Chapter 27 Lyria
LYRIA
The sacks dig into my shoulder harder than they should, the rough weave biting through fabric as I shift the weight higher to keep it from slipping.
It isn’t the grain that’s wrong—it’s the air.
It sits too heavy against my skin, pressing in instead of moving through, the usual sounds of the river flattened into something dull and distant like they’ve been pushed under water.
I slow without meaning to, my boots sinking slightly into the soft ground near the bank before I correct my footing. Ahead of me, Jarek keeps moving, the rope in his hand creaking under tension as he drags the second sack behind him, his breath coming short and irritated.
“Next run we take half,” he mutters, not looking back, his voice edged with strain. He jerks the rope again like the sack has personally offended him. “This is stupid weight for one trip.”
“It’s stupid if we stop,” I reply, keeping my voice even as my eyes move past him to the tree line. “We don’t stop.”
He exhales hard through his nose, shoulders tightening, but he doesn’t argue again. That’s how it works now. We don’t waste time disagreeing when something feels wrong.
And something—
Feels wrong.
I tilt my head slightly, listening without stopping. The river should be louder here. The insects should be constant, filling the space between steps with that familiar hum that never fully disappears.
There’s nothing.
I let the sack slide from my shoulder before I consciously decide to, the weight hitting the ground with a heavy thud that draws both their attention.
“What are you—” Jarek starts, turning halfway toward me.
“Stop,” I say quietly.
The tone does it.
Not loud.
Not sharp.
But enough.
Talen shifts behind me, spear already half-raised, his grip tightening. “What is it?” he asks, his voice lower now, matching mine without thinking.
I don’t answer immediately. I step forward instead, just one pace, angling slightly so I can see more of the tree line without turning my back on the others.
“Listen,” I say.
They do.
I can hear it in the way their breathing changes, the way their bodies still.
A second passes.
Then another.
Jarek’s jaw tightens. “I don’t hear anything.”
“Exactly,” I reply.
That lands.
I see it in the way his shoulders shift, the irritation draining out of him, replaced with something tighter.
“Back toward the open?” Talen asks, already adjusting his stance.
“Yes,” I say, picking up the spear I’d leaned against the sack. “Slow. Don’t turn your back.”
We start to move, not running, not yet, just widening our spacing, stepping away from the tree line instead of toward it.
The first branch snaps before we make three steps.
Too close.
Jarek swears under his breath, dropping the rope entirely as his hand goes to his blade. “Too late,” he mutters.
“Maybe,” I say, shifting my grip on the spear. “Maybe not.”
They step out of the trees like they’ve been there the whole time.
Not rushing.
Not loud.
Just—
There.
Orcs fan out in a loose arc, not tight enough to restrict their own movement, but close enough that there’s no clean path through them. Their weapons stay low, not raised, not threatening yet, which somehow makes it worse.
They’re not here to kill us quickly.
They’re here to take something.
My grip tightens.
“How many?” Jarek murmurs, stepping closer to my left, his voice barely more than breath.
“Enough,” I say.
The ground shifts again.
Heavier this time.
The brush behind them parts with a crack that splinters through the silence, and the minotaur steps through like it doesn’t notice the resistance at all. Its hooves sink into the earth with a wet, heavy sound, its breath loud and slow as it scans us once, then stills.
And then—
Him.
Krago steps into the space between them, not pushing forward, not asserting anything with force. He doesn’t need to. The way everything around him settles is enough.
“Well,” he says, his voice smooth, almost amused as his gaze lands on me. His head tilts slightly, like he’s confirming something he already knew. “That saves me the trouble of searching.”
Jarek shifts his weight, just slightly, his blade coming up a fraction higher. “We fight?” he whispers, not taking his eyes off the line in front of us.
I don’t answer right away.
Because if we fight—
We lose.
“Run,” I say.
He turns his head toward me sharply. “What?”
“Run,” I repeat, louder this time, not looking at him. “Back to the village. Now.”
“And you—”
“I’m right behind you,” I cut in.
That’s a lie.
He knows it.
I know it.
He hesitates anyway.
“Go,” I snap, sharper now, forcing him to move.
That does it.
They break.
Not clean.
Not coordinated.
