uncomfortable all at once.
A guard watches me as I approach.
His gaze lingers.
Too long.
“Back to quarters,” he says.
“I have a message for the heir,” I reply.
He snorts.
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Then you can give it to someone who matters.”
I don’t stop walking.
“I already am.”
That earns a sharper look, but I don’t slow, don’t hesitate, don’t give him time to decide if I’m worth stopping.
Because if I stop—
I won’t do this.
And I have to do this.
The corridor is cooler inside, the air dry and still, carrying that faint metallic edge that always lingers in dark elf spaces. My footsteps echo more than I want them to, each one sounding louder than it should.
He’s there.
Of course he is.
Near the same place as before, like he hasn’t moved far since I left him.
Good.
That makes this easier.
“You didn’t answer me,” I say as I approach.
He doesn’t look surprised.
That annoys me more than it should.
“No,” he says.
I stop a few feet in front of him.
“That’s not how this works.”
His brow lifts slightly.
“Isn’t it?”
“No,” I say. “You don’t get to just…think about it while people die.”
His gaze sharpens.
“And you don’t get to dictate my decisions.”
“I’m not dictating,” I snap. “I’m pointing out what happens if you don’t make one.”
He watches me for a moment, quiet, measuring.
“Then explain it,” he says.
I step closer.
“Fine.”
The words come easier now, faster, because I’ve already worked through them in my head a dozen different ways.
“You lose outer villages first,” I say. “Not a big deal, right? They’re small, scattered, easy to replace.”
I gesture vaguely behind me, toward the world beyond the walls.
“But those villages feed the next layer in,” I continue. “Grain, livestock, labor—everything moves inward. You cut enough of that, and the pressure builds.”
He doesn’t interrupt.
Good.
“Then the inner routes start compensating,” I say. “They stretch thinner. Quotas go up. People break.”
His eyes narrow slightly.
“And when that happens?” I press. “You don’t just lose villages. You lose stability.”
“That’s not immediate,” he says.
“No,” I agree. “It’s not. That’s why it works.”
I step closer again, close enough now that I can see the shift in his focus, the way he’s actually tracking what I’m saying instead of waiting for me to finish.
“They’re not trying to win fast,” I say. “They’re trying to weaken everything before it even starts.”
“And you think that matters here,” he says.
“I think you’re already seeing that it does,” I reply.
A pause.
Not empty.
Not dismissive.
Thinking.
“You’re assuming coordination on a scale most orc forces don’t maintain,” he says.
“I’m assuming you already recognized the pattern before I said anything,” I shoot back.
That lands.
I see it.
Subtle—but there.
“Krago isn’t most orc forces,” I add, quieter now. “You know that.”
He doesn’t deny it.
“Then say it,” I push. “Say this isn’t a problem.”
His jaw tightens.
“That’s not what I said.”
“No,” I agree. “It’s just what you’re trying to act like.”
I hold his gaze.
Don’t look away.
Don’t back down.
“You said acting on it has consequences,” I continue. “Fine. So does not acting on it.”
He studies me, slower now.
More deliberate.
“What do you want from me?” he asks.
The question is quieter this time.
Less defensive.
More…real.
“Pick a side,” I say.
His expression doesn’t change.
“You think it’s that simple.”
“I think you’re making it more complicated so you don’t have to choose.”
“That’s not—”
“Yes, it is,” I cut in. “Because if it was just strategy, you’d already be moving.”
Silence stretches between us, but this time it doesn’t feel like distance. It feels like pressure, building, tightening, forcing something to give.
“You see it,” I say, softer now. “You see exactly what they’re doing.”
His eyes stay on mine.
“And you’re still standing here pretending you don’t have a stake in it.”
“I do have a stake,” he says.
“Then act like it.”
“That’s not how power works,” he replies.
“Then what’s the point of having it?” I fire back.
That—
That hits.
I can see it in the way his posture shifts, just slightly, like something in the foundation moved.
I don’t stop.
I can’t.
“Tell me something,” I say, my voice dropping. “If it wasn’t my village…would you still be standing here thinking about it?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Or would you have already decided?”
His gaze sharpens.
“That’s not fair.”
“I don’t care,” I say. “None of this is fair.”
I take another step closer, close enough now that I can feel the heat of him, the subtle shift in the air between us.
“You said this doesn’t benefit you,” I continue. “So I’ll make it simple.”
My chest tightens.
But I don’t stop.
“Do I?”
The words hang there, heavier than anything else I’ve said.
His expression changes.
Not much.
But enough.
“Because if I don’t,” I add, quieter now, “then stop pretending this is about strategy.”
His jaw tightens.
“That’s not—”
“Then what is it?” I press.
He doesn’t answer.
Of course he doesn’t.
Because this isn’t about villages anymore.
Not really.
It’s about him.
About what he chooses to be.
And whether I’m part of that or not.
I hold his gaze.
Wait.
Not backing down.
Not moving.
“You don’t get both,” I say finally. “You don’t get to see what’s happening and do nothing, and then turn around and pretend you’re different from the rest of them.”
That lands harder than anything else.
And still—
He doesn’t walk away.