The gates of Fort Dalen loomed ahead, cut from blackstone and iron, thick enough to withstand a siege and towering high enough to blot out the sky behind them. Rows of guards lined the inner archway, and to the right of the path—set directly into the stonework—burned a brazier sunk into the ground. Blue fire hissed above the coals, ringed by etched runes carved into the cobbles: an active scent-testing ward. The fire shimmered faintly. Even from paces away, Liora could feel it prickle against her skin. Magic was highly uncommon these days, but the few things that remained from the old ways had been refurbished for such uses. It was a frigid reminder of the current laws that pushed down on those like her, who wished for nothing but simple freedom.
It pulsed like a living thing, tuned not to emit light or smoke but detect instinct—enchanted to catch the unregistered, the cloaked, the suppressed.
Liora's throat dried. Her grip on her satchel tightened.
"Hold," a voice barked.
A pair of guards stepped forward, steel glinting at their belts, their uniforms sharper than those they'd passed on the road. One of them, a silver-haired Alpha woman with a scar down her jaw and a commander's bearing, approached with a narrowed gaze. She gestured to the warded brazier, its fire low but active.
"Checkpoint inspection," she said curtly. "State names, rank, and intent."
Before Liora could speak—or panic—Veyra moved.
She was pale, her steps stiff from pain, but her voice carried with the weight of command. "Heir Veyra Halvarin. I am wounded, but this fort is mine."
The officer stiffened. Her eyes darted to Veyra's face, then widened. "Heir Halvarin," she said, saluting at once. "We received no word—you weren't expected—"
"I was ambushed," Veyra cut in. "And she"—she motioned toward Liora without hesitation—"is under my protection. The attack would have killed me without her intervention."
The officer's gaze flicked to Liora, then back to the blue-burning brazier. The air around it was hot and dry, unnaturally so, as though trying to strip away pretense and expose instinct. The fire would turn orange when one approached in a suppressed state as Liora was. She dared not move.
"She must pass the scent ward."
Veyra's lip curled, sharp and cold. "No. You will stand down. This woman has risked her life to bring me home. Any challenge to her is a challenge to me. Do I make myself clear?"
Silence snapped into place.
The ward's flames crackled.
Then—reluctantly—the officer stepped aside and raised a hand toward the ward's keeper, a silent, robed Beta standing beyond the flames. A single gesture passed between them. The ward flared once, briefly. The flames guttered. Then dimmed. Permission granted.
Liora followed closely behind as Veyra pushed forward—leaning now on a Beta guard's arm. Neris, the great dark warhorse, clopped forward behind them with practiced calm, her hooves clanging faintly against the fort's inner stone.
They passed the brazier.
Liora held her breath.
No flicker. No shout. No glow of warning.
But as they passed beyond the arch and into the yard of Fort Dalen proper, she felt it: a lingering heat, crawling along the base of her spine.
She could feel that someone in that checkpoint watched her just a second too long.
The inner walls of Fort Dalen closed in with a kind of oppressive order. The outer courtyard was vast, lined with sharpened pikes and stone watchtowers. Soldiers drilled in tight formations under the cold gaze of commanding officers—most of them Betas, some Alphas, all clad in regulation-black with crimson mantling pinned at their shoulders. The air smelled of steel and smoke, and something sharper beneath it: discipline.
No one laughed. No one lingered.
Everything moved in rigid efficiency, like clockwork wound too tight.
Liora stayed close behind Veyra and her assisting guard, keeping her gaze fixed on the cobblestones. It wasn't fear that made her pulse climb—it was instinct. The kind she couldn't name aloud. The kind her pills only numbed, not erased.
She felt the press of eyes. Not just curiosity. Suspicion. Their eyes practically accused aloud:
'What's a ragged Beta doing this close to the Lion's Heir?'
Neris's hooves echoed behind them like punctuation. The massive warhorse walked calmly beside a second guard who had taken her reins. Even injured, Veyra moved with a gravity and grace that turned heads, each stride held like she was dragging the world behind her and not showing it.
