As Rory's world spun in a dizzying blur of pain and shame, a new sound cut through the chaos—the thunder of hooves. At first it seemed distant, like a storm rolling across the horizon, but with each heartbeat it grew louder, closer, until it felt as though the very earth trembled beneath the weight.
The orc loomed above him, a grotesque mountain of muscle and filth, its spiked club raised high for the final strike. The sky itself seemed to darken under the shadow of that weapon. Finn, still caught in the monster's massive grip, let out a hoarse scream that tore at the clearing, the kind of scream that clawed into Rory's chest and left him gasping with guilt.
Then—whizz. A sharp hiss of air sliced through the trees. A stone, small and unassuming, fired with impossible precision, slammed into the orc's eye with a wet, sickening thwack.
The beast shrieked, reeling backward as black blood poured between its thick fingers. Its grip on Finn faltered, and the boy tumbled to the dirt with a choked gasp for air, scrambling away on hands and knees.
At the treeline, mounted atop a battle-worn horse, stood General Lyra. Her silhouette was unmistakable—straight-backed, unyielding, a figure carved from iron. In her hand was not her longsword, nor her axe, but the very slingshot Rory had thrown away in arrogance. The contrast was brutal. She, the hardened general, had chosen the child's weapon—and made it lethal. Her expression was stone, carved from wrath and vindication alike. She dropped the weapon to the forest floor, letting it fall like a judgment, and in the same motion drew her sword in one clean, hissing arc of steel.
"Elise, flank it!" she barked, her voice as sharp as the blade she carried.
"Yes, General!" Elise leapt from her horse, landing with practiced grace. She darted to the monster's side, a shadow in motion, her sword already in hand.
"Selene—get to the boys!" Lyra commanded, her words a whipcrack of authority that brooked no hesitation.
Selene obeyed without a second's pause. She slid from behind Lyra, boots thudding softly against the earth as she sprinted across the battlefield, her braid whipping in the wind of her speed. She reached Finn first, dropping to her knees in the dirt to check his ribs, her fingers brushing gently across bruised skin. His breath came ragged, but he was alive. Relief flashed in her eyes before she moved on, quickly, to Rory.
He lay groaning, his face pale, his body a map of bruises and raw pain. Selene's hands hovered for a heartbeat, trembling, then glowed with soft, golden light as she pressed them to his battered chest. "Stay with me," she whispered, her voice low but steady, pouring calm into him with every word. Warmth spread from her palms, soothing fire knitting flesh and easing bone.
Rory's breathing eased, though his pride remained fractured beyond mending. Shame filled the hollows of his chest, heavier even than his bruises. Finn, still trembling, crawled close and reached for his friend's hand. Their fingers locked together, grounding themselves in the glow of Selene's magic.
But above them, the forest thundered with violence.
The orc, half-blinded and enraged, roared with such force that the air itself seemed to tremble. It swung its spiked club in a murderous arc that tore through branches, sending splinters raining down like knives. The earth shuddered each time the weapon smashed against tree trunks, the sound a deafening chorus of wood splintering under brute strength.
General Lyra, however, was no terrified child. She was calm steel. Her longsword flashed like silver lightning, her footwork sharp and precise. Every motion was measured, deliberate, honed by years of war. She darted in and out of the monster's reach, forcing it to swing wild and desperate, making it its own worst enemy. The dense thicket became her ally; with each missed strike, the orc slammed its weapon into bark and root, slowing itself, weakening itself, while Lyra remained untouched.
Elise mirrored her commander like a shadow, weaving in and out, each strike meant not to wound but to distract. Her blade glanced off the orc's armor, sparking harmlessly, but each glancing blow pulled its gaze, split its attention.
"Now!" Lyra roared.
Elise lunged, feinting toward the orc's chest. The beast twisted, its one good eye fixed on her. That single motion left its flank open, just for a heartbeat—but a heartbeat was all Lyra needed.
She lunged, driving her longsword deep into the gap of its crude armor. The steel slid through hide and muscle, sinking until the hilt kissed the beast's side.
The orc shrieked, its roar rattling the clearing, shaking loose leaves from the trees. Its malice shifted entirely to her, its gaze burning with animal hate. With a sudden, vicious sweep, it lashed its club sideways. The massive weapon caught the flat of Lyra's sword with such brutal force that the impact rang like a bell. Pain flared through her arm, her wrist screaming as her grip faltered. For a single, terrifying heartbeat, she was nearly disarmed.
But Lyra was a general. She had fought worse. She had fought longer.
With a grim cry, she wrenched her blade free, stepping back with the grace of a duelist. In the same motion, she slid it back into its sheath, her hand already dropping to the axe at her belt. Where the sword was precision, the axe was finality. It was not a dueling tool—it was an executioner's.
The orc staggered, blinded and furious, spitting black blood. It raised its club again, both hands gripping the weapon for one last, desperate swing.
Lyra moved first. Her arm snapped forward, the axe flashing silver as it cut through the air.
The weapon buried itself deep in the creature's exposed throat.
The roar that followed was not fury but death itself—a guttural, wet gurgle as the monster's lifeblood poured out. The club slipped from its grasp, crashing to the ground. For a long, awful moment, the orc swayed, massive body teetering like a toppled statue. Then it fell, crashing to the earth with a ground-shaking thud that echoed through the forest.
The silence afterward was deafening. Only the ragged breaths of the survivors remained—the panting of Elise as she lowered her bloodied blade, the soft gasp of Selene as her magic drained her strength, the hitching breaths of Rory and Finn as they clung to life and to each other.
General Lyra stood over the corpse, chest heaving, her expression unreadable. Slowly, she retrieved her axe, yanking it free with a spray of black blood. She turned, her gaze sweeping the clearing like a hawk's.
Elise approached, her shoulders tight, her face pale. She looked not at Lyra, but at the fallen orc, her lips pressed into a hard line. "It's dead," she said, though the words sounded more like a prayer than a report.
Lyra nodded once, her silence heavier than any words.
Behind them, Selene still knelt between Rory and Finn, her golden hands glowing as she whispered, "You're safe now. Both of you. Just breathe."
The boys clung to her voice, to the warmth of her healing, their small hands trembling as they gripped each other.
And in the shadows of the trees, General Lyra's silhouette loomed—steel, discipline, and wrath made flesh.