Chapter 21 Lyria
LYRIA
The air out here doesn’t sit still the way it does inside the estate.
It moves.
Carries things with it—dust, heat, the sharp tang of trampled grass and distant smoke that never quite leaves the back of my throat no matter how slowly I breathe.
The road beneath us isn’t really a road anymore, just a worn strip of packed earth carved out by years of wagons and feet moving in the same direction, and even that is breaking apart in places where too many have passed too quickly.
I walk ahead of them.
Not far.
Just enough.
“You’re drifting too close to the ridge,” I call over my shoulder without stopping. “Pull left. That ground won’t hold under weight.”
There’s a pause behind me—brief, uncertain—then the sound of shifting armor and adjusting steps as the front line corrects. Metal brushes against metal, leather creaks, boots scrape against dirt that’s already too loose.
“Based on what?” one of the soldiers calls.
I don’t turn around.
“Based on the way it’s cracking under your feet,” I answer. “Or you can wait until it gives and find out the hard way.”
That gets a quiet snort from somewhere in the line, but they move anyway.
Good.
I adjust my pace slightly, scanning ahead, letting my eyes track the slope of the land instead of the path itself.
The ground here dips unevenly, subtle shifts that don’t look like anything until you’ve walked them enough times to know where water settles, where roots rot, where weight sinks instead of holds.
“You’ve been through here before?” another voice asks, closer now.
“Not this exact stretch,” I say. “Close enough.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“It’s not supposed to be.”
That earns a low chuckle, the kind that carries more respect than the earlier hesitation did.
Behind me, I can feel Verr’s presence without looking. It’s different from the estate—less contained, more…alert. Like he’s not just existing in the space but actively measuring it, adjusting to something that doesn’t move according to his rules.
Good.
He needs to.
We crest a shallow rise, and the land opens up slightly beyond it, fields stretching out in uneven patches of green and brown where crops were either harvested too early or left to dry out entirely. A fence runs along the far edge, half-collapsed in places, the wood splintered and weathered.
“Stop,” I say, lifting a hand.
The line halts behind me, not instantly, but fast enough.
I crouch slightly, pressing my fingers into the soil near the edge of the path. It’s still warm from the day’s heat, but beneath that, it’s too loose. Recently disturbed.
“Tracks,” someone mutters behind me.
“Yes,” I say, brushing dirt aside to expose the impressions more clearly. “But not ours.”
I trace the edge of one with my finger, feeling the depth of it.
“Too deep for light movement,” I continue. “Too scattered for formation.”
“Orcs?” another asks.
I shake my head, pushing back to my feet.
“No,” I say. “Too disorganized.”
That earns a pause.
“Then what?”
“People running,” I reply.
That lands heavier.
I straighten fully, scanning the horizon again, letting my eyes adjust to the way the land opens and closes in uneven waves.
“They passed through fast,” I add. “Didn’t stop.”
“From what?” someone asks.
I don’t answer that.
Because we already know.
“Keep moving,” Verr says behind me, his voice cutting through the moment cleanly. “Stay tight.”
The line shifts again, more controlled this time.
I move forward without waiting.
We reach the first settlement just past midday.
Or what’s left of it.
The smell hits first—burned wood, damp ash, something sharper underneath it that I don’t let myself name right away. The buildings are still standing for the most part, but the doors are broken in, the windows shattered, and the ground is littered with things people didn’t have time to carry.
“Slow,” I say quietly, lifting a hand again.
This time, they don’t question it.
Good.
I step into the edge of the village, boots crunching lightly over debris, eyes moving constantly—doorways, rooftops, the space between structures where someone could still be hiding.
“Anyone here?” one of the soldiers calls out.
“Don’t shout,” I snap, sharper than I mean to.
He flinches slightly, then nods.
“Right.”
I move toward the nearest structure, pushing the door open slowly with the back of my hand. It creaks, the sound too loud in the stillness, and I pause just inside the threshold, letting my eyes adjust to the dim interior.
Empty.
But not abandoned long.
There’s still warmth in the air, still the faint scent of cooked grain and smoke that hasn’t fully settled.
“They left recently,” I say over my shoulder.
“How can you tell?” the same soldier asks.
I gesture toward the table.
“Food’s still out,” I say. “Not spoiled yet.”
He steps closer, looking, then nods.
