They hardly had to walk long; the gate could be seen from any point in the plaza with how tall and proud it stood, meeting the height of the buildings it was squeezed between. The Merchant’s Gate of Aurumvale stood proud, a wide, open archway, no doors to close or guard. Before the street, a massive relief carved into the stone of the gate's arch depicted figures locked in a perpetual dance of barter. The merchants and artisans, frozen in time, were shown exchanging goods with eager hands and lively expressions, as if caught mid-conversation in a never-ending negotiation. It was a symbol of the city’s heart; the eternal hustle of trade.

  The gateway led directly into a narrow street. If the previous open market had felt crowded, this one was downright suffocating; what little space wasn't taken by storefronts was used for more food stalls and the like. The stones they walked on were worn smooth by the constant flow of merchants and travelers, almost dangerously so.

  Everything about the road before them made it feel unsafe, and not only because of the environmental hazards. Korie was dizzy, sticking by Lyra's side and trying not to get lost in the sea of locals and tourists alike.

  On either side, towering buildings crowded together, their stone fronts stacked high and adorned with vibrant banners that fluttered in the breeze. Each banner wasn’t just decoration; it represented the headquarters of each guild, proudly signaling their trade or craft, some embroidered with golden thread, others decorated in rich blue colors. Despite the narrowness of the path, or perhaps because of it, the street felt alive, a living pulse of Aurumvale’s commerce. Each step carried the weight of centuries of trade and ambition and Korie was beginning to recognize where the city got its gilded paradise nickname from.

  He could hardly understand such a sentiment these folks probably felt about it all; he recognized the value in money, of course, but not in hoarding it, let alone worshipping it.

  He covered his mouth and nose, blocking out the heavy scent of spices and metallic burn of active smithing. He was suddenly getting real tired of the crowds. The quicker they found the Sovereign Concord, the better.

  “Keep close,” Lyra muttered to Korie, her voice low enough to be nearly lost beneath the din, but firm enough that she knew he’d hear it. She didn’t glance at him - didn’t need to. She could feel the weight of his presence just off her right shoulder, trailing half a pace behind like a shadow that hadn’t quite made peace with the sun. She pressed onward, weaving through the crowd with a soldier’s focus and a predator’s grace, slipping between flapping fabrics and arguing merchants, never once faltering in her direction. Where others shouldered or shouted their way through the chaos, she simply moved - fluid, unrelenting - and the street seemed to part around her, just barely, as if the air itself recognized that she would not stop.

  Her armour caught the light in quick flashes, steel glinting between shades of violet banners and gold-threaded signs. She kept one hand on the hilt of her sword, not drawn, but near. It wasn’t paranoia. It was experience. The kind that taught you that just because a place was rich didn’t mean it wasn’t dangerous. In fact, it usually meant the opposite. This city may have been draped in silks and spices, but under it all, it still had teeth.

  Every step brought with it more noise, more colour. Guild banners flapped overhead like battle standards, each one more ornate than the last - blacksmiths flaunted hammers wrapped in flame, perfumers flew banners soaked in rose oil, jewellers flashed emeralds the size of her knuckle. It was all too much. And yet, somehow, just enough to make her jaw tighten. All this wealth. All this pomp. And still they needed someone else to kill their monsters.

  Lyra’s eyes scanned upward as the avenue curved slightly, the buildings pressed so tight together they barely allowed the sunlight to filter through. Then, there it was.

  A wide, deep navy banner unfurled above a polished stone doorway, bordered in pale silver. Its insignia - a scale in perfect balance, haloed by a radiant sun - hung with almost smug refinement. The fabric didn’t flap like the others. It flowed, like it knew it didn’t need to compete. Beneath it stood the entrance. Twin oaken doors reinforced with bands of dark iron, guarded by two men in immaculate navy uniforms. Their boots were polished to a mirror shine, their swords ceremonial but still sharp enough to gut. The brass plaque mounted beside them gleamed in the light:

  Sovereign Concord — Inquiries Welcome. Respect Expected.

  Lyra exhaled through her nose, a short breath that might’ve passed for satisfaction.

  “Finally,” she muttered, the tension in her shoulders shifting. Not softening. Just readjusting. A different kind of readiness now - calm, cool, honed. She glanced back once, making sure Korie was still there, still close, still quiet. Good.

  Then she stepped forward, toward the doors and the men standing guard. One of them eyed her armour with a quick, practiced glance, eyes noticeably lingering on the royal armband wrapped around her arm. She met his gaze without hesitation - green eyes cold and steady, the tilt of her chin daring him to question her right to be here.

  He didn’t.

  He stepped aside with a subtle nod.

  Without missing a beat, Lyra reached for the door handle. Her voice, quiet and certain, reached Korie’s ears just before she pushed the door open.

  The guards did not even comment on them approaching the entryway, not verbally; it had Korie watching in awe as she waltzed right in, as though it was entirely natural that they would let her.