They passed beneath another arch, into a long corridor flanked with banners bearing the sigil of the Halvarin line: a golden sun breaking through black cloud. Eventually, the stone corridor narrowed, until the clamor of the outer yard was gone, replaced with the more muted echo of boots on tile. The scent of iron thickened—blood, not just steel. Closer.
The infirmary wing.
Two guards opened a door ahead before Veyra even had to speak. Inside was dim, but clean. Pale firelight glinted off glass jars and polished instruments hanging in neat rows. The faint scent of antiseptic oils hung beneath the lingering trace of cauterized flesh.
"Bring her to the inner room," came a voice, sharp but calm.
A tall woman stood near the back—a Beta, by scent. She wore healer's robes dyed with rank-insignia in grey and blue, her sleeves rolled back, arms scarred from years of work. Her eyes, flint-colored, narrowed as they landed on Veyra.
"Heir Halvarin," she said stiffly. "You weren't due to return for another week."
"I wasn't due to be hunted either," Veyra replied dryly.
The healer didn't flinch. "Lay her down. The cot in the back."
The assisting guard helped Veyra toward the cot—a narrow but well-built bench padded with thick linen and framed by brass rails. She sat heavily, biting back a grimace as she leaned against the stone wall. Her shirt was still blood-stained at the shoulder and side, the wound seeping sluggishly through the wrappings Liora had applied days earlier.
The healer set to work immediately, snapping orders to an assistant. "Bring the salve. Scissors. Boiled cloths, now."
Liora stayed in the doorway, half-shadowed.
But the healer noticed her. "That one—who is she?"
"My rescuer," Veyra answered before Liora could. "She stays."
The woman frowned. "We're dealing with exposed wounds. The fewer bodies—"
"She stays," Veyra repeated, more steel in her tone now. "She found me in the forest, kept me alive, and brought me home across half the valley. She will not be questioned again."
The room went still. The healer exchanged a glance with her assistant, then nodded once and continued.
"Then she washes her hands," she muttered. "And doesn't get in my way."
Liora washed her hands in the brass basin, shoulders hunched against the unfamiliar chill of the infirmary. The water stung—steeped in something sharp and herbal, meant to purge disease. She scrubbed longer than necessary, eyes trained on her own fingers, but her ears stayed fixed on what was happening behind her.
Cloth tore wetly as the healer began unwrapping Veyra's wounds. The sound scraped up Liora's spine. She didn't turn. She'd made a habit of not looking too closely during their journey. The human body had always been an unsteady thing in her hands—especially hers. Especially hers, because touching Veyra had required control. Detachment. It was easier to pretend, when the blood had soaked into tunics and the edges were hidden under armor.
But there was no armor now. Just skin. Just the low hum of Veyra's breath and the occasional catch of pain in her throat.
"Two reopened lacerations," the healer muttered. "And this one—gods, you traveled days with a torn flank like this?"
"She kept me stitched," Veyra said behind her, voice even but edged with weariness. "We couldn't afford to stop."
"Lucky you didn't rot from the inside."
Liora winced, drying her hands too quickly on a linen towel. She could smell blood in the air now. Not fresh—older, thickened—but unmistakable. There was something else too, subtle but overpowering: Veyra's scent, more present than it had ever been outside. The walls of the infirmary trapped it. Contained it. Liora swallowed hard. Her suppressant still held, but... Her skin prickled with heat in her neck, like a wire pulling too tight.
She turned, slowly, as the healer leaned in to apply salve along Veyra's torso. Her coat and shirt had been removed fully now, and Liora caught the outline of her body for the first time.
Broad through the shoulders. Arms corded with lean muscle. Her ribs were wrapped in dusky bruising, the curve of her waist sharp from the strain of travel and blood loss. There was a faint, silvery burn scar across her left side, old and thin. It disappeared under the line of her bandaged hip.
Liora didn't mean to stare. But her eyes held there a moment longer than they should have, mouth dry.
She looked away.
The healer said something about torn stitching. About inflammation. Liora only half-heard it—her head was too full, suddenly. Heat pulsed behind her eyes. This place was too close, too watchful, and the Alpha on the cot too… real.
"Not the work of a bandit," the healer muttered, withdrawing blood-slicked hands from Veyra's side. "This was trained. Precise."
