Chapter 29 Lyria
LYRIA
They don’t tie my hands tight.
That’s the first mistake.
Not loose enough to slip free—not yet—but loose enough that I can feel the slack when I flex my fingers slowly, testing the give in the rope without drawing attention. The fibers bite into my skin when I move too much, rough and damp from use, but they aren’t new, and they aren’t careful.
I catalog that.
The second mistake is where they put me.
Not in the center.
Not fully isolated.
Off to the side of the main structure, where I can hear more than they probably intend me to. Voices carry differently here, slipping through the gaps in the walls and the uneven seams where wood meets hide, and if I tilt my head just right, I can track movement outside by the shift in sound alone.
Boots.
Weight.
Direction.
They think I’m waiting.
I’m not.
I sit with my back against the support beam, wrists bound in front of me, head slightly lowered like I’ve given up trying to follow everything happening around me. My breathing stays steady, slow enough to look calm, even as I let my eyes move through the space without turning my head.
One guard at the entrance.
Another just outside—he shifts every few minutes, scraping his heel against the dirt in the same uneven rhythm.
Further out—
More.
Not random.
Layered.
Krago doesn’t trust the obvious.
Good.
Neither do I.
The flap at the entrance shifts, and the light changes just enough to tell me someone’s stepped in before I hear the boots.
Measured.
Unhurried.
Of course.
I don’t look up immediately.
Let him step closer.
Let him think I’m smaller than I am.
“You’re quiet,” Krago says, his voice carrying that same smooth edge, like he’s always one step removed from whatever’s actually happening.
I lift my head slowly, meeting his gaze without rushing it.
“You expected screaming?” I ask.
One corner of his mouth pulls slightly, not quite a smile.
“I expected resistance,” he says.
“You got it.”
He takes another step closer, stopping just outside my reach, his eyes moving over me in a way that isn’t careless. He’s looking for something—weakness, probably, or the shape of where to apply pressure.
I don’t give him anything obvious.
“You’re not afraid,” he says.
“I am,” I reply, shifting slightly against the beam, letting the rope pull just enough to show it exists without fighting it. “I’m just not stupid enough to show you where it matters.”
That earns a low sound from him, something between amusement and approval.
“Good,” he says. “That makes this more interesting.”
I tilt my head slightly, watching him.
“You think this is interesting,” I say.
“I think you are,” he replies.
I let that sit for half a second, then shrug one shoulder, the movement small but deliberate.
“You’ve got a strange definition of interesting,” I say.
His gaze sharpens just slightly.
“You’re buying time,” he says.
“Of course I am,” I reply, not bothering to deny it.
That pauses him.
Not because I surprised him.
Because I didn’t try to.
“Why?” he asks.
I meet his eyes.
“Because I can,” I say.
The silence stretches just long enough that I can hear movement outside shift slightly—boots repositioning, someone adjusting their stance.
I log it.
Shift change is coming.
Or tension building.
“Let’s try something else,” he says, crouching slightly now, bringing himself closer to my level without closing the distance fully. “Tell me how he’s planning to break this.”
There it is.
I let my expression stay neutral.
“Who?” I ask.
His eyes narrow a fraction.
“Don’t waste my time.”
“I’m not,” I say. “You’re being vague.”
His hand lifts, not striking, just hovering again like he’s considering it.
“Verr,” he says finally, watching me too closely.
I let my gaze shift slightly, just enough to suggest thought without giving him direction.
“He’s not planning to break anything,” I say after a beat.
“No?”
“No,” I reply, leaning my head back lightly against the beam. “He’s planning to hold.”
That’s true.
Which makes it useful.
Krago studies me, his expression tightening slightly, like he’s measuring the shape of the answer instead of the words themselves.
“That’s not enough,” he says.
“It doesn’t have to be,” I reply. “It just has to last.”
He watches me for another second, then stands again, the motion smooth, controlled.
“You’re either very loyal,” he says, “or very clever.”
I tilt my head slightly.
“Why not both?”
That earns another faint shift of his mouth.
“Because one of those breaks faster than the other,” he says.
I don’t answer.
I don’t need to.
Time stretches.
Not cleanly.
Not evenly.
It folds in on itself, marked by footsteps, by voices rising and falling, by the slow tightening of the camp as something builds outside.
I track what I can without moving too much—how often the guards shift, which direction the heaviest movement comes from, where the fires burn hotter and where they dim.
The larger structure to my left gets more traffic.
Command.
Or supply.
The perimeter thins slightly on the far side after each rotation.
Not a weakness.
A pattern.
Patterns can be used.
I shift my wrists again, slow, careful, feeling the rope give just a fraction more than before.
Almost.
Not yet.
The flap moves again.
I don’t look up this time.
I don’t need to.
The steps are wrong.
Heavier.
But not the same.
There’s a hesitation in them—a fraction of a second too long between strides, like whoever’s walking is thinking about where to place their feet instead of just doing it.
Not one of them.
Good.
I keep my head down.
Wait.
The guard at the entrance shifts.
“You’re late,” he grunts.
A pause.
Then—
“Front line ran long,” the voice replies, roughened, irritated.
Familiar.
Not in sound.
In shape.
I don’t react.
Don’t move.
Don’t give it away.
“Krago’s inside,” the guard says.
“I know,” the voice answers, stepping past him.
Closer.
Closer.
I lift my head just enough as he enters.
The disguise is good.
Not perfect.
But good enough that no one looking casually would question it.
I look at him.
Really look.
And there—
A flicker.
Recognition hits sharp and immediate, but I swallow it down before it can reach my face.
Instead, I shift slightly, letting my shoulders sag just a fraction more, like I’m tired, like I’ve given up fighting the position I’m in.
He steps closer.
Not too close.
Not yet.
“You’re holding up,” he says, his tone rough, dismissive.
I tilt my head, squinting at him like I’m trying to place the voice.
“Should I not be?” I ask, letting a hint of irritation slip through.
His gaze locks onto mine for half a second.
Enough.
“Depends,” he says, his voice lower now, just enough that it doesn’t carry. “How much longer you plan on sitting here.”
I shift slightly, letting the rope pull.
“Long enough,” I reply.
His eyes flick to my hands.
Then to the beam behind me.
Then back.
“Good,” he says.
A pause.
Then—
“Because we’re leaving.”
The words settle fast.
Sharp.
Real.
I don’t react.
Not outwardly.
“How?” I ask, keeping my tone even.
He tilts his head slightly, eyes shifting toward the entrance, then back again.
“On your mark,” he says.
I nod once.
Small.
Then I shift my weight.
And pull.
The rope gives just enough.
That’s all I need.
It happens fast.
Not clean.
Not quiet.
The beam behind me cracks as I drive my weight against it, the rope snapping loose just as I lunge forward, catching the nearest guard off-balance before he can react.
He hits the ground hard.
The second one shouts.
Too late.
Verr moves at the same time, the disguise dropping just enough in motion that it doesn’t matter anymore, his blade already in hand as he cuts through the space between us and the exit.
“Move,” he says.
I don’t hesitate.
We’re already running.
The camp erupts behind us.
Shouts.
Movement.
Steel.
“Left,” I say, grabbing his arm just long enough to redirect him as we break past the outer structure. “The rotation gap—there’s a break in the perimeter.”
He adjusts immediately.
No argument.
Good.
We cut through the thinner line just as it starts to close, bodies reacting too late, too slow.
“Go,” he snaps.
We go.
The tree line hits fast, branches snapping underfoot as we push through, the sounds of pursuit rising behind us.
“They’ll follow,” I say.
“I know.”
“Then don’t slow down.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”