  He was more so used to prejudice, being denied services and the like for his appearance. Darkspawn they would whisper at his presence, and they'd turn their heads, not so much as willing to get involved with him. If he'd come there alone that day, there would be questioning and interrogation before they'd even consider allowing him passage.

  "Impressive," He whispered under his breath, following close by to Lyra's side. He had assumed the royal family's influence held little sway there, but even in a city devoted to wealth, their reach extended further than he had expected. When he'd first met her while wearing the armband, the insignia on her arm had barely registered; a half-familiar emblem lost in the noise of his thoughts. Until she had spoken her titles and suddenly it carried the weight of a crown.

  "Don't get too hasty. Who knows how long ago this bounty was put up," He responded, expressing his current concerns. That flyer had been practically buried under all the others on that board. It was entirely possible a group of guards or adventurers had already taken care of that mess. Still, he hoped that wouldn't be the case. Walking around with a frustrated Lyra searching for bounty boards hardly sounded like a fun activity.

  As soon as they crossed the threshold, the cacophony of the street softened to a gentle hum. Aurumvale never truly slumbered, but within the walls of the Sovereign Guild, the chaos felt distant, like entering the tranquil eye of a storm. The air was imbued with the subtle scents of parchment and polished wood, layered with the lingering aroma of old incense and the faint musk of dried ink.

  The main hall exuded a grandeur that whispered opulence rather than shouted it, emanating a discreet elegance that was both smug and self-satisfied. Beneath their feet, the marble floor, rich with soft veins of deep colour, stretched out like a smooth, dark sea. The walls soared majestically into a vaulted ceiling, crafted from smooth timber and beams kissed with touches of gold. Between the polished columns, paintings adorned every available space - portraits of stern-faced men and women draped in robes of violet and silver, their eyes seemingly alive, tracking every move with a quiet, contemplative judgment.

  At the far end of this grand room, a long desk carved from dark, glossy black walnut stood like a sentinel. Behind it, a clerk worked, his sleeves meticulously rolled to the elbows, wielding a quill. He was young, but not in the way that meant inexperience - young in the way that meant ruthless ambition still finding its stride. His eyes flicked up as they approached, sharp and assessing.

  “Can I help you?” he asked, before they’d even reached the desk, his voice clipped, precise, and just polite enough not to offend.

  Lyra didn’t stop walking until she reached the desk. After plucking it from Korie's hands without asking, she placed the bounty parchment on its smooth surface and flattened it with two fingers.

  “We’re here about the harpies.”

  The clerk blinked once, his eyes darting down to the paper, then up to them both. His gaze lingered on Korie where it rested just a fraction too long, hinting at curiosity or perhaps suspicion. Then, his attention shifted back to Lyra, his eyes catching on the band wrapped around her arm. His reaction was subtle yet telling - the slight furrow of his brow, the way his fingers tapped the desk, revealing intrigue mixed with apprehension.

  “That bounty has… recently changed status," he began slowly. "You’ll want to speak with Fieldmaster Renn.”

  He stood swiftly and stepped from behind the desk. “Follow me, please.”

  Lyra glanced at Korie once - a flicker of tension behind her eyes - but followed without comment.

  They were led down a side hall, quieter still, lit by sconces burning steady flame. The walls here were bare, utilitarian. The frills had been stripped away in favour of stone and silence. Eventually, the corridor opened into a circular chamber - clearly a war room, judging by the huge table at its centre. A map of the surrounding valley was spread across it, pinned with markers in polished metal and inked annotations.

  And there, standing with her hands braced on either side of the map, was Fieldmaster Renn.

  She was tall, taller than most women and yet still a good few inches short of Lyra's height and broad-shouldered, her armour less decorative and more practical, marked by wear and use. Her hair was bound in a thick coil at the base of her neck, and her eyes were the colour of old brass - dull, watchful, unblinking. She didn’t smile.

  “You’re here for the harpies?” she asked without looking up.

  “We are,” Lyra replied, stepping forward. “Fifty gold, the bounty stated."

  Renn looked up now. Her eyes took them in with a single, assessing sweep. “Good. Because we need this dealt with immediately.”

  Her energy was electric; Korie could sense her passion for her work. A woman like her probably spent most her days out there, fighting whatever creature was up for grabs, hellish or otherwise. But she wasn't brought down by it, hardly demoralized from loss or grief. Her desperate attitude over the harpy situation, however, did not serve to comfort him. Korie could only hope they wouldn't come to regret it.

  Before Korie could pipe in and ask, she motioned them forward, pointing at a spot on the tabletop map.

  "This here's Aurumvale. That," She dragged her finger across the valley while following the path near a mountain cliffside, "That's where the harpies are located. They've taken people from us, good people. None of us have managed to clear them out," She admitted, her tone