"I noticed," Veyra ground out, knuckles white on the cot's edge. "Probably assassin."
The woman didn't dignify that with more than a grunt, reaching for a jar of dense salve on a nearby tray. Her sleeves were rolled to the elbow, forearms steady as she slathered the balm into the wound. Her silver-streaked hair was pulled tight behind her head, and every movement spoke of efficiency honed by long years in a place where pain came standard.
The door creaked open—no knock, no warning.
Liora turned at the sound, spine taut.
A man entered. Tall, broad-shouldered. His dark uniform bore the muted crest of Fort Dalen's command tier. Dust from travel clung to his boots and collar, but his movements were crisp, his posture that of someone used to being obeyed.
His gaze swept the room, pausing on the healer—then on Veyra—then, longest, on Liora.
There was nothing warm in the look. Calculating. Controlled. Like someone assessing an unknown threat behind neutral eyes.
"Well," he said at last, voice dry. "I was hoping the messenger exaggerated."
"You still breathe too loud," Veyra muttered, not even opening her eyes. "Don't you have lieutenants to terrify?"
"You brought home trouble again," he replied. "Thought you'd outgrown that by now."
She cracked an eye open. "That 'trouble' pulled me out of a ditch."
He gave Liora a second glance. Not long—but sharp. "That so?"
Liora stood a little straighter under the weight of his appraisal. It wasn't suspicion that unnerved her—it was the restraint. The way he didn't ask more, didn't challenge, just stored what he saw like a weapon for later.
"Name?" he asked, voice clipped.
"Liora," she answered simply.
"That it?"
Veyra opened her mouth, but Liora cut in first, calm but firm. "Does it matter?"
A flicker of something passed between the man and Veyra. Then she spoke.
"She's under my protection," Veyra said, tone absolute. "That means she doesn't answer to you."
That earned her a look. Not anger. Not surprise. Something closer to restrained concern. He glanced back at Liora, unreadable.
"And you're just trusting strangers now?"
Veyra arched a brow. "I trust my own judgment. That hasn't changed."
He didn't press the point. Instead, he stepped beside her cot, arms crossed, eyes still trained on her bandaged side. "You shouldn't be off that cot for a week yet."
"Tell that to the council," Veyra muttered.
"They already want a hearing. Circle insists."
"They can wait."
"But they won't," he said, exhaling hard through his nose. Then, to Liora, without looking her way, "What's your part in this, exactly?"
"She saved me," Veyra cut in, voice sharpening. "Dragged me off that trail when I was left for dead; exposed on the road. Bandaged me up pretty good with what was available."
A beat of silence passed.
Finally, the man nodded, almost to himself. "Then she'll stay. For now."
Veyra gave him a look that obviously declared it wasn't up to him to decide either way. Liora bit her inner cheek, uncomfortable with the tension within the room.
The healer straightened from her work at last, muttering, "Saints preserve us, the lot of you are insufferable."
"Still alive, though," Veyra said, with a faint smile.
"Barely. And you won't be for long if you don't stop squirming." The older woman stepped back, brushing bloodied fingers off on her apron. "She's lost more than she's saying. I'll need the binding strips and fresh water before I stitch. Don't let her move."
With that, the healer swept out the room, grumbling under her breath about stubborn Alphas and their overinflated pride.
Once she was gone, the man turned more fully to Veyra. "You look worse than the time we crashed the Mournvale hunt."
Veyra's mouth quirked upward, exhausted but amused. "You're still salty I bagged the elk first."
"You cheated."
"I was faster."
"You tripped me."
"You're still bitter."
Liora blinked. The banter didn't match the severity of the blood-soaked cot. But it made sense now. The way he spoke to her. Familiar, edged, intimate. Not deference, but history.
"He's been my shadow since we were both half this size," Veyra said suddenly, catching Liora's glance. "Kellen. Captain now. But I still make him fetch tea when I feel like it."
Kellen rolled his eyes. "Only because I owe your mother a favor."
Liora tried not to let her expression shift too much. But the realization clicked into place: this wasn't just a subordinate. This was someone raised in Veyra's world. Someone with rank earned through years. And someone who didn't trust her, not even slightly.
