The first thing to burn is always the name.
Liora knew this. She had learned it in the quiet ways fire teaches: not in words, but in ash. Names were paper in a world of kindling, and hers had curled and blackened long ago—left behind in the smoke of every town she passed through, every false trail she carved to keep from being caught.
Now, on the winding road north of the outpost, with the scent of dust and drying grass clinging to her cloak, she walked beside a woman who might have burned kingdoms for less than betrayal. The silence between them wasn't tense, but it wasn't easy either. It was the kind that stretched like thin ice: not quite breaking, but not entirely safe.
Veyra hadn't pressed her again—not yet. But her eyes said more than her mouth ever did.
The morning was crisp, dry. The warhorse's hooves struck the road with steady rhythm, and the fields on either side were gold-tinged and empty, broken only by the occasional stand of dying trees. Their shadows stretched long, thin, like bones under a stretched hide. Autumn was coming. Liora could feel it in her chest the way others might feel a storm in their knees. Liora kept pace beside the beast's flanks, her cloak pulled tighter than necessary, not for the chill, but for the awareness—like being under glass.
Veyra hadn't asked her name. Not yet.
But she would.
"Did you grow up near here?" Veyra asked suddenly, breaking the quiet.
Liora blinked, startled. Then recovered.
"No," she said, gently. "I don't think I've ever stayed in one place long enough to call it home."
"Hm." A pause. "But you're familiar with these roads."
"I make a habit of knowing where I walk." Liora kept her eyes on the path ahead, not looking at Veyra. "Especially when the people around me carry swords."
That earned a faint huff. Maybe amusement. Maybe not.
They fell into silence again. But this time it wasn't ice—it was more like smoke. Thicker. Warmer. A little harder to breathe around.
They passed a broken stone marker near midday—half-buried in weeds, the carving long since weathered smooth. Liora's gaze lingered on it longer than she meant to.
"You recognize that?" Veyra asked, watching her.
Liora shook her head. "Only what it used to mean. Territory lines, maybe. A noble's boundary."
Liora could sense a question brewing in her like a storm over still water. It lingered behind every glance the Alpha gave her—sharp, steady, unflinching. She had a soldier's silence and a predator's patience. Those storm-gray eyes missed nothing, not the way Liora's hand twitched when the wind shifted, not how she always stepped just slightly downwind.
She could feel herself being studied, catalogued.
And gods, it made her feel exposed.
"Do my questions bother you?" Veyra asked suddenly.
Liora startled a little, but masked it in the tilt of her head.
"No," she replied. "Just… lost in thought."
"Hm."
That hum again. Judging. She always did that—chewed on words before she swallowed them.
They walked a little longer in silence, until the warhorse's gait began to slow. Its breath came harder now, foam darkening its bridle, and Liora saw Veyra's jaw tense slightly.
The Alpha exhaled. "We'll stop here."
They turned off the main road onto a low bank shaded by brittle oak trees, their leaves a weary, curling brown. There was no cover from the wind, but the grass was soft enough to sit, and the horse—thankfully—lowered itself with a grateful grunt, chewing slowly at what little greenery remained.
Liora knelt to open her satchel, careful not to reveal the tucked-away bundle of wrapped suppressant tucked beneath the bread. She handed over a half-loaf and a small wedge of salted cheese.
"Not royal fare," she murmured, "but it'll hold."
Veyra took the food with a quiet nod and settled across from her, legs crossed, her posture disciplined even in rest. She chewed slowly, but her eyes remained fixed—not on the horizon, but on Liora.
It made her want to curl in on herself. Or run.
"You handle yourself well," Veyra said, at last. "For a trader."
Liora met her gaze, trying to match its steadiness.
"I've had to learn."
Veyra's head tilted slightly, just enough to suggest thoughtfulness—or suspicion. "You know how to track, barter, treat wounds, and navigate half-hidden trails without once looking at a map. That's more than most traveling merchants."
Liora broke off a piece of bread. Her fingers shook only slightly. "Most traveling merchants don't last long."
"That's true." Veyra leaned forward just enough for her shadow to spill over Liora's knees. "But you're not like most."
The moment hung.
And then, gently, like drawing a blade in slow motion:
"What should I call you?"
Liora's breath caught in her chest.
There it was.
The question wrapped in velvet. Not a demand. Not yet. But Veyra's eyes were so sharp they may as well have cut through her clothes, down to skin and scent and the trembling thing beneath.
For a second, she thought about lying.
But somehow, that felt worse than silence.
Liora stilled. For a long breath, she said nothing. Just stared at the cracked crust of the bread in her hands, and felt her pulse beating hard in her throat.
She could give a lie, a clean, forgettable one. The sort she'd used before.
But something in Veyra's eyes—not just sharpness, but the way she waited—made her want, absurdly, to try something else.
To offer one stone from the wall, and see what the Alpha did with it.
So, slowly, she lifted her gaze and said, low and sure:
"Liora."
