I step forward instead.
Of course I do.
“Verr—” Lyria’s voice cuts through the noise behind me.
“Go,” I say, not turning.
A pause.
Then movement.
She listens.
Good.
Because if she doesn’t?—
This ends here.
Steel meets steel.
The sound cracks through the air, sharp, immediate, the force of the first clash running up my arm as I meet the initial strike head-on. The impact grounds me, centers everything into a single, clear line.
They’re stronger than the villagers.
Faster than most of my soldiers expected.
But not tight.
Not controlled in close quarters.
That’s where we hold.
Not win.
Hold.
Delay.
I shift my stance, adjusting to the push instead of resisting it outright, letting the momentum carry just enough before redirecting it.
Time.
That’s all this is now.
Time.
25
LYRIA
The noise never fully leaves.
Even when I step away from the front line, even when the clash of steel dulls into something distant and uneven, it still lingers—carried through the ground, through the air, through my bones like something I can’t quite shake loose. The village smells like smoke and damp wood and sweat, the sharp edge of fear sitting just under everything else, and I can feel it pressing against me from every direction.
I need space.
Not distance.
