Chapter 31 Lyria
LYRIA
Orthani looks untouched.
That’s the first thing that hits me as we pass through the outer gates—not relief, not safety, just the wrongness of it pressing in from every direction.
The stone walls rise clean and pale against the sky, unmarred by smoke, untouched by the chaos we left behind, and the air feels different here, sharper somehow, like it’s been filtered and polished until nothing real can cling to it.
It smells faintly of metal and cold stone, sterile in a way that makes my lungs hesitate before accepting it, like my body expects ash and blood and finds neither.
“They didn’t feel any of it,” I mutter, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
Verr hears me anyway.
“They felt it,” he says, his voice low, his gaze fixed forward as we move deeper into the city. “They chose not to respond.”
“That’s worse.”
He doesn’t argue, and the silence that follows settles heavier than any disagreement would have.
The streets don’t slow for us. People move as they always do—measured, composed, their eyes flicking toward us just long enough to register the disruption before sliding away again.
Even covered in dirt and dried blood, even with the weight of what we just came through clinging to us like something that should be visible, we’re just another disturbance passing through a system that doesn’t acknowledge it.
It makes my skin itch.
“Is this it?” I ask, glancing at him as we pass another row of identical stone structures, their surfaces too smooth, too deliberate. “We just walk back in and everything goes quiet again?”
“For them.”
“And for you?”
That makes him look at me, not long, not openly, just enough that I catch the shift in his expression before it locks back into place.
“No.”
Something in my chest loosens at that, just slightly, enough to remind me it’s still there.
We don’t make it far past the inner gate before the space around us tightens, not in a way that would draw attention from anyone not looking for it, but deliberate enough that I feel it immediately.
Movement adjusts at the edges of my vision, boots striking stone in patterns too clean to be incidental, armor catching the light in narrow flashes as figures step into position ahead of us without breaking the illusion of normal flow.
I slow.
Verr doesn’t.
“Keep walking,” he says under his breath, the words barely moving his mouth.
“That’s not—”
“Lyria.”
The way he says my name stops the rest of the sentence before it forms. It isn’t louder, isn’t sharper, but there’s something in it that doesn’t leave room for argument.
So I walk.
Three steps.
That’s all we get.
“Lord Verr.”
The voice comes from ahead, smooth and practiced, carrying just enough authority that no one needs to raise theirs to reinforce it. The soldiers are already in place, already aligned, already closing the space in a way that makes it clear this was decided long before we stepped through the gate.
They block the path without looking like they’re blocking it.
Ahead.
Behind.
To the sides.
I turn my head slightly, tracking the positions, counting without making it obvious.
Too many.
“What is this?” I ask, keeping my voice level even as something colder settles under my ribs.
The man in front—dark armor, unmarked but precise in its construction—doesn’t look at me when he answers.
“Orders.”
Verr stops, and the shift is immediate. It doesn’t ripple outward in a visible way, but the air tightens around him, the kind of stillness that makes everything else feel like it’s waiting for permission to move again.
“Whose?” he asks.
The man meets his gaze without hesitation.
“Your father’s.”
There it is.
“And those orders are?”
The man’s eyes flick to me then, brief and assessing, like I’m already something being processed rather than a person standing in front of him.
“Seize the human.”
The words land clean, without weight, without hesitation, like they’ve already been carried out in his mind.
“Subtle,” I mutter, the edge in my voice sharper than I intend.
The soldiers move.
Fast enough that I don’t get a clean step back before hands close around my arms, iron grip locking in place as they pull me off balance just enough to break my stance.
I twist instinctively, trying to drop my weight and shift leverage, but they’re trained for this—one forces my arm higher, the other steps in closer, driving forward just enough to keep me upright without giving me space to move.
“Easy,” one of them says under his breath, the tone almost casual, like this is routine.
“Get your hands off me,” I snap, jerking against the hold.
They don’t.
Of course they don’t.
“Release her.”
Verr’s voice cuts through the moment, low and precise, and the soldiers hesitate—not enough to stop, but enough that I feel it in the slight shift of pressure on my arms.
