“Yes.”
The word lands hard.
He exhales slowly, then nods once.
“Alright,” he says. “Then they come in.”
Not welcoming.
But enough.
By the timewe reach the center of the village, people are already gathering. It starts as a few heads turning, then more, then bodies shifting into the road, drawn by movement and the unfamiliar weight of armed presence. The murmurs build quickly, not loud but layered, voices overlapping in a way that carries tension more than volume.
“They brought soldiers.”
“They brought them?—”
I step forward before it can build into something worse.
“Enough,” I say.
It cuts through the noise cleanly, not because I’m louder, but because I’m known. Faces turn, recognition replacing uncertainty just long enough for me to take control of the moment.
“They’re here because something is coming,” I continue, letting my voice carry. “And if we stand here arguing about it, we’re the ones who lose.”
A man near the front steps forward, older, solid, the kind of presence people naturally make space for.
“Or maybe we lose because you brought them here,” he says.
There’s no hesitation in it.
No fear.
Just challenge.
“Maybe,” I say. “But you’ll lose faster if we do nothing.”
He studies me, eyes narrowing slightly.
“You expect us to trust them.”
“I expect you to trust me,” I reply.
That shifts the weight of it.
Not away.
But different.
“Lyria.”
The voice comes from behind the crowd, and I don’t need to turn to know it.
My chest tightens anyway.
“Ma.”
She pushes through, her hands rough from work, her grip firm as she reaches me, checking my shoulders, my arms, like she’s confirming I’m still solid.
