Selene's silver light faded, leaving only its memory—the way a dream dissolves but lingers on the skin. The air was heavy with burnt wood and damp earth, silence pressing like a hand against the chest.
On the pallet, Nia stirred. The fever was gone. Her cheeks were cool, her breaths even, her lashes fluttering. A fragile giggle bubbled from her lips, cutting through the wreckage like a bell.
Livy froze. The hardened lines of her face—the armor she had carried since the village burned—shook and crumbled. She dropped to her knees beside her sister, trembling as though the weight of the world had suddenly slipped free.
Her hand hovered over Nia's forehead, afraid the miracle might break if she touched it. Cold fingertips brushed warm skin. The toddler's tiny hand curled around Selene's thumb, soft and trusting, and in that fragile grip, Livy broke.
Her voice wavered. "Nia… you healed her. Thank you."
For the first time since fire had consumed her home, Livy's shield failed. She sank forward, shoulders shaking, sobs tearing free. She was not a soldier, not a survivor hardened by hate. She was only twelve years old—awed, terrified, clinging to the miracle her sister had become.
Selene knelt, her face softened with kindness. "It's all right," she said gently. "She's going to be fine."
The girl buried her face against her knees. The sound of her sobs—raw and human—filled the room.
Outside, the world had not paused for their miracle. Fires cracked. Soldiers shouted.War and childhood collided in the air, discordant and uneasy.
Then—hooves thundered.
Two riders broke through the ash-hung dusk, soot streaking their faces, urgency carved into their movements. Elise and Ava dismounted and strode toward the command post where Lyra stood overseeing the camp.
"General," Elise said, breath sharp. "The village is empty. No sign of the adults."
Lyra's jaw hardened. "No tracks?"
"None," Ava said. "We overturned the homes. Nothing."
The words struck heavier than steel. An entire village—vanished without trace.
Lyra's gaze swept the camp, the children huddled in soot and ash, their small faces pale. Why had the bandits taken only the adults? And what did it mean for the Kingdom of Oakhart?
Her eyes narrowed on one boy standing apart from the rest. Rory. Rigid posture, defiant gaze. A child of nine who carried himself like a commander.
Lyra approached, boots crunching in the ash. "What happened here?"
Rory met her eyes without flinching. Distrust burned in his stare like a blade catching firelight.
"Where were you?"
The words hung heavy.
Lyra inhaled slowly, steady as stone. "We were fighting for your home. We came as soon as we could."
His jaw trembled, then tightened. "They came a few days ago. They took everyone."
"Who?" Lyra's voice sharpened. "Valerians?"
"The bandits." The word spat like venom.
The children erupted.
"There were so many!" one cried.
"They had swords!" another screamed.
"They burned everything!"
"They took the adults"
Their cries tumbled together—fear, fury, despair. Faces went pale. Hands shook. Lyra saw not just frightened children, but witnesses of horror.
She stood unreadable, though her mind raced. An entire village captured. No tracks. No time.
Compassion ended. Orders began.
She turned sharply, seeking her captain. Rita knelt by a fire, tending coals, but rose as Lyra's shadow fell across her.
"Captain," Lyra said, crisp and commanding. "Send scouts. They won't have gotten far with so many villagers. I want their trail."
Rita saluted. "Yes, General."
Lyra's voice cut again, steady and firm. "Set up the tents—we'll be staying here. And make sure food is distributed to the children first."
Rita's eyes flickered, a shadow of respect crossing her face. She bowed her head. "At once."
The camp shifted, momentum surging. Soldiers gathered gear, saddled mounts, armed themselves for the hunt. Others raised canvas in the ash, hammers ringing against stakes, while ration bags passed into small, trembling hands.
A boy no older than eight clutched a heel of bread as though it might vanish, eyes wide, lips trembling between hunger and disbelief. Nearby, a soldier sharpened his sword on a whetstone, and another child stared at the gleam of steel—horrified, as if the blade might turn on him. A girl sat with her hands pressed to her ears at each hammer-strike of tent stakes. Another toddler giggled, tugging a soldier's sleeve as canvas rose like castle walls.
War and refuge blurred at the edges. Lyra's orders had carried farther than steel.
Lyra stepped into the shadowed house.
Selene knelt by the pallet, Nia giggling in her arms, tiny hands tugging at her sister's hair. Beside them, Livy's smile flickered—the first fragile embers of trust. For a moment, war slipped away. Lyra felt something stir within her chest—a strange ache she thought long buried. Hope.
The floorboards groaned. Livy startled, darting behind Selene, clutching Nia tight.
Lyra crouched, her expression softening. "Livy," she said gently, "keep the magic your big sister showed you a secret."
The girl nodded, whispering, "I will."
Selene lifted her gaze. "The fever's gone. She's well."
Lyra gave one short nod. Not a battlefield victory, but victory nonetheless.
"Seems you've picked up a tail," Selene murmured.
Lyra frowned until Selene tilted her chin toward the window. A small head peeked in—Rory.
Lyra opened the door, and the boy slipped inside. His eyes flew to Nia first, relief softening his face before he masked it again. He straightened, puffing his chest.
"General," he said with surprising gravity. "The lieutenant told me to ask you what to do."
Lyra's brow arched. Typical Shawn, passing responsibility. Yet as she studied the boy's defiance, she felt a flicker of recognition. He reminded her of herself at that age—stubborn, angry at the world, demanding answers no one could give.
Her lips curved faintly. "First, we eat," she said. "Every soldier eats. Isn't that right, Selene?"
Selene nodded, smiling softly at the boy.
"May I hold her?" she asked Livy.
The girl hesitated, then carefully placed Nia into her arms. The toddler nestled against Selene's shoulder, sighing as though the world outside no longer mattered. Livy and Rory watched—wariness fading into something fragile and new: trust.
As they walked toward the food line, Selene brushed past Robin, now chief healer. His eyes widened at Nia's rosy cheeks, the spark in her once-fevered eyes.
"She looks fine?" he asked, incredulous. "But—she was fading only hours ago."
Selene's thoughts raced. Lies pressed at her lips until she chose the simplest. "She just needed rest. The fever broke."
Robin's frown lingered. He knew sickness did not vanish like smoke, not so suddenly. But a soldier called his name. He turned reluctantly, glancing back once more. Relief showed on his face—but so did suspicion.
Selene felt it like a weight. The victory of saving Nia was fragile. Exposed. One question, one careless word, and it could unravel.
Outside, the camp pulsed with new urgency. Soldiers gathered weapons. Scouts vanished into the night. Children ate in wary silence.
And Lyra—Lyra stood at the center of it all, balanced between steel and mercy, already carrying the burden of both.
But her eyes were fixed beyond the camp, into the gathering dark. This was no ordinary raid. She felt it in her bones.
Oakhart itself trembled at the edge of something greater.
And though the children slept, though Selene's light had healed, the question would not leave her:
Why the adults? Why now?
If there was an answer, it was already moving against them—