The moment the rescued villagers staggered into the main camp, a wave of hope and chaos erupted. The children, who had been waiting in tense silence, broke formation and sprinted toward the weary, soot-stained crowd.
Livy, held her younger sister Nia tightly as they pushed through the throng. Their frantic search ended the moment they saw a familiar face. "Mama! Papa!" Livy shrieked, tears of pure joy streaming down her face. Their parents, bruised and exhausted, rushed to them, a wordless embrace conveying a thousand nights of fear and worry. Enzo found his older sister, the two of them clinging to each other as if afraid to ever let go.
Amid the happy reunions, the sound of Finn's voice rang out, a desperate, high-pitched plea. "Mom! Mom!" She was a blur of motion, his eyes darting from face to face, a knot of panic tightening in his chest with every stranger he passed until someone tap his shoulder "Mom!" relief washing on his face.
But it was Rory's search that held the most desperation. He ran through the crowd, his small body a whirlwind of anxiety, calling out names that were both a hope and a prayer. "Ma! Mother!" His voice grew hoarse, his head swiveling, his eyes scanning every face, every shadow. The defiant swagger he'd once possessed was gone, replaced by a profound and heavy fear. He saw the joy, the relief, the tears of others, but he didn't see the two faces he was searching for. He found a woman who looked like his mom from a distance and sprinted to her, but it wasn't her. The panic in his heart began to rise, suffocating him with every breath.
The bandit camp was silent, the chaos of battle replaced by the grim order of victory. The fire arrows had burned out, and the air was thick with smoke and the metallic scent of blood. Lyra stood near the main fire pit, her sword wiped clean, the grim reality of the battle etched onto her face. The searing pain from a dagger wound in her arm was a constant, burning reminder of the cost.
When Lyra's team arrived at the main camp, it was then that Lieutenant Shawn approached her, his face a mixture of grim relief and concern. Near the central fire pit, General Lyra stood alone, her armor streaked with soot and sweat. Her sword, cleaned of its immediate bloodstains, still gleamed faintly under the flickering flames. She could feel the throb of the dagger wound in her arm, a constant, fiery reminder of the cost of victory. Every breath brought a subtle ache, every movement a quiet acknowledgment that the fight had left its mark.
Lieutenant Shawn approached quietly, his boots crunching on the ash-strewn ground. Relief softened his usual stoicism, but concern shadowed his eyes as they met Lyra's. He glanced at the darkened sleeve, saturated with blood. "The villagers are settled," he said carefully. "Robin's team is tending to the wounded. I'll handle the rest, General, but you have to let someone look at that."
Lyra's instinct was to refuse, to maintain command at all costs. Her voice caught at the edge of protest, but Shawn's subtle gesture toward the camp's edge froze her mid-motion.
"Besides," he added, a flicker of a smile breaking through the fatigue, "your friend is worried."
Her gaze followed his, landing on Selene, rushing across the camp with purposeful steps. The healer's face was pale in the firelight, lined with worry and the intensity of someone used to carrying responsibility. Her hands clutched her satchel, eyes locked on Lyra, navigating the burned and broken terrain with a determination born of both love and duty.
Seeing Selene approach, Shawn turned to two soldiers nearby. "You two, follow me. We're going to question the captive." He was gone before Lyra could respond, leaving only the faint crackle of fire and the quiet tension of the camp.
Selene knelt before Lyra with the precision of a seasoned professional, her movements fluid and practiced. Her expression was both focused and fearful, and her hands, which had once soothed minor scrapes and bruises, now moved with a decisive urgency. She unclipped her satchel with swift efficiency, revealing the tools of her craft. For the first time since the battle, Lyra allowed herself to become a patient rather than a commander.
Selene's fingers worked expertly, cutting away the soaked, ruined fabric of Lyra's sleeve. Her voice, quiet but laced with frustration, broke through the stillness. "Lyra, you should have come to me immediately. This wound is deep. You could have come to me as soon as you arrived."
Lyra's lips tightened in a thin line. She winced slightly as Selene's hands probed the injury. "There wasn't time. My soldiers needed me," she replied, the rough edge of her voice masking the vulnerability beneath.
Selene sighed, soft and weary, and wordlessly placed her palms over the wound. A gentle, silver light spread outward, illuminating the darkness around them. The warmth seeped into Lyra's muscles and bone, knitting torn flesh with a tingling, almost electric precision. Pain faded to a dull thrum, the wound closing seamlessly and leaving only a faint silver line as proof.
Selene's eyes lifted, a mix of relief and lingering worry etched into every line of her face. "There's a difference between being a General and being a martyr," she whispered, the intimacy of her tone reserved solely for Lyra.
Lyra's eyes met hers for a brief heartbeat before Selene's relief shifted into urgency. "It's healed," she added, her fingers brushing the faint scar as if confirming the magic's work.
"Wrap it anyway," Lyra said, her voice low, insistent—a command meant only for Selene.
Selene's brow creased in confusion. "But… it's healed. There's no need."
Lyra's gaze hardened, direct and unflinching, a silent plea embedded in every line of her face. "There is," she insisted. Her eyes flicked toward the soldiers scattered across the camp. "If anyone notice… they'll see you as a weapon, not a person. You'll be in danger."
Selene's understanding came swiftly, silent and painful. She drew a clean bandage from her satchel, wrapping Lyra's arm with methodical precision. The stark white against the blood-stained uniform became a quiet symbol of their bond, the unspoken trust between them.
As the final strip of cloth settled into place, Lyra's mask returned, the soft intimacy replaced by the cold, unyielding presence of a General. The moment was over. Around them, the camp remained alive but subdued: soldiers moved with weary efficiency, tending fires, stacking weapons, and securing the prisoners, while the distant, joyful cries of villagers echoed faintly from the edge of camp.
Ava appeared then, swift and purposeful, a young scout whose reputation for speed and precision was known throughout the regiment. She approached Selene with a curt nod, acknowledging the healer without breaking stride. Turning to Lyra, she spoke with the crisp authority that made her voice slice through the quiet night. "General. The Captain and the Lieutenant are waiting. The prisoner is ready."
Lyra's jaw tightened. She gave a curt nod, the simple gesture sealing her focus and resolve. The bandage, now prominently displayed on her arm, was more than protection—it was a symbol, a mark of the secret she bore and the lives she had fought to safeguard.
She moved toward her tent with the steady rhythm of boots on ash-strewn ground, every step deliberate, every breath measured. Her sword at her side, clean but still sharp with the memory of battle, caught the flickering torchlight. Her mind, however, was not on the past victory but on the task that awaited. The prisoner they had captured was not just a source of information about a bandit raid—he held the key to a far more sinister threat, one that would require every ounce of strategy, courage, and unyielding command she could muster.
The main camp, quiet under the soft glow of dying fires, seemed to hold its breath, watching its General move forward into the next storm. The night air carried a tense stillness, punctuated by occasional whispers and the far-off laughter of children reunited with their families, a reminder of what had been saved—and what still remained to protect.
Lyra entered her tent with precise movements, the bandage on her arm a visible testament to resilience and secrecy. Her eyes, sharp and unwavering, scanned the dim interior as she prepared for the interrogation, already plotting the next steps in the long war to come. Victory had been claimed, but the battle for the future had only just begun.