The scent of wet earth and copper clung to the air, a grim perfume for the battlefield. General Lyra, her armor scarred from the day's conflict, dismounted her warhorse with a weary grunt. The victory was hers, a decisive blow against the northern insurgents from the Kingdom of Valeria. The Valeria forces had been seizing villages and conquering the smaller kingdom of Avenfield from the east. But the cost of this war against their Kingdom of Oakhart was etched on the faces of her soldiers. They moved like ghosts among the fallen, their expressions hollow as they tended to the wounded and prepared the dead for burial. Lyra felt a familiar ache in her chest, a weight that had nothing to do with her armor and everything to do with the lives lost under her command.
"Any survivors on the ridge, Lieutenant?" she asked, her voice low and steady.
"None that we've found, General," Lieutenant Shawn replied, his gaze sweeping over the smoke-shrouded hills. "Just scattered patrols. We've secured the main camps."
General Lyra nodded, her own eyes tracing the battlefield. From a distance, Shawn watched her. She was only nineteen, four years his junior, yet she commanded with the hardened authority of a veteran. The war was her inheritance, a grim gift from her late father, General Grey. In the ranks, they whispered she was the youngest and most capable general the kingdom had ever seen. But Shawn saw something else in her posture—a profound weariness, the shadow of a life stolen by duty.
As Lyra turned toward her command tent, her eyes caught a flash of white where there should have been only mud and ash. Tucked into a cluster of scorched thorns, a scrap of clean cloth stood out like a beacon.
A flicker of curiosity—a trait often at odds with her disciplined nature—pulled her closer. She pushed aside the thorny branches, revealing a girl amidst the ruin.
She couldn't have been more than eighteen. Her clothes were simple and clean, an unusual sight in this war-torn land. Her hair, the color of moonlight, was tangled with mud and a streak of blood from a fresh cut on her temple. What was most arresting, however, were her eyes.
They were wide, a startling shade of green, but held no fear, no sorrow—no emotion at all. They were like a still pond reflecting a gray sky.
Lyra's hand went to the hilt of her sword, a reflex born of countless battles. "Who are you?" she asked, her voice sharp.
The girl didn't flinch. She simply tilted her head, her expression unblinking. Aside from the cut on her temple, a deep gash on her arm bled sluggishly, but she made no sound. Her lack of response was more unsettling than any scream of terror would have been.
"I asked you a question," Lyra pressed, taking another step forward. She crouched down, her armored gloves scraping against the dirt. "Where are your people? Are you from the village?"
Still, the girl offered nothing but that silent, vacant stare. Lyra reached out, her fingers gently touching the girl's shoulder. The girl's skin was cold, but not unnaturally so. She didn't recoil. It was as if she were a statue, a flawless work of art misplaced on a bloody canvas.
A soldier approached cautiously; his rifle raised. "General? Is she a survivor?"
"I don't know," Lyra said, her eyes still locked on the girl. "She's... unresponsive." She looked at the gash on the girl's arm. It was deep, but oddly clean, as though something had cauterized it. "She's hurt, but doesn't seem to feel it."
Lyra made a quick decision. The girl was a puzzle, a stray piece of innocence in a world of war. And for some reason she couldn't name, Lyra couldn't bring herself to leave her behind.
"Help me get her up," she ordered the soldier. "We're taking her back to camp. She's a survivor, and she's coming with us."
As they lifted the girl to her feet, the girl's hand brushed against Lyra's armored forearm. A strange warmth, like sunlight on a cold morning, spread through the General's arm. It was a fleeting sensation, one Lyra almost dismissed as her imagination, but it lingered, a quiet hum in her veins.
The girl's vacant eyes met hers again, and for the first time, a flicker of something—not emotion, but recognition—passed between them. Lyra's gaze softened, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "Do you know your name?"
The girl's lips parted slightly, a soft, raspy sound escaping them. "Sel... Selene."
A small, almost unnoticeable smile touched the corner of the General's mouth, a flash of warmth that made Selene's heart skip a beat. As quickly as it appeared, it was gone, replaced by the stoic mask of command.
Lieutenant Shawn frowned, his gaze flicking from the young Alpha General to the silent girl. "General, with all due respect, we know nothing about her. She could be an insurgent scout, a spy planted to sow discord. You have to be careful." His warning held a deeper weight, a silent communication between two Alphas in a world ruled by scent and instinct.
Lyra held up a hand, a silent command that brooked no argument. "The healers will do what they can. But I'll have her housed in the command tent, where I can keep an eye on her."
"General, that's not wise," Shawn pressed, his voice low and firm. "Her scent… she's an omega."
"And the war is my inheritance," Lyra replied, her tone softening just enough to show her weariness. "This girl... she's a question without an answer. And that's something new." The quiet defensiveness in her voice, the almost protective instinct, was not lost on Shawn.
He fell silent, his frown deepening. He watched as Lyra led the girl, now named Selene, away from the battlefield. The girl walked without a sound, her eyes still vacant, her head tilted slightly as if listening to something no one else could hear.
Lyra felt a new purpose settle in her bones. In a world defined by the brutal certainties of war and the endless cycle of death, this girl was a fragile, quiet mystery she was determined to solve, a blank slate that drew her in with a power she didn't yet understand. about her. She could be an insurgent scout, a spy planted to sow discord. You have to be careful." His warning held a deeper weight, a silent communication between two Alphas in a world ruled by scent and instinct.
Lyra held up a hand, a silent command that brooked no argument. "The healers will do what they can. But I'll have her housed in the command tent, where I can keep an eye on her."
"General, that's not wise," Shawn pressed, his voice low and firm. "Her scent… we can't tell if she's an Omega or even an Alpha. Her pheromones are a blank slate. That's not natural."
"And the war is my inheritance," Lyra replied, her tone softening just enough to show her weariness. "This girl... she's a question without an answer. And that's something new." The quiet defensiveness in her voice, the almost protective instinct, was not lost on Shawn.
He fell silent, his frown deepening. He watched as Lyra led the girl, now named Luna, away from the battlefield. The girl walked without a sound, her eyes still vacant, her head tilted slightly as if listening to something no one else could hear.
Lyra felt a new purpose settle in her bones. In a world defined by the brutal certainties of war and the endless cycle of death, this girl was a fragile, quiet mystery she was determined to solve, a blank slate that drew her in with a power she didn't yet understand.