That bothers me because I hear the truth in it before I can reject it.
A shout goes up near the eastern sheds. Not panic. Urgency.
Lyria turns before the sound finishes, already moving. “That’ll be the livestock gate,” she says.
“How do you know that?”
“Because that’s the sound people make when an animal decides it wants freedom more than they want dinner.” She starts walking. “Come on.”
I follow, because apparently that is who I am now.
We reach the eastern sheds in time to see exactly one half-starved goat trying to wedge itself through a broken slat while a boy no older than twelve clings to its neck with grim, doomed commitment. Two soldiers stand nearby looking like they’re debating whether this falls within military jurisdiction. One of them is Dareth, who has killed men in close quarters and currently seems less prepared for a goat than for blood magic.
Lyria puts two fingers in her mouth and whistles sharp enough to cut through the noise. The goat startles. The boy nearly loses his grip. She catches the animal by the horn, twists just enough to redirect its momentum, and plants her heel against the fence post while the boy slams the loose slat back into place.
“There,” she says, breathing a little harder now. “See? No war lost.”
The boy lets out a shaky laugh. One of the soldiers actually smiles.
Dareth looks at me as if expecting formal judgment on the tactical implications of goat containment. I stare at him until he decides to find something else to do.
Lyria turns to the boy. “How many left?”
“Four,” he says, swallowing hard. “One limps.”
“Then don’t pen the limper near the gate,” she says. “It’ll get shoved and you’ll lose it.”
He nods fast.
She points at the two soldiers. “You. Water trough. Fill it, then stack feed sacks along that side so they can’t break the boards again.”
The taller one blinks. “Us?”
“Yes, you,” she says. “Unless you know a more decorative use for your hands.”
He looks to me.
“Do it,” I say.
They move.
Lyria watches them for a second, making sure they actually obey, then wipes the back of her wrist across her forehead and starts back toward the square. I fall into step beside her.
“You talk to them like they’re already yours,” I say.
She snorts softly. “No. I talk to them like they want to get through the night.”
“That isn’t enough for discipline.”
“It is for cooperation,” she says. “You keep treating those like enemies.”
I let the silence sit for a few paces, not because I don’t have a response, but because I do and I’m not certain I believe it as much as I would have yesterday. The ground is uneven here, scattered with straw and splintered wood, and the smell of the cookfires deepens as the temperature drops. Hunger sharpens with nightfall. So does fear. Usually that makes control easier. People get smaller when they’re scared. More obedient. More grateful for structure that feels stronger than they do.
These humans are doing something else.
They are making one another stronger.
It is an unsettling thing to watch.
