The camp was alive with whispers long before the lanterns were lit. Soldiers moved between tents with their bowls of stew, voices lowered but animated. Some spoke of the scouts and the endless forest they scoured for signs of the missing villagers. Others glanced toward the children's makeshift training ground, shaking their heads at the sight of little hands clutching bows and slings. But the boldest whispers were not about bandits, or children, or even the King's orders.
They were about the General.
"Every night she eats alone in her tent," one soldier murmured, adjusting his spear as if it were a prop to steady his lie.
"Not alone," another answered with a sly grin. "Selene brings her food. Always Selene. Always at night."
A third snorted. "Careful with that talk. If Shawn hears you, he'll run it straight to Lyra herself. The man's loyal to the bone."
The laughter that followed was nervous, quickly dying away as Captain Rita strode through, her polished boots cutting through dirt and rumor alike. The soldiers fell into stiff silence, their heads bowed to their meals. Rita gave them a single glance—sharp enough to cut—and the gossip dissipated like smoke.
Inside Lyra's command tent, the General herself was too weary for whispers. Maps stretched across her desk, weighed down by stones and ink bottles. Candlelight flickered over her face, highlighting the deep furrow in her brow. She had spent hours retracing the scouts' routes, searching for patterns that refused to emerge.
When Rita entered, standing at sharp attention, Lyra's voice was already tight. "Still no clue?"
"Sorry, General," Rita replied, pointing to a section of the parchment. "The scouts have combed this area. Tomorrow they'll push deeper, toward here. The caves, the ravines."
Lyra's fist came down on the table, rattling the ink bottles. "Captain, we have to move faster! Those bandits couldn't have taken the villagers far, not with so many prisoners in tow." She dragged in a breath, forcing steel back into her spine. "Tell them to widen their net. Every cave, every hollow, every hiding place. I don't care how long it takes."
Rita bowed her head. "Understood, General. I'll head out now."
She turned to leave, but the tent flap lifted again. Shawn slipped inside, his usual half-smirk hanging on tired lips.
"Rita, want to trade?" he asked with a sigh that carried the weight of the day. "You take over training the kids, and I'll comb the woods."
The Captain barked out a laugh, rich and unrestrained. "Not a chance. I'd rather face a dozen bandits than one determined nine-year-old with a slingshot." She threw him a salute and slipped out into the night.
Lyra's expression softened for a fleeting moment. "The children are proving to be a formidable enemy, are they, Lieutenant?"
Shawn scrubbed a hand through his hair. "You have no idea. Rory is relentless. Still thinks the slingshot is an insult. I confiscated a rusty sword he was hiding this morning."
Lyra's faint smile vanished. "Good. We give them tools for survival, not weapons of war. How are the others progressing?"
"The older ones are learning fast. Archery suits them. The younger with the slings… well, they're mostly just putting dents in tree trunks. But they all burn with the same fire, General. They want to fight."
"Then we'll guide that fire," Lyra said firmly. Her hand traced the map though her eyes were far away. "Ensure they're fed and rested. Tomorrow, I'll take over Rory's group myself. He'll need a firmer hand."
Shawn let out a long, dramatic sigh of relief. "General, you have no idea how glad I am to hear that. I was about to lose every last shred of patience. Good luck—you're going to need it."
His posture shifted then, a sly glint lighting his eyes. "Speaking of luck, General, there's a rumor running through camp."
Lyra arched a brow. "I don't indulge in gossip, Shawn."
He leaned against the desk, undeterred. "They say you've been enjoying late-night meals. That someone's been bringing them to you."
Her voice was calm, but her heart lurched. "Selene is just being considerate. Nothing more."
Shawn grinned. "You won't find me that considerate, General. Not with hot food and long evenings. She's special."
Lyra's lips pressed into a thin smile, fighting between irritation and amusement. "That's why you're my lieutenant, not my caretaker. I like talking to her she makes sense, unlike you" she said "and I'd wager you're the one who started these whispers."
"Not me." Shawn lifted his hands in mock surrender, his grin giving him away. "But I'll admit, I don't mind seeing you smile, General. Even if it takes rumors to do it."
The banter was light, but underneath it Lyra felt the crack in her armor. She was supposed to be unshakable, the General who bore no weakness, no attachment. Yet the mere mention of Selene brought a warmth to her chest that battle never could.
"Go bother someone else," she said, shooing him with a wave.
"Fine, fine." Shawn moved toward the exit with exaggerated slowness.
But before he could slip out, the flap opened again. Selene entered, a plate piled with steaming food balanced carefully in her hands. The lantern light painted her face in gold.
"I brought you dinner," she said softly. "You haven't eaten since morning."
Shawn didn't miss his chance—he turned back with a grin that all but shouted *told you so.* He gave a mock salute and disappeared, leaving Lyra and Selene in the hush of candle and flame.
Lyra shook her head, muttering, "He thinks he's so clever." She gestured for Selene to sit.
Selene lowered herself onto a stool. "He worries about you," she said gently.
"He's not the only one," Lyra countered, her voice softer than she intended. She studied Selene a moment, noticing the bandages on her hand. "What happened?"
Selene glanced down, sheepish. "A cut, It was an accident. One of the kids is still learning bandages. I… wanted to be sure it was done properly."
"But couldn't you heal it?" Lyra asked, frown deepening.
"I tried," Selene admitted, her tone quieter now. "But it didn't work. Not this time. Strange, isn't it?" She looked down at her hands, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes.
For a moment, Lyra forgot about scouts and maps and the press of duty. All she saw was Selene's hands—the healer who had always seemed unbreakable, now carrying her own mystery wound. She wanted to reach across the desk, to touch her hand, to reassure her. But the weight of her rank and the watchful camp outside stayed her.
Selene broke the silence by peeling an orange from the bowl. She placed the bright wedge into Lyra's hand. "Eat," she said with a small smile.
Lyra accepted, but as the sweet tang hit her tongue, her thoughts were bitter. The camp whispered of her meals, of Selene, of weakness. And perhaps they were right. But sitting in the warm glow of the lantern, with Selene's quiet presence steadying her, Lyra found she did not care.
For the first time that day, she let herself rest.