Chapter 35 Lyria
LYRIA
The first thing I hear isn’t a shout.
It’s the sound of something heavy hitting stone hard enough to crack the rhythm of the hallway outside, a dull, sharp impact that doesn’t belong to the steady cadence of guard rotations I’ve been tracking for hours.
It echoes wrong—too sudden, too final—and then everything after it fractures.
Metal scrapes. Boots shift too fast. A voice starts to rise and cuts off halfway through like it never gets the chance to finish.
I go still before I realize I’ve done it, my hand tightening instinctively where it rests against Verr’s arm, my breath catching just enough that I feel it in my chest instead of hearing it.
“That’s not routine,” I murmur.
Verr is already listening, his posture shifting beside me, not tense in the way it was before, but focused, aligned, the stillness now deliberate instead of lost.
“No,” he says quietly.
The second impact comes closer.
This one I feel through the floor before I hear it fully, a vibration that runs up through the stone and into my boots, followed by the unmistakable sound of a body dragging—not clean, not controlled, but pulled with effort.
Then a shout.
Then another.
Then nothing.
Silence hits harder than the noise.
I step back from Verr without thinking, turning toward the door, my senses stretching outward, catching every small shift in the air, every scrape, every breath that isn’t ours.
“You expecting company?” I ask.
“No,” he replies.
“Good,” I mutter. “Because we’ve got it anyway.”
The corridor outside goes quiet again, but it’s not the same kind of quiet as before. This one is uneven, jagged at the edges, like something just tore through it and left the shape behind.
Then—
Footsteps.
Dragging.
Uneven.
Coming straight for us.
I move closer to the door, not touching it, just close enough to feel the faint shift of air along the edges where stone meets metal. My pulse kicks harder, sharper, not fear, not yet—anticipation.
“Whoever that is,” I say under my breath, “they’re not walking out of here clean.”
The lock scrapes.
Not smoothly.
Not correctly.
Something catches, metal grinding against metal like the mechanism is being forced instead of used.
Then the door jerks.
Stops.
Jerks again.
And slams open hard enough that it hits the wall behind it with a crack that echoes through the cell.
Skot stumbles in.
For half a second, my brain doesn’t process it.
Then it does.
And everything sharpens.
He’s covered in blood.
Not splattered.
Soaked.
Dark and thick across his chest, down one arm, dripping steadily from his fingers where his grip is still wrapped around something—no, not something—a blade, the edge dull with use, the handle slick.
“Skot—” I start, stepping forward instinctively.
“Don’t,” he cuts in, his voice rough, thinner than I’ve ever heard it, but still carrying that same clipped control underneath. “Don’t waste your time.”
He takes another step and almost doesn’t make it, his weight shifting wrong, his knee hitting the stone before he catches himself with one hand against the wall. The impact leaves a smear behind him, dark and immediate.
“Shit,” I breathe, moving to him anyway, catching his arm before he can fall again. “You’re—”
“I know,” he says, breath hitching once, sharp, contained. “I’m aware.”
Verr is already moving, crossing the space between us in two strides, his eyes scanning Skot fast, precise, taking in the damage the same way he reads a battlefield.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Verr says.
Skot huffs something that might be a laugh if it had more air behind it.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “That was the general consensus.”
He shifts his grip, pushing himself upright just enough to stay on his feet, though most of his weight ends up leaning into the wall.
“Keys,” I say, already scanning him, his belt, his hands.
“No keys,” he replies.
“Then how—”
He lifts his hand.
Not the one with the blade.
The other.
The one shaking just slightly under the weight of holding itself up.
Magic gathers there.
Weak.
Flickering.
“Step back,” he says.
Verr doesn’t hesitate. He grabs my arm and pulls me back just enough to clear the space as Skot presses his palm flat against the locking mechanism embedded in the wall beside the door.
The air shifts.
Not violently.
Not like Verr’s.
This is different—tight, focused, like something being forced through a space too small to hold it.
The metal groans.
Then splits.
Not cleanly.
Not evenly.
But enough.
The lock snaps with a sharp crack, fragments falling to the floor as the mechanism gives way entirely.
The door swings wider.
Freedom.
For half a second, none of us move.
Then Skot exhales, the sound thin, almost relieved, and his hand drops away from the wall.
“Done,” he says.
And then he collapses.
Verr catches him before he hits the ground fully, lowering him with more care than I’ve ever seen him use in a fight.
“Stay with me,” Verr says, his voice low, tighter than before.
Skot huffs again, blood slipping at the corner of his mouth as he shifts slightly, trying to breathe around something that isn’t working the way it should.
“I didn’t come all this way to pass out,” he mutters.
“Then don’t,” I snap, dropping to my knees beside him, pressing my hand against his side where the worst of the blood is pooling. It’s warm. Too warm. Slick under my palm.
“Lyria,” he says.
I look at him.
Really look.
And I know.
Not yet.
But close enough that it doesn’t matter.
“No,” I say immediately. “Don’t—”
“Listen,” he cuts in, his hand lifting just enough to grab my wrist, his grip weaker than it should be but still there. “We don’t have time for you to argue with reality.”
My throat tightens, but I swallow it down, forcing my focus back into place.
“Fine,” I say. “Then talk.”
His gaze shifts to Verr, then back to me.
“He’s not ready,” Skot says.
“I know,” I reply.
Verr stiffens slightly beside me.
“That’s not helpful,” he says.
Skot’s mouth twitches.
“Didn’t say it to help you.”
“Then why say it?”
“Because she needs to hear it,” Skot replies, his eyes locking onto mine again.
I don’t look away.
“He’ll default back to force,” Skot continues, his voice rough but steady enough to carry. “When it matters. When it’s close. You don’t let him.”
“I won’t,” I say.
“You make him think,” he adds. “Even if he hates you for it.”
I huff a quiet breath.
“He already does.”
“Good,” Skot mutters. “Then you’re doing it right.”
There’s blood on his lips now, more than before, his breathing shallower with each pull.
“Hey,” I say, sharper now, pressing harder against his side like I can force the damage to stop if I just push enough. “Stay with me.”
“I am,” he says, though it sounds thinner now, further away.
His gaze shifts to Verr again.
“Don’t waste this,” Skot says.
“I won’t,” Verr replies, his voice lower now, steadier than it was before.
Skot studies him for a second, like he’s weighing something, then nods once.
“Good,” he murmurs.
His grip on my wrist loosens.
Then slips.
I feel it before I see it.
“Skot—”
He doesn’t respond.
The silence this time—
Is final.
I stay there for a second longer than I should, my hand still pressed to his side, like if I move too soon it makes it real in a way I can’t undo.
Then I pull back.
Slow.
Because I don’t have time to fall apart.
Not here.
Not now.
I stand, wiping my hand against my pants without looking at it, forcing my breathing back into something usable.
“We move,” I say.
Verr looks at me.
Not questioning.
Not hesitating.
“Yeah,” he says.
I glance once at Skot.
Just once.
“Make it count,” I mutter under my breath.
Then I turn toward the open door.
“Let’s go start a war he actually has to fight.”