She paused.
"My name is Liora."
Veyra's brows lifted a fraction. No smirk, no sharp retort. Just… recognition. As if the sound settled something. Or confirmed it.
She said the name once, under her breath. Not testing it. Holding it.
"…Liora."
The way her voice shaped it—careful, almost reverent—sent something skittering down Liora's spine.
"I wasn't sure if you'd tell me," Veyra said, not accusing. Just honest.
"I wasn't either," Liora answered. The way Veyra's eyes studied her made her believe the other woman could somehow just tell it was the truth. It was… mildly disconcerting.
They sat there, under the brittle oaks and the weight of mutual quiet, with names exchanged and nothing else said.
Yet somehow, everything had shifted.
Liora didn't know whether to be flattered or afraid. She could have lied. She'd lied before, wrapped herself in forgettable names like cloaks.
But Veyra had bled in front of her. Trusted her with silence. And more than that… something in those eyes had demanded a truth in return—not out of power, but parity. She felt a strange sense of relief, as if a weight had been lifted. Sharing her name—a small truth—felt like the first step toward something unspoken.
And then, again, they were on their way.
———
The trail narrowed as they wound through a thicket of tall silver-barked trees, their thin leaves shivering in the midday wind. The sun burned overhead, filtered through the shifting green canopy, and the air hummed with the quiet static of insects, birdsong, and distant wind.
They moved through a corridor of young silver pines, their branches thin and whispering overhead. The sun hung at its highest, spilling light like sifted flour across the forest floor. Each footstep was softened by a thick carpet of fallen needles.
Veyra let out a sharp breath and reined in her warhorse again.
Liora, trailing behind on foot, glanced up. "Frustrated?"
Veyra didn't answer at first. She shifted in the saddle, storm-grey eyes sweeping the trail ahead before flicking briefly toward Liora. "At this pace, we won't make Fort Dalen before dark."
"Not if you keep growling at the path like it'll help you move faster," Liora said lightly, voice threading with dry amusement. "Come down for a moment."
Veyra raised a brow. "Why?"
"Because your horse is starting to mirror your tension, and I'd rather not be kicked in the face." She stepped to the side, hands held in mock surrender. "Humor me."
With a quiet huff, Veyra dismounted, boots crunching into damp loam. Liora stepped forward and took the reins gently, tying them to a nearby tree. Then she gestured for Veyra to follow her a few paces off the road.
They stopped beneath the arm of a sprawling alder. Birds chirped faintly in the distance, and a breeze carried the mingled scents of pine resin, turned earth, and something faintly floral.
"Close your eyes," Liora said. Her voice was softer now, laced with something that wasn't quite command—something older, almost ritual.
Veyra raised an eyebrow.
"Just do it," Liora added, a faint smile tugging at her mouth.
After a beat, Veyra obeyed.
"Now," Liora continued, soft and steady, "tell me what you hear."
"…Wind in the branches. A wren, I think. South-facing."
"Good." Liora shifted slightly closer. "What do you smell?"
Veyra tilted her head. "Damp moss. Horse. You."
Liora hesitated.
"And?" she asked, almost too softly.
Veyra frowned faintly, her eyes still closed.
Liora froze for a heartbeat.
"There's something…" Veyra tilted her head. "It's faint. It's… strange. There's a blankness to it. Honey, but… not only that."
Liora looked away, her voice careful. "Old oil. I use it on my boots. It holds scent."
"Hm."
Silence stretched between them—soft, golden, unthreatening. The wind rustled overhead, and somewhere in the trees, a bird chirped once and fell quiet again.
"What else do you hear?" Liora asked.
"Birds. Leaves. The wind catching the bark." Veyra's voice was low now. "And your heartbeat. It's close."
Liora let herself smile, small and dry. "That's a trick answer. You're standing too near."
Veyra opened her eyes. They were storm-gray, keen as ever—but less guarded. "Maybe I like the view."
Liora looked up, startled. And for a second—just a second—her face cracked open into something unguarded.
Veyra's gaze flicked over her, unreadable. "You're different from most I've met. You carry yourself like someone who's used to hiding in plain sight. But you don't lie easily. I hear the strain of your voice."
Liora breathed in slowly, the words brushing against something close to her chest. She looked back down at her boots.
"I don't like lying," she said. "I only do it when I have to."
Veyra didn't respond. Just watched her. Waiting.
A bird called again in the distance. The wind stirred.
"My full name," she said at last, quietly. "It's Liora Vayne."
There was no flourish to the words—just honesty, pulled from some deep, cautious place. A single stone placed gently between them.
Veyra's expression didn't change right away. But something shifted in her shoulders—an ease, maybe, or a kind of silent respect.
"Vayne," she repeated. "That suits you."
Liora met her eyes again, heat rising faintly in her cheeks. She looked away first.
"You didn't have to tell me," Veyra added.
"I know," Liora murmured.
