The morning sun spilled over the ruins, its light catching on the broken beams of burnt houses and the scattered tools left behind by lives cut short. In the clearing outside the camp, the sound of Shawn's deep voice carried steadily. He was showing the older children how to string bows, his hands patient, his movements slow so they could mimic. The younger ones clustered nearby, clutching their slingshots uncertainly. Their thin faces were turned toward him with rapt attention—hopeful, determined, hungry for something to hold onto.
Lyra watched from a short distance, arms folded. There was a grim satisfaction in the sight. It was not training for war. It was survival, and survival was enough.
She turned to walk toward her soldiers—already sweating under the strain of combat drills—when a sharp, defiant cry split the air.
"General!"
The voice was high, cracking with emotion. Lyra pivoted, her cloak sweeping the dust at her boots. Rory stormed toward her, his face flushed red, a slingshot dangling from his grip as if it were a dead rat.
"The lieutenant is refusing to teach us combat!" he shouted, his small chest heaving. His eyes blazed like coals, hot and unyielding. "He gave us this—" he thrust the slingshot up like an accusation—"and he won't even teach us swords! He said only the older kids get bows."
He stood before her now, defiance written in every inch of his small frame. The other children paused in their practice, heads turning. Even Shawn had gone still, his bowstring slack in his hands.
Lyra knelt, her armor creaking as she lowered herself to his level. Dust clung to her knees, but she ignored it. Her eyes met his—steady, calm, unflinching.
"Rory," she said, her voice even, "a slingshot is not a toy. It can bring down a bird for the pot. It can defend your home against a beast that comes too close."
"But a sword can defend a family!" Rory shot back instantly, the words bursting from him like sparks from a fire.
He remembered watching his mother, Mara, hammering steel at the forge, sparks flying like fireflies. She had told him once that a blade was only as strong as the hand that wielded it. He wanted that strength. He wanted to be like her—unyielding, sharp, unstoppable.
Lyra did not flinch. "And a sword can get a nine-year-old killed," she replied, her tone edged with iron. "A slingshot is for protecting your people without standing face to face with death. A bow requires strength you don't yet have. That's why the older children are learning it. But you, Rory—you are just as important as they are. Do not mistake distance for weakness."
Rory's shoulders slumped, the fire in his eyes dimming into something harder, deeper. Around them, the children watched in silence, their small faces taut with the same frustration. Lyra saw it clearly—it was not just a boy's disappointment. It was a young leader's rage at the limits placed on him.
"This isn't about being a soldier," she said, softening her tone. "This is about survival. About giving you and your friends the skills to take care of yourselves. It is not a step toward war—it is a step toward peace."
Her words lingered in the air, a plea woven into steel. But Rory's jaw clenched.
"It's not fair!" he burst out, voice thick with emotion. In one swift motion, he yanked a battered, rusted blade from the frayed sheath at his hip. Gasps rippled through the watching children. The sword was little more than scrap metal, jagged at the edge, its hilt wrapped in old cloth. But in Rory's small hands, it gleamed with defiance.
"I know how to fight," he cried, brandishing it before her. "I have a sword! I just need more training!"
His knuckles were white on the hilt, his arms trembling with effort. To him, the blade was proof—proof that he could protect, proof that he mattered. The slingshot at his feet was a child's plaything.
Lyra's gaze never wavered. Slowly, she reached out. Her hand moved with the kind of speed born of battle—swift, precise, unhesitating. Before Rory realized, the blade was gone, plucked from his grasp with almost insulting ease. She let it fall. It hit the dirt with a hollow clatter, raising a puff of dust.
"That is not a sword, Rory," she said, her voice firm but not unkind. She stayed kneeling, her presence steady, immovable. "It is scrap metal. A real sword is heavy. It is sharp. It can take a life in the blink of an eye. And it can just as easily take *yours*."
Her eyes softened, just slightly, as she reached out and rested a hand on his trembling shoulder. "You are a leader. I can see that. But a leader does not protect with a blade alone. A leader uses his mind, his courage, and his heart. A slingshot or a bow—these are tools for survival. They keep you safe. They keep your people fed. They give you strength without placing you in front of a monster with nothing but tin in your hands."
Rory's lip trembled, though his eyes still burned. The watching children were silent, their little world balanced on this moment.
Lyra leaned closer, her voice dropping so only he could hear. "Your desire to protect your friends is what makes you their leader. That fire in you—that is good. But it is my duty to make sure you live long enough to become the leader you are meant to be."
Her words wrapped around him like both a shield and a chain. The rusted blade lay in the dust between them, powerless. In his small fist, the slingshot suddenly felt unbearably light.
Rory looked at her, his defiance trembling against the weight of her truth. For the first time, doubt flickered in his eyes.
And Lyra—seeing that flicker—felt the heaviness of a truth she hated: these children would never have the luxury of being children again.