He looked at Liora again, slower this time. "If she's under your protection," he said to Veyra, "you'll answer for her."
"I already do," she said without pause.
That was apparently enough for him—for now. He gave a stiff nod and stepped out of the room, boots striking hard on the stone floor.
The silence that followed felt heavy.
Liora exhaled slowly and leaned back against the wall, stealing a glance at Veyra again. Her torso rose and fell with each slow breath, her stomach taut with muscle, bruised in places from the journey and the fight.
Liora's gaze lingered, despite herself. She should look away.
"Don't stare too long," came Veyra's voice, ragged but amused. "You'll make me think I'm interesting."
"I wasn't staring."
"Sure you weren't." Veyra's stormy eyes lazily drifted to hers, a half smirk forming on her lips.
Liora cleared her throat and turned her eyes to the window, though her ears burned.
Outside, the fortress roared with life—horns, steel, commands shouted sharp in the dusk.
Inside, everything had quieted again. Just her. And the woman she couldn't stop saving.
The sky had darkened by the time they left the infirmary, though the fortress never slept.
Oil lamps burned behind thick glass sconces, casting long shadows across the stone corridors. Outside, the wind had risen, tugging at the crimson banners strung between parapets. The clang of weapons, the bark of orders, and the distant lowing of warhorses echoed faintly through the walls. The scent of smoke, steel, and damp wool clung to everything.
Veyra moved slower than she liked, but steadier now—dressed in a fresh dark uniform with her crest stitched across one shoulder. Her hair had been re-braided, a simple style pulled tight against the crown of her head, and though her face was pale and drawn, the pain had receded from her eyes.
Liora followed in silence.
They said nothing as they passed two patrolling guards, who stepped quickly aside and gave short, sharp salutes. Veyra didn't return the gesture, but her posture shifted subtly, spine straighter, chin lifted just slightly. Here, in the heart of the fort, she wore herself differently—less like a wounded survivor and more like what she truly was.
The Lion's Heir.
Liora's boots were quieter on the stone, and though she kept pace, her eyes wandered. She noted the rows of weapon racks, the posted schedules, the harsh regimental signs etched into wooden plaques. No softness here. No traders. No smiling tavern keepers or old women selling silks from weatherworn boxes. Just rules and ranks and eyes that always watched.
They stopped outside a plain oak door in a quiet side corridor, flanked by two narrow windows that looked into the interior courtyard. The door bore no markings.
"This one, here."
Her voice was firm, but Liora didn't miss the subtle rasp still hiding in it, or the way she held her ribs just a little too carefully. She wanted to offer to help, to ask if the stitches were holding—but Veyra's pride would make a dagger of that kindness.
So she said nothing. Just gave a quiet nod and reached for the latch.
Veyra lingered at the door, fingers drumming once against the iron bolt. The uniform sat stiff across her shoulders—fresh, clean, sharp-lined—but it couldn't erase the weariness behind her eyes. The healer had done her work well, but even now, pain pulled faintly at her mouth with every breath.
"This is mine," she said quietly, nodding to the room behind them. "You'll stay here until the Circle decides what's to be done. It's safer this way. For both of us."
Liora, turned. "You're giving me your room?"
"Temporarily," Veyra replied. "They'll approve quarters for you eventually, once they've finished picking apart my report and figured out how to word their apology for not preventing an attempt on my life."
There was a wryness to her tone, but something colder threaded beneath it.
Liora studied her, hesitant. "Is that where you're going now? To speak with them?"
Veyra gave a short nod. "The Circle's been waiting since the gates opened. Half the fort probably thinks I'm dead, and the rest are wondering who's responsible. I need to make sure the wrong names aren't on their tongues before my blood's even dry."
Liora swallowed. "Do you trust them?"
Veyra hesitated—not long, but long enough for Liora to catch the shift in her eyes. "I trust that they want the kingdom stable," she said at last. "And that they're smart enough to know a wounded heir walking into their chambers means things are worse than they feared."
"And… if one of them was behind it?" Liora asked, voice low.
Veyra's jaw flexed, but she didn't flinch. "Then I'll know. Eventually."
