The air was heavy, tinged with ash, dust, and the faint, acrid scent of dried herbs. Silence enveloped the gates of the Governess's Hall like a suffocating blanket. The knights stationed there stood stiff and motionless, their armor dulled from long hours on watch. They were not sentinels of order—they were statues carved from grief.
Lyra stepped forward, her movements precise and deliberate, the echo of her boots striking stone like drumbeats of authority. Every breath measured, every glance sharp.
"I am General Lyra Grey," she called out, her voice cutting across the courtyard. "I demand entrance."
The nearest guard shifted uneasily. "General… the Governess has not left her wife's side. The healers have done all they can. No order is given—save one. No one is to disturb them."
The words struck like iron. Shawn, Elise, Rory, and Selene exchanged uneasy glances. Silence stretched, suffocating in its weight.
Lyra closed her eyes. Memories rose unbidden: Vivian beneath the old oak tree, book across her lap, explaining flanking maneuvers to a restless child; Gessa's laughter echoing across the training yard, steadying Vivian when her frail body faltered; herself, seven years old, flushed with triumph, whispering to her father: "Vivian taught me."
Now Vivian lay gravely ill. Lyra's heart ached with guilt—while she had been at war against the Valerians, Vivian's delicate frame had endured burdens she could not shoulder, and Gessa had sacrificed her own rest to care for her. She had returned victorious, yet this battle—of life itself—was one Lyra could not fight with her sword alone.
Her eyes snapped open. Steel. Resolve. Command.
"Then disobey," she ordered.
The knights hesitated.
"If Berthold collapses while you cower at your posts, her orders mean nothing," Lyra snapped. "Open these doors."
The guard faltered, then bowed, stepping aside.
The doors loomed, Berthold's crest carved deep into the wood. To Lyra, they were less doors than barriers—barriers between the child she had been and the general she had become.
She turned to Shawn. "Secure the town. Post guards in every quarter. Rotate patrols. Enforce order. Make sure the people see them. Berthold must know it still has strength."
Yes, General." Shawn saluted crisply before striding into the square, his orders ringing out moments later. Foot knights fanned through the streets; riders thundered toward the gates; the slow hum of motion returned to the town—a body stirring after too long stillness.
"Barricade the north gate! Rotate patrols on the east and west bridges!" Lyra's voice carried through the open air, steady and sharp. "Archers on the towers—no idle hands! Capture thugs and thiefs. Escort the town people if needed. Safety, security, order—restore it all!"
Within minutes, the chaos of despair gave way to structure. Yet even as authority reasserted itself, Lyra's focus remained fixed on the great wooden doors before her.
Shawn's voice rose above the clamor, rallying the men with precision, but Lyra's gaze did not waver from the heavy doors ahead. Rory, stiff with nerves, mirrored her resolve.
"Rory," she said, her voice softening slightly, "you're with me."
straightened, his nerves barely masked behind his salute. "Yes, General."
Selene stepped forward as well, her movements smooth, her expression composed. Lyra met her eyes and nodded once. "I may need you."
Selene inclined her head. "You will have me,Lyra."
Lyra extended a gloved hand; Selene's slender fingers met it, grounding her. Together, they ascended the steps. Each footfall was a drumbeat, echoing up through the stone—a slow, solemn rhythm of inevitability.
Together, they climbed the steps. Each footfall echoed like a drumbeat of inevitability. Lyra's armored hand pressed against the door. Could she bear to see Vivian—the woman who had guided her hand on a wooden sword—reduced to this?
Her pulse thundered.
She pushed the doors open.
The chamber beyond was dim, lit only by scattered candles that flickered with uncertain flame. Shadows clung to the walls, long and trembling. Shelves sagged beneath the weight of books and scrolls; half-used herbs lay strewn across the tables, their scent sharp and sorrowful. Burnt wax and the faint trace of incense mingled into an air thick with desperation. The room looked like a battlefield of another kind—one fought with prayers, not swords.
At its center stood a bed.
Vivian lay upon it, her skin pale as parchment,lips gray, her breath shallow and uneven. Each rise and fall of her chest looked like a question asked of the universe, and each answer slower to come. Her lips had lost their color, her hands trembled even in stillness.