The man in front doesn’t move.
“Those are not my orders.”
Verr steps forward, not fast, not aggressive, just enough that the line adjusts in response.
“I am giving you new ones.”
“With respect,” the man replies, and the word lands wrong in his mouth, too smooth, too practiced, “you do not outrank him.”
The silence that follows doesn’t stretch—it locks. I feel it then, not just tension but something more rigid, something structural.
A boundary.
Verr doesn’t move.
Not because he doesn’t want to.
Because he can’t.
That realization settles in fast, sharp enough that it clears everything else out of the way.
I stop struggling.
Not surrender.
Adjustment.
I turn my head, finding him through the line of bodies between us, holding his gaze.
“You knew this might happen,” I say quietly.
His jaw tightens.
“Yes.”
“And you brought me here anyway.”
“I wasn’t leaving you out there.”
“I know.”
That’s not what this is about.
The guards start pulling me back, their grip shifting just enough to guide instead of drag, forcing me into motion whether I want it or not.
“Verr,” I say.
He looks at me fully now, and for the first time since I’ve known him, there’s something in his expression that isn’t contained.
Not fear.
Not panic.
Something sharper.
More dangerous.
“I’ll get you out,” he says, the words low enough that they’re meant only for me.
I believe him.
That’s the problem.
“Then don’t take too long,” I reply, letting the corner of my mouth lift just enough to make it look like I’m not already calculating how much time I actually have.
They pull me away before he can answer.
The cell is colder than I expect, not damp or rotting, just precise in its construction, the stone cut smooth and deliberate, built to hold rather than decay.
The air carries almost no scent, just a faint trace of metal and dust, and the silence settles differently here, not empty but contained, like sound itself has nowhere to go.
They don’t chain me.
They don’t need to.
The door closes with a final, solid sound that doesn’t echo so much as disappear.
I sit on the edge of the narrow bench, flexing my fingers slowly, feeling the lingering pressure where they held me. No restraints. No visible weaknesses. Confidence built into every decision.
The door opens again sooner than I expect, the shift in air subtle but immediate as someone steps inside. I don’t stand. I don’t straighten. I let him take in exactly what he expects to see.
Maltos doesn’t need introduction. His presence fills the space without effort, his gaze moving over me once, measured, not curious, not impressed.
“So,” he says, his tone flat, almost disinterested. “This is what has caused so much disruption.”
I tilt my head slightly.
“I was under the impression that was your son.”
One of the guards shifts.
Maltos doesn’t.
“Careful.”
“Why?” I ask. “You planning to kill me twice?”
A flicker crosses his expression—small, almost imperceptible.
“Bold.”
“Practical.”
He steps closer, stopping just outside reach, not because he’s concerned, but because he doesn’t need to close the distance to control it.
“You understand your position.”
“Perfectly.”
“And yet you continue to speak.”
“I don’t see the benefit in stopping.”
His gaze sharpens slightly, like he’s adjusting his expectations in real time.
“Your execution has been scheduled.”
The words settle into the space between us without weight, without emphasis, which somehow makes them land harder.
“When?” I ask.
“Soon.”
“That’s vague.”
“That’s intentional.”
I nod once.
“Of course it is.”
He studies me for a moment longer, then turns, already finished.
“You have served your purpose,” he says. “Now you will serve as an example.”
“To who?”
He pauses just long enough to acknowledge the question.
“Everyone.”
Then he leaves.
The silence settles again, heavier this time, pressing in from all sides as I sit there and let the shape of it take form. Execution. Soon. No leverage. No authority. No—
I exhale slowly, leaning forward, elbows braced against my knees as my fingers lace together.
No.
That’s not right.
I lift my head slightly, staring at the door, letting the edges of the situation sharpen instead of blur.
They think this is finished.
They think I’m finished.
They think—
A quiet breath leaves me, something that almost turns into a laugh before I catch it.
“Yeah,” I murmur, voice low against the stone. “We’ll see.”