The road to Oakhart stretched long and dusty, winding across fields that had once been lush with barley and wheat.
Summer heat shimmered in the air, but the fields now bore scars of fire and neglect. Charred posts jutted from the earth like blackened bones, and in the distance, hollow shapes of houses rose against the horizon—familiar, but twisted by flame and ruin.
Lyra rode at the head of the column, her jaw tight. This was ground she knew well. Only weeks before, the Knights of Oakhart had shed blood here, clashing against the Valerians in brutal combat. She remembered the cries of men dying, the crackle of fire racing through dry thatch, the desperate push that had finally driven the enemy from these very fields. That victory had been costly, but necessary.
Now, the village lay in silence.
As they drew closer, unease rippled through the company. The air smelled faintly of ash, though the fires were long dead. Many homes stood only as charred skeletons, their roofs caved in, beams sagging like broken ribs. A few structures remained intact, shutters closed, doors sealed tight, as if their occupants had locked themselves away from the world.
No smoke curled from chimneys. No voices rose in greeting. The fields were empty of farmers, and the streets carried no sound of children's play. Only the creak of leather, the jingle of harness, and the steady rhythm of hooves disturbed the stillness.
Then—splatt! A rotten tomato burst against a knight's shield, sliding down in a foul smear. More missiles followed—eggs, fruit left too long to rot, hurled from unseen hands. One struck a soldier's helmet with a wet crack, another splattered across the dirt at Lyra's horse's hooves.
Her sword flashed free in an instant, instincts honed by years of war. She slashed through one projectile mid-air, sending it spinning into a foul spray. The silence that followed her roar carried across the ruined square like thunder.
"Who dares challenge the Knights of Oakhart?"
Her soldiers answered the cry with the scrape of steel, shields locking into place as a wall of bronze and iron rose behind her. Boots thudded into the dust, disciplined and steady.
The village should have trembled. Enemies should have broken and run.
But nothing came.
No foe emerged. No banners of war unfurled. The silence pressed in once more, thicker now, heavier.
Selene shifted in her saddle, her sharp eyes narrowing as she scanned the jagged outlines of homes. Something tugged at her attention—a flicker of movement between two charred walls. She leaned toward Lyra, voice hushed but urgent.
"Lyra… look."
Lyra followed her gaze. Faces. Small, pale, half-hidden behind blackened timber. Eyes too wide, too hollow.
"They're children," Selene whispered.
At once, Lyra lifted her hand. Swords lowered. Shields dipped. The knights looked to her, awaiting the next command.
"Round them up," she ordered.
The command shattered the fragile silence into chaos. The children scattered in every direction, screams sharp as glass. Thin legs pumped as they darted into alleys, ducked beneath collapsed beams, crawled into holes too small for armored men to follow. Their cries were shrill with terror, echoing through the husks of ruined homes.
The soldiers surged after them, but they were trained for war, not shepherding frightened orphans. Their heavy boots and clattering armor turned every step into thunder. Their gauntleted hands reached out, grasping but clumsy.
The more they pressed forward, the louder the children screamed, scattering like a flock of sparrows driven to flight.
"Gently!" Lyra's voice cut through the bedlam like a whip-crack.
Shawn swung down from his horse, boots hitting the dirt with a thud. Rubbing a hand over his weary face, he barked, "Gently, damn you! Sheathe those blades!"
The knights froze, shame flickering in their eyes as they obeyed. "Use your shields if you must, but don't frighten them further," Shawn growled, his voice heavy with fatigue but brooking no argument. "You'll break them before you catch them."
Selene had already dismounted. She moved among the chaos with quiet grace, the way light pierces a storm. Where the soldiers reached and grasped, she did the opposite. She sank to her knees in the dirt, her posture open, her hands empty. A soft melody rose from her lips—not words, but a tune, low and soothing, like a mother's lullaby.
The children heard it.
