The morning sun was sharp and unrelenting, burning away the lingering mist that had clung to the ruins of the village. Dust stirred in lazy spirals as a faint breeze threaded through the clearing where the youngest children had gathered. Their voices were low and restless, a mix of nervous giggles and anxious whispers. Some carried the crude slingshots Lieutenant Shawn had handed out, others still looked at the small wooden weapons as though they were insults compared to the swords and bows they had glimpsed the older children training with.
When Lyra entered the clearing, the children quieted. She did not carry her gleaming sword today, nor the polished shield that marked her authority. Instead, in her hand was a simple, unadorned slingshot. The contrast was striking—a general, armed with nothing more than a child's weapon.
She walked to the center of the circle and crouched down so that her eyes met theirs. Her voice carried easily in the still air.
"This," she said, holding the slingshot up, "is not a toy. It is a tool of precision."
Rory's lip curled as if he could already taste the disappointment. His fists were clenched around the slingshot Shawn had given him, the leather strap stretching slightly under his grip.
Lyra ignored the look. With a swift, practiced motion, she crouched, picked up a smooth stone, and nestled it into the pouch. Her movements were calm, deliberate. She pulled the band back until it trembled with stored energy, then released.
The stone streaked through the air, cutting across the clearing like a whisper of death. A crisp thwack split the silence as it struck an apple that hung high in the branches of a nearby tree. The fruit exploded into fragments, tumbling to the ground in a wet mess.
The children gasped. Even Rory's eyes widened for a heartbeat before narrowing again.
"If used properly and strategically," Lyra said, her tone calm, almost too calm, "this can break bones. It can puncture organs."
"No way." Rory stepped forward, his voice sharp with disbelief. "That can't break bones. You're lying."
A faint murmur rippled through the group.
Lyra didn't argue with words. She picked up her shield—solid oak bound with iron. She held it up for them to see. "A shield is made of wood and iron," she explained evenly. "The bones in your body are not."
Without hesitation, she loaded another stone. But instead of aiming for the broad face of the shield, she angled her wrist and sent the projectile at the rim where the wood met the iron. The stone struck with a savage crack. Splinters leapt from the shield, and the impact left a small but undeniable gash.
The children inhaled sharply.
Still not enough.
Lyra tilted her head upward. Her eyes locked on a small bird perched in the high branches of a burnt tree, nearly hidden in the leaves. Her hand dipped smoothly to the ground for another stone. The motion was so fluid, so effortless, it was as though she had been born with the weapon.
The band snapped.
The bird toppled silently, hitting the dirt with a soft, final thud.
The silence in the clearing was absolute now. Wide eyes, slack jaws, and a collective realization that the "toy" they had scorned was, in truth, as lethal as any blade.
Lyra's voice, steady and instructive, broke the tension. "This is a way to defend your home without having to stand in front of your enemy. It is a way to feed your family when the hunt is hard."
She crouched again, showing them the careful art of grip and angle, of how to choose stones not too heavy, not too light. Her tone was patient, deliberate—less a general commanding troops and more a teacher guiding apprentices.
The children leaned forward, their earlier skepticism giving way to fascination. Some laughed in triumph when their first shots clumsily nicked the bark of trees. A few cheered when stones cracked against marked targets. The slingshots were no longer an insult—they were a chance.
But Rory remained apart.
His arms shook as he aimed, his jaw locked tight. Every stone he released flew wildly, veering into dust or vanishing into the branches above. His anger boiled hotter with each miss. His breathing quickened. His eyes darted, not at the targets, but at Lyra, as if daring her to admit the weapon was useless.
"You'll never hit a target if you can't control your anger," Lyra said, her voice cutting through the sound of snapping bands and bouncing stones. "A calm mind is more important than a steady hand."
Her words struck him harder than any stone.
Rory's frustration burst into fury. His final shot whipped harmlessly into the dirt, and with a strangled cry he hurled the slingshot down.
"This is stupid!" he shouted, his voice cracking. His cheeks burned, and tears threatened, though he refused to let them fall. "I don't care about this stupid toy!"
Before anyone could move, he turned and bolted, disappearing behind the blackened husk of a collapsed house.
The clearing was hushed again. The other children looked between each other and their general, unsure if they should follow or if they would be punished for cheering only moments ago. Their confidence wilted like a candle in the wind.
Lyra watched Rory vanish but did not move to chase him. Her face was unreadable, her jaw set. She turned back to the group, her tone calm, as if Rory's storm had never happened.
"He'll be back," she said. "And when he is, he'll see. For now—again. A calm mind, steady aim."
She bent to retrieve the slingshot Rory had abandoned. Dirt clung to the leather strap, but she brushed it away as carefully as if it were a prized weapon. She fitted another stone, drew, and fired. The crack of impact against a target tree gave the children courage. Slowly, they resumed practice.
The clearing filled again with the hum of effort and the sharp thumps of stone on wood.
From the edge of the camp, Selene appeared. A basket of herbs rested in her arms, the leaves spilling over in bright, green tufts. She had seen Rory run past, his face red with tears and rage, and now her gaze lingered on Lyra as she trained the group with unshakable patience.
"You let him go," Selene said softly when she drew near. There was no accusation in her voice, only quiet observation.
Lyra didn't turn. "I can't force him to listen. His anger is his own to deal with."
Selene's steps brought her closer. "He just wants to be a hero like you," she said. "But he doesn't know how to handle the pain."
Lyra's eyes flicked to the target tree where her last stone had left a fresh gouge. Her shoulders sagged slightly, the mask of the general slipping. "He sees a sword and thinks it's a solution," she murmured. "He doesn't see the price of using it."
A silence stretched between them, filled only by the twang of slingshots and the children's tentative laughter.
Selene reached out and touched Lyra's shoulder, grounding her. When Lyra looked down, her gaze caught on the basket Selene carried.
"These," Selene said, following her eyes, "can help keep a wound from getting infected."
"What are they called?" Lyra asked, tilting her head.
"I don't know." Selene smiled sheepishly. "But I know what they do."
Lyra frowned. "Are you sure they're safe?"
"Yes." Selene lowered her voice, glancing around to make sure no little ears were listening. "Because when I look at plants, if they can heal… they glow."
Lyra's breath caught. "Glow?" Her voice was barely a whisper.
Selene nodded, eyes flicking briefly toward the herbs in her basket. "I discovered it only a few days ago. The brighter the glow, the stronger the effect."
Lyra studied the leaves. To her eyes, they were just plants—green, ordinary, unremarkable. She searched Selene's face instead, and in her eyes she found nothing but quiet certainty.
"I'm glad you're discovering more about your ability," Lyra said at last, her voice gentler than before.
Selene smiled, soft and shy, but it reached her eyes. The expression was so simple, so human, that for a moment Lyra's composure cracked, her heart stumbling in its rhythm. She turned quickly back to the children, hiding the flicker of warmth in her chest.
But even as she resumed her lesson, even as stones snapped through the air, Lyra carried that smile with her.
And somewhere, just beyond the ruins, Rory carried his anger, growing heavier with each step he took.