Beside her, Gessa—once a fiery commander—sat worn thin by love and sleepless nights. Armor discarded, tunic rumpled, Her eyes were rimmed red, her fingers gripping Vivian's hand with a desperation that seemed to hold her to life itself.
Lyra froze. "Vivian…"
Gessa's head snapped up. "Lyra," she whispered, voice hoarse.
Time collapsed. Lyra was no longer the general of armies but the child who had followed Gessa like a shadow, sitting cross-legged beside Vivian, desperate to prove herself.
She crossed the room, kneeling by the bedside. Vivian's hand was cold in hers. "You can't leave us," Lyra said fiercely. "Not after everything. You cared for me, like a sister. You made me who I am. I can't—" Her voice cracked. "—I can't lose you."
Gessa's composure crumbled. "The healers have tried everything," she whispered, her words torn by grief. "Every herb, every prayer—nothing reaches her. I've fought a hundred battles, and this is the only one I can't win. My blade means nothing here."
Lyra turned, her gaze falling on Selene. "Please," she said quietly. "If there's anything…"
Selene stepped forward. The room seemed to still around her. "I can help," she said simply.
Gessa's eyes narrowed, hope and doubt warring in her face. "You're a healer?"
"She heals differently," Lyra said, resting a hand on Gessa's shoulder. "Trust her. I do."
Gessa's lips trembled. Then she nodded. "Please… whatever it takes."
"She heals differently," Lyra said firmly.Standing to rest her hand on Gessa shoulder. An assurance "I trust her"
Gessa nods her head."Please..
Lyra eyes land on Selene, a silent communication, Selene nods her head. "Watch."
Selene's hands hovered above Vivian. Silver light erupted instantly, pale as moonlight, luminous and fluid. It poured from her palms like molten starlight, flowing across Vivian's chest. Within heartbeats, every shallow breath steadied. Color returned to her lips. Her eyelids fluttered open, and the frailty vanished as if it had never existed.
Gessa gasped, clutching Lyra's arm.
Rory froze, mouth agape. Though he had witnessed Selene's magic before, the sheer power of it—turning death into life—still left him shaken, as if seeing it for the first time.
Vivian blinked, breathing steady, and whispered, "…Gessa?"
Gessa collapsed, sobbing against her wife's forehead. "I'm here. Don't you dare leave me."
Vivian's fingers twitched, curling weakly around Gessa's. "I wasn't planning to," she whispered.
Lyra pressed her forehead into their joined hands, tears flowing freely.
Vivian looked at Lyra, faintly smiling. "You've grown."
Lyra laughed, wet and relieved. "Not enough. You still look at me like I'm that little girl sneaking into training."
Vivian's eyes softened. "Do you remember the sidestep, under the oak? The low pivot?"
Lyra's chest tightened. "I showed Father once. He said it was too advanced—and I said, 'Vivian taught me.'"
Vivian chuckled weakly. "You always learned too quickly. I told Gessa you'd outpace us all."
Lyra shook her head fiercely. "Not without you. I'm not letting you fade into memory. You'll see what I become—with your own eyes."
Vivian chuckled weakly. "You always learned too fast. I told Gessa you'd surpass us both."
"Not without you," Lyra said fiercely. "You'll see what I become—with your own eyes."
Vivian turned to Selene, awe flickering in her gaze. "Perhaps I already have."
Gessa looked at Selene, wonder softening her battle-worn face. "You healed her. Thank you."
Selene bowed her head. "I did only what needed to be done. She should never have suffered so."
Vivian squeezed Gessa's hand. "I feel lighter," she murmured. "As if something that bound me for years has finally let go."
Gessa laughed through tears. "You always find ways to make me worry—and remind me why I can't stop loving you."
Vivian smiled. "Then don't stop."
Outside, Lyra's commands had restored authority. Guards patrolled the streets, townsfolk moved safely, and the square thrummed with the quiet rhythm of disciplined life. Inside, love, memory, and loyalty had fought the battle—and won.