“Alright.”
I step back outside, scanning the rest of the settlement.
“They didn’t take everything,” I add. “That means they didn’t plan to leave.”
“So they were forced,” he says.
“Yes.”
A shift moves through the group behind me, subtle but real.
Not fear.
Awareness.
“Where would they go?” Verr asks.
I turn slightly, meeting his gaze.
“Depends how much warning they had,” I say. “If it was sudden, they’ll head for the nearest cover—tree lines, river bends, anything that breaks sight lines.”
“And if it wasn’t?”
“They’ll follow the old routes,” I reply. “The ones not marked anymore but still remembered.”
He studies me for a moment.
“You can track that.”
“Yes.”
He nods once.
“Then we follow them.”
I shake my head.
“Not all of us.”
That gets his attention.
“Explain.”
I step closer to the center of the group, gesturing slightly to the surrounding area.
“If you move the entire force through here, you slow down,” I say. “Too many bodies, too much noise, and you risk missing them entirely if they’ve already split.”
“And your solution?” he asks.
“Small group,” I say. “Fast. Quiet.”
“And the rest?”
I glance back toward the fields.
“They secure what’s left,” I reply. “Set up supply recovery, check structures, make sure nothing here turns into a problem later.”
One of the officers shifts.
“That divides the force.”
“Yes,” I say.
“That’s risky.”
“So is doing nothing,” I reply, meeting his gaze.
He hesitates.
Then looks to Verr.
Of course he does.
I don’t look at Verr.
I don’t need to.
Because if he’s going to trust me—
This is where it starts.
There’s a pause, long enough that I can feel the weight of it settling over the group, pressing in from all sides.
Then—
“Do it,” Verr says.
Simple.
Clean.
Final.
I exhale slowly, not letting the relief show.
“Alright,” I say, turning back to the group. “You—” I point to three of them, quick and decisive. “With me. The rest of you stay here and follow his orders.”
They move without arguing.
That’s new.
We move faster once we leave the main group.
Quieter, too.
The land shifts as we move, fields giving way to uneven patches of brush and low trees, the ground softer here, holding tracks longer if you know where to look.
“Here,” I say, crouching again.
One of them steps closer.
“I don’t see anything.”
“Look closer,” I reply, brushing aside a thin layer of leaves.
There.
Faint.
But there.
“Footprints,” he says.
“Yes.”
“Small.”
“Children,” I say.
That lands differently.
“Keep moving,” I add, pushing back to my feet.
We follow the trail as it bends toward a shallow tree line, the air cooler here, the shade thick enough to dull the heat pressing down from above. The scent shifts too—less ash, more damp earth, crushed leaves underfoot.
“Someone’s here,” I say quietly.
“How do you know?” another asks.
I gesture toward the ground.
“Too quiet,” I reply. “No animals. No movement.”
They go still behind me.
Good.
I step forward slowly, hands open, voice low.
“We’re not here to hurt you,” I call out.
Nothing.
Then—
A rustle.
Small.
Sharp.
“There,” one of the soldiers whispers.
“I see it,” I murmur.
I step closer, careful, controlled.
“It’s alright,” I say, softer now. “You can come out.”
Another pause.
Then—
A figure shifts from behind a cluster of brush.
Thin.
Dirty.
Eyes wide.
A child.
More movement follows.
Others.
Not many.
But enough.
“They’re alive,” one of the soldiers breathes.
“Yes,” I say.
I crouch slightly, lowering myself to their level.
“You came from the village,” I say gently.
The child nods.
“Anyone hurt?”
Another nod.
“Where?”
A small hand lifts, pointing deeper into the trees.
I glance back at the soldiers.
“Go,” I say. “Carefully.”
They move immediately.
No hesitation.
I stay where I am, watching the group slowly emerge from hiding, their movements cautious, uncertain.
“It’s alright,” I repeat, softer now. “You’re safe.”
For now.
When we return, Verr is already moving through the village, issuing orders with a precision that’s sharper than before, more focused, less contained by the structure he came from.
He looks up when I approach.
“What did you find?”
“Survivors,” I say. “Not many. Some injured.”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“Good work,” he says.
I nod once.
Then—
“They’ll need structure,” I add. “Food distribution, shelter organization, someone coordinating movement so they don’t scatter again.”
He watches me.
“Then do it,” he says.