They stood there a moment longer, in the hush between trees. And when they returned to the path—Veyra walking this time, her warhorse trailing behind—their silence was something different than before.
They continued for a while, their steps easy on the forest path, the pine shadows rippling across their shoulders. Veyra's warhorse clomped behind them, reins loose in Liora's hand.
After a few minutes, Liora glanced sideways at Veyra, her voice gentle.
"Do you feel better now?" she asked.
Veyra arched a brow. "Better?"
"After breathing. Listening. Being still," Liora said, not quite smiling. "The world's louder than it looks, if you let it speak."
Veyra gave a low hum, eyes ahead on the trail. "You sound like a druid."
"I've known a few," Liora replied. "But no. I'm just someone who learned to pay attention."
Veyra was quiet for a moment, then nodded slowly. "I do feel… clearer. Less like I'm about to snap someone's head off."
Liora smirked faintly. "Progress, then."
"Hm." Veyra's lips tugged into something almost amused. "I didn't think meditation was part of a caravan trader's toolkit."
"It isn't," Liora said. "But surviving is. And this helps."
Veyra looked at her again. "You keep surprising me."
"I'll try not to make a habit of it," Liora said, though her voice said otherwise.
They kept walking, and the hush between them softened once more.
The dirt path curved alongside a low embankment, where the trees thinned just enough for sunlight to break through. It lit the road in scattered gold — and caught on the form of a halted cart ahead.
A man in a travel-stained cloak crouched beside a tilted wheel, muttering curses under his breath. One of his horses stood tied off to a nearby tree, restless, while the other remained hitched to the lopsided cart, stamping in agitation.
Veyra's hand instinctively brushed the hilt at her hip, but Liora stopped her with a quiet shake of her head.
"He's just stuck."
"How can you be sure?"
"I know that look," she said, stepping forward. "That's the face of a man about to throw a wrench into a river."
They approached. The man looked up, grizzled beard streaked with gray and sweat clinging to his brow. He scowled at first, then took them in — the rider, the young woman with the reins, the warhorse gleaming with careful power. He straightened, wary.
"You don't look like bandits," he said.
"We're not," Liora replied calmly. "Looks like your wheel's thrown a wedge. Mind if I take a look?"
He blinked, surprised. "You fix wagons?"
"I fix most things," she corrected, already crouching beside the axle. "I travel with caravans. This one just needs reseating — and a little grit."
Veyra watched in silence as Liora moved with confident ease, sleeves pushed up, fingers working the tools tucked into her satchel. In minutes, she had the wheel rebalanced, the axle properly aligned, and the whole thing ready to roll again.
The man scratched his head, impressed. "Well, I'll be. That would've taken me 'til nightfall."
She rose, wiping her hands on her pants. "You headed to Fort Dalen?" She asked, as she fixed her scarf around her neck—it had come loose during her work.
"'Course I am. Market day tomorrow."
"Then maybe we can ride along. She—" Liora gestured to Veyra, "—has a horse that can help pull, and we'll stay out of your way."
He glanced at the muscular warhorse, then at Veyra, then back at the cart. "You fixed the damn thing, least I can do is give you a lift. Toss your things in the back—."
The man blinked again, eyes narrowing faintly. His nostrils flared — once, then again — as he subtly scented the air.
Liora watched the shift.
Veyra noticed it too. Her stance had sharpened, just enough that her presence pressed heavier into the space between them. Dominant, not aggressive — simply… unmistakable.
The man stepped back half a pace. "Didn't realize I was speaking to an Alpha," he muttered, almost apologetic now. "No offense meant."
"None taken," Veyra said coolly, reining in the natural edge to her voice.
He gave Liora a quick glance next — searching, measuring — but frowned, puzzled. She stood quiet, unreadable. No scent to trace. Just a faint neutrality that pricked at instinct and left nothing behind.
Beta, maybe, he must've thought. But he didn't press.
"Hop on," he muttered, clearing his throat. "You'll make better time with me."
Liora nodded her thanks. Veyra dismounted, hands brushing the reins as she clicked her tongue to her horse, guiding it into place. Together, they helped lash it to the front beside the older mare, and soon the cart was creaking forward again — slower, but steady. Definitely faster than walking as they had been.
Inside the back, straw bags and burlap sat in casual disarray. Liora took a spot near the edge, legs dangling off the side. Veyra leaned beside her, arms crossed but relaxed, her storm-colored eyes glancing sideways.
"You were quick," she said, after a while.
Liora looked at her. "Comes from needing to be useful. Caravans don't keep dead weight."
"Still," Veyra muttered. "You didn't have to help him."
"I didn't do it for him," Liora said softly, voice nearly lost under the cart's wooden rattle. "I did it for you. Easier than walking."
Veyra looked at her, something unreadable in her eyes. But she didn't argue.
The cart rolled on, the forest parting slowly around them — and for now, the road ahead seemed a little less lonely.
They would make it to Fort Dalen by tomorrow.