Just fast.
Boots pounding against the ground as they sprint back the way we came.
The orcs don’t move to follow.
That’s when my stomach drops.
Because that means—
They were never the target.
I shift my stance slightly, angling my body, the spear steady in my hands as Krago closes the distance between us at an unhurried pace.
“You don’t strike me as someone who sends others to run,” he says, his tone almost conversational, like we’re discussing something trivial instead of this.
“I don’t,” I reply.
“Good,” he says, and there’s something in the way his mouth curves that tells me he’s already decided how this ends.
He moves.
I react.
The spear comes up, my step angling to the side to create space, but the strike that hits it isn’t meant to land clean—it comes from the flank, knocking the shaft sideways hard enough to rip it from my grip before I can recover.
I pivot immediately, hand dropping for my knife, but something slams into my back before I can draw it, the force driving me forward and down, air tearing out of my lungs as my knee hits the ground.
I twist, trying to roll through it, but a hand catches my wrist mid-motion, wrenching it back just enough to kill the leverage.
Pain flashes sharp.
Controlled.
“Careful,” Krago says, stepping into my line of sight, his voice softer now, almost thoughtful. He crouches slightly, not close enough to touch, but close enough that I can see the fine details of his expression. “I’d rather not damage something valuable.”
I go still.
Not because I want to.
Because I have to.
My breath comes uneven for a second, my pulse loud in my ears, but I force it down, forcing my focus onto him instead of the position I’m in.
“You’re making a mistake,” I say, my voice steadying as I meet his gaze.
His brow lifts slightly, like he finds that interesting.
“No,” he replies. “I’m correcting one.”
His hand lifts, hovering near my face, not touching, just close enough that I can feel the heat of it.
“You stand out,” he continues, his tone measured now, eyes narrowing slightly as he studies me. “You move people. They listen to you.”
I don’t react.
I don’t give him that.
But something cold settles in my chest.
Because that didn’t come from watching.
That came from being told.
“Who?” I ask before I can stop it, my voice quieter now.
His mouth curves.
“Does it matter?” he says, tilting his head slightly.
Yes.
It does.
I shift my weight slightly, testing the grip on my arm.
No give.
“Let me guess,” I say, forcing a dry edge into my tone. “You think you’ve won something.”
“I don’t think,” he replies, straightening slowly. “I know.”
He takes a step closer, and I can smell it now—iron, sweat, something older underneath it that doesn’t fade.
“You’re useful,” he says.
“For what?” I ask.
His eyes flick briefly toward the direction the others ran.
“Leverage,” he says simply.
My stomach tightens.
Of course.
“You think they’ll trade for me,” I say.
“I know they will,” he replies.
I let out a short breath that almost turns into a laugh.
“You don’t know them,” I say, shaking my head slightly.
“No,” he agrees easily. “But I know him.”
That lands.
Harder than anything else he’s said.
I don’t let it show.
“You’re wrong,” I say.
“Am I?” he asks, watching me too closely.
“Yes.”
He studies me for a moment longer, then nods once, like he’s filed that away for later.
“We’ll see,” he says.
They don’t bind me right away.
They don’t need to.
Not with this many bodies, not with the way they position themselves just close enough to cut off any movement without touching me.
Krago walks beside me as they move, his pace unhurried, his hands clasped loosely behind his back like we’re taking a walk instead of—
This.
“You adjusted quickly,” he says after a moment, glancing at me.
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“There’s always a choice,” he replies.
I glance at him.
“You chose this,” I say.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He looks ahead, then back at me, something faintly amused settling into his expression.
“Because you matter,” he says.
I let that sit.
Then shake my head slightly.
“Not the way you think,” I reply.
He laughs, quiet and genuine in a way that makes it worse.
“We’ll see,” he says again.
When the village comes into view, it’s from the wrong side.
From his side.
The defenses are visible, the movement along the lines, the structure still holding despite the pressure—and then they see me.
The shift is immediate.
Sharp.
Perfect.
Krago lifts his hand slightly, signaling the halt, his eyes never leaving the reaction ahead.
“Now,” he murmurs, almost to himself, the satisfaction in his tone quiet but unmistakable. “This is where it becomes useful.”