“No,” I agree. “It’s not.”
I look toward the far end of the hall, where the path leads beyond the estate, toward the routes already shifting under pressure.
“This was meant to limit me,” I say.
“Yes.”
“It won’t.”
Skot’s expression shifts slightly, something closer to approval now. “No,” he says. “It won’t.”
I let that settle as I continue forward, the shape of it fully clear now.
This isn’t his game anymore.
21
LYRIA
The air out here doesn’t sit still the way it does inside the estate.
It moves.
Carries things with it—dust, heat, the sharp tang of trampled grass and distant smoke that never quite leaves the back of my throat no matter how slowly I breathe. The road beneath us isn’t really a road anymore, just a worn strip of packed earth carved out by years of wagons and feet moving in the same direction, and even that is breaking apart in places where too many have passed too quickly.
I walk ahead of them.
Not far.
Just enough.
“You’re drifting too close to the ridge,” I call over my shoulder without stopping. “Pull left. That ground won’t hold under weight.”
There’s a pause behind me—brief, uncertain—then the sound of shifting armor and adjusting steps as the front line corrects. Metal brushes against metal, leather creaks, boots scrape against dirt that’s already too loose.
“Based on what?” one of the soldiers calls.
I don’t turn around.
“Based on the way it’s cracking under your feet,” I answer. “Or you can wait until it gives and find out the hard way.”
That gets a quiet snort from somewhere in the line, but they move anyway.
Good.
I adjust my pace slightly, scanning ahead, letting my eyes track the slope of the land instead of the path itself. The ground here dips unevenly, subtle shifts that don’t look like anything until you’ve walked them enough times to know where water settles, where roots rot, where weight sinks instead of holds.
“You’ve been through here before?” another voice asks, closer now.
“Not this exact stretch,” I say. “Close enough.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“It’s not supposed to be.”
That earns a low chuckle, the kind that carries more respect than the earlier hesitation did.
Behind me, I can feel Verr’s presence without looking. It’s different from the estate—less contained, more…alert. Like he’s not just existing in the space but actively measuring it, adjusting to something that doesn’t move according to his rules.