A gust of wind rattled against the narrow window behind Liora. The brazier outside hissed faintly in the courtyard, its flames guttering low. Inside, the air was still.
"You should lock the door after I go," Veyra said, voice returning to the firm, clipped rhythm Liora had first heard on the road. "No one should come near this wing unless they've got orders. If someone does, stay quiet. Don't open it."
Liora nodded once. "And you?"
"I won't knock."
A silence settled between them again, thinner this time. Not strained—but waiting.
Then Veyra glanced to the side, jaw tightening. "I'll try to be back before the hour's too late. If I'm not—don't panic. That just means the council has questions. They always do."
Liora stepped inside and set her pack down carefully. Veyra had turned to leave but she paused again with her hand on the latch. Her voice dropped just slightly.
"I meant what I said earlier. You're under my protection now. That means something in this place." She didn't meet Liora's gaze when she added, "Especially when you have no name of your own to call as a shield."
Liora's throat tightened. The words struck too close. She didn't speak.
Veyra didn't wait for an answer. She slipped out and pulled the door shut behind her.
This time, it locked with a soft click.
And Liora was alone.
The room was larger than she expected—not opulent, but clean and functional. The walls were bare stone, smoothed with age, and the single narrow window let in the last shards of late daylight, slanting gold across the floorboards.
Her fingers hovered at her sides.
She didn't sit right away. Instead, she let her eyes trail across the space—taking in the sharp order of it all. The bed was neatly made, spare but layered in woolen throws, the fabric still smelling faintly of cold iron and pine smoke. A small shelf stood against the far wall, stacked not with weapons but with worn books. Titles stamped in gold leaf, faded spines bent from use.
Liora stepped closer.
The volumes weren't all war tomes, either—though several bore marks of military doctrine and field strategy. Others were softer: Legends of the Western Reach, Collected Fables of the Halrun Coast, a weathered journal marked only with V.H. in ink at the edge. She didn't touch that one.
A worn training sword rested propped in the corner, its leather grip darkened by years of sweat and repetition. A length of dark ribbon had been tied once around the hilt—now frayed at the end. Ritual or remembrance, she couldn't tell.
Near the window sat a small table cluttered with correspondence, folded cloth, and a half-mended leather glove. A brass inkpot stood beside a capped quill. The most curious thing was a small wooden figure tucked just behind them—a lion, no larger than her palm, carved with clear care. The edges had been smoothed by touch over time.
Liora picked it up.
It was heavier than it looked. Worn along the mane and haunches, as if held often in thought.
She set it back gently.
Her thoughts buzzed uneasily, drawn to the contradictions in the room—rigid control seated beside quiet sentiment. The kind of order born from discipline… and the softness born of loneliness.
The sound of footsteps in the hall startled her. She flinched, instinct tight in her throat.
But they passed.
She crossed to the bed, sat down, and let her breath ease. The scent of pine was stronger here. Sharp and clean.
- (Veyra's Perspective) -
The hall curved upward in a slow arc, built from pale granite, its lanterns glowing dull against the stone. The guards at the stairwell saluted her in silence—she acknowledged them with a flick of her fingers, but her mind was already ahead.
They'll want answers. And names.
Her bootsteps echoed low against the walls, measured but heavy. The uniform sat stiff across her shoulders, unfamiliar still. She hadn't worn the crest of the Halvarin line since leaving for the border. It felt ceremonial now. Like dressing a wound in gold thread.
She hated ceremony.
The memory of the ambush pressed sharp at the edges of her thoughts—steel in the shadows, the feel of ground vanishing beneath her as she bled into the moss. The eyes that had watched her fall.
Someone knew our route. Knew I'd be alone long enough to strike.
And if that was true, someone had either spoken too freely—or had sent the blade themselves.
She didn't yet know which was worse.
The Circle wouldn't panic. Not openly. But their first instinct would be to cover the wound before the kingdom bled. To smooth it over, bury the truth behind an emblem or a new dispatch.
Not this time, she thought.
As she reached the tall double doors of the chamber, she paused—not to steady herself, but to check the coldness rising in her chest. When she stepped inside, she would not be the wounded heir. She would be the Lion's Heir, unbroken, unreadable.
And she had questions of her own.