The younger ones paused, trembling, their wide eyes fixed on her. Slowly, hesitantly, they edged closer, pulled by something they did not understand but felt in their bones. They did not move toward the soldiers, but toward her.
One by one, hiding places gave up their secrets. A boy emerged from beneath the shell of a cart, a girl crept from a hollow doorway, a toddler crawled from behind a broken fence. Soon, soldiers realized it was not their strength that would gather the children, but Selene's calm.
When the dust settled, more than thirty stood in the square. Some were barely more than babies, clinging to the hands or clothes of siblings. Dirt streaked their faces, and hunger hollowed their cheeks. A girl of twelve held a toddler tightly in her arms, her small body tense as a bowstring, her eyes hard and defiant as they fixed on Lyra.
Lyra approached her slowly, sword lowered but not yet sheathed.
"Why are you here alone?" she asked, her voice soft but firm. "Where are your parents?"
The girl spat at the ground.
Before Lyra could respond, a boy's shout cut through the air. "We won't answer you!"
A boy no older than nine, and a fiery red hair charged, wielding a rusted sword that shook in his grip.
"General?" Ava stepped forward, ready to intervene, but Lyra lifted a hand to stop her.
A faint smile touched her lips. She shifted her stance, letting the boy come. Steel rang as he struck at her, wild and untrained. She parried easily, holding back her true strength. His fury was raw, desperate, but no match for her calm precision. With a twist, she deflected his blade and pushed him back. He stumbled and fell into the dust.
"Rory!" the children cried, rushing to his side.
The boy pushed himself up, dirt streaking his face, eyes blazing. He shoved a smaller child behind him, raised his sword again though his arms trembled. "We have to defend ourselves!" he shouted, voice cracking with fear and fury.
His words lit fire in the others. The older children straightened, forming a rough ring around the younger ones. Their shoulders squared, their eyes hardened, and in that instant, they were no longer scattered or afraid—they were a shield. Fragile, but defiant.
Lyra's eyes lingered on Rory. Small though he was, he carried himself like a commander. This boy was their leader.
"We cannot help you if you refuse to trust us," she said, her voice even.
Rory glared, mistrust burning in his gaze.
Then a cry broke the standoff. "Nia!" The older girl's voice cracked as she looked at the toddler in her arms. The child's face was flushed and damp with sweat, her eyes shut, her body trembling with fever.
Selene stepped forward. Her voice, calm and steady, cut through the tension like a blade through silk. "She's ill. Let me help."
Rory's grip faltered. His sword wavered, fear breaking through his defiance. "Stay back," he whispered, though the strength had gone from his tone.
"I will not harm her," Selene promised, her eyes soft, unthreatening. She stepped past Lyra, past the line of armored men, and knelt before the girl. Carefully, she lifted the child into her arms. "She's burning up," she murmured. Her gaze found the girl's. "Where can I lay her down safely?"
The girl hesitated, torn, then pointed with a trembling hand toward a house untouched by fire. "There."
"Come with me," Selene urged gently. The girl wavered, then followed, her eyes never leaving her sister.
Lyra seized the moment. "Robin," she commanded, her voice low but steady, "see to the sick. Ava, Elise—search the area for any adults." The soldiers scattered to obey, their movements sharper, steadier now under her command.
She turned to Shawn. Their eyes met, and a silent understanding passed between them: they would stand guard here. Whatever the children thought, no harm would come to them now.
Inside the shadowed house, Selene laid the toddler on a clean patch of floor. The girl hovered close, her defiance crumbling into desperation. Selene pressed her palm to the fevered brow.
A voice stirred in her memory, faint and familiar:
Children are innocent. They will see the light in you, not the darkness.
Silver light bloomed from her hand, soft and pure, spilling across the child's small body. The fever melted away. The trembling ceased. The child's breathing deepened, steady and calm.
The girl gasped, her eyes wide. Her mask of defiance shattered into awe.
She did not see a monster. She did not see an enemy.
She saw a miracle.