Lyra sat at her field desk, a map of the surrounding territory spread out beneath the flickering glow of lantern-light. The canvas walls of the command tent flapped gently in the evening wind, carrying the faint smell of smoke from the ruined village. The cheers of victory in Oakhart—the parades, the clinking of goblets, the King's praise—felt like they belonged to another lifetime. Out here, those echoes were meaningless. Out here, she had children huddled in makeshift shelters, their eyes hollow and their futures uncertain.
"Captain Rita," she said, her voice steady despite the weight pressing at her chest. "Send a message to the King. Inform him our return will be delayed. Draft a report of this incident, but keep the details concise. There's no need to cause a panic in the palace."
"Yes, General." Rita bowed her head and departed, her boots crunching softly against the dirt as the flap fell closed behind her.
Lyra's gaze shifted to Shawn, who stood guard near the entrance, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword out of long habit. "Nothing from the scouts yet?" she asked.
He shook his head. "Not yet. They'll need a couple of days to pin down the bandit camp's location. The forests are thick, and the bastards know how to hide."
Lyra exhaled slowly, her composure faltering for the briefest of moments. Weariness etched itself across her face—the lines of command, the burden of responsibility. "How many children altogether?"
Shawn pulled a small leather-bound notebook from his belt and flipped it open, his handwriting scrawled across the pages. "Twenty-seven in total. Thirteen are under fifteen, ten are under ten, and four are under five." He rubbed at his forehead, the gesture familiar—a tic born of frustration. His voice grew heavier as he continued.
"The older kids want to be trained." A pause. "Not just the older ones. All of them, General. Every single one who can stand without help."
Lyra's brow furrowed. "Trained? To be what? Soldiers?"
Shawn's jaw tightened. "They see us. They see the armor, the blades. They saw how we stood against the Valerians and then the bandits, and they want that strength. They don't want to feel helpless again." His gaze was hard, but underneath it flickered something else—an understanding, perhaps even pity. "Rory's the one driving it. The others look to him."
Lyra rose and crossed to the tent flap, pushing it aside. Outside, the camp was alive with muted activity. A few soldiers moved between the cookfires, handing out bread and water. Children huddled in small groups near the flames, their faces lit by the shifting orange glow.
Her eyes found Rory immediately. The boy was only nine, but he carried himself with a severity that belonged to men three times his age. He still gripped his rusted sword, the blade too large for him, clutched with white-knuckled determination. He spoke with intensity to a small circle of peers, his words sharp and passionate. The others listened with hungry eyes, nodding, clutching sticks as if they were blades. Even in their frailty, there was a fire in them—pain and anger hardened into something fierce.
Not all of them, though. A younger boy sat apart, hugging his knees, tears streaking his soot-stained cheeks. A girl refused to look at Rory at all, clinging instead to a doll salvaged from the ashes, rocking it as though the world outside did not exist. Some wanted to fight. Others wanted only to hide.
Lyra's face was unreadable. The exhaustion that had weighed on her moments ago was gone, replaced by the calculating stillness of a commander. She studied the boy, studied the children, and weighed her options. The way Rory barked orders to the children, his voice too sharp for a child of nine, pulled at something deep in her memory. She had worn that same look once—jaw set, fists clenched, too young to carry the weight she demanded for herself.
At length, she turned to Shawn. "Tomorrow, you'll teach the older ones how to shoot arrows. The younger ones will use slingshots. No swords. No hand-to-hand combat."
Shawn blinked, then frowned. "General, a slingshot is hardly a weapon."
Lyra's gaze was sharp, her tone iron. "These are not military children. But their feelings are valid. If they want to defend themselves, let them—but only from a distance. A slingshot can protect a home. A bow can bring down a rabbit. It's about survival, not war."
For a moment, Shawn simply looked at her. Then he nodded, slowly, as the distinction settled in. "Yes, General. I'll see to it." His voice carried reluctant respect.
He turned and pushed past the tent flap, only to nearly collide with Selene entering. She carried a wooden plate piled high with food—bread, roasted root vegetables, and a small portion of salted meat. Shawn muttered a quick nod and disappeared into the night.
Lyra arched a brow as Selene set the plate on the desk.
"You told Rory the importance of eating," Selene said matter-of-factly, her tone quiet but firm. "Yet you've eaten nothing yourself."
Lyra allowed a small smile, tugging a chair closer to the desk. "I was about to," she said dryly, picking up her fork. She took a bite, and the simple act—warm food, steady chewing—felt like a rare moment of peace in a storm.
Selene eased onto a crate opposite her, folding her hands in her lap. For a time, silence filled the tent, companionable and calm. Only the rustle of canvas and the distant crackle of fires intruded.
Then Selene spoke, her voice soft but edged with unease. "Are you arming the children?"
The fork stilled in Lyra's hand. She lifted her gaze, meeting Selene's eyes. There was no accusation there, but there was concern—a gentle challenge.
"I'm giving them a way to protect themselves," Lyra said at last, her tone calm but resolute. "Not to fight for us. A slingshot is a tool. A bow puts food on the table. They need skills, not scars."
Selene's lips pressed into a line. "But they're still weapons. Once a child holds one… it changes them." Her voice carried quiet sorrow, the weight of truths she had seen too often.
Lyra set the fork down with a soft clatter. Her voice dropped low, fierce. "Their innocence was stolen when the bandits burned their village, stolen and slaughtered their families. Nothing we do will return it. But we can give them something else—a choice. A chance not to be helpless the next time the world takes from them." Her eyes were hard, her tone iron. "I'd rather a child have a slingshot and a scrap of courage than nothing at all."
The tent was silent but for the faint hiss of the lantern. Selene held Lyra's gaze, her own filled with quiet grief. She knew Lyra spoke the truth. But knowing did not make it any easier to accept.
Finally, Lyra picked up her fork again. She took another bite, each motion deliberate, controlled. Her words hung in the air like a blade suspended between them.
Lyra knew Selene wouldn't ever truly agree with her, but she hoped she at least understood the brutal reality of the world they lived in. It wasn't about the weapons, but about survival.
Outside, the children's laughter rose faintly—forced, brittle, but laughter nonetheless. Rory's voice carried above theirs, sharp with determination as he mimicked the bark of a commander giving orders. The sound carried into the night like a promise.
Lyra's expression softened, if only for an instant. The weight of survival pressed heavily on her shoulders, heavier than any armor.
And no matter how she prepared them, these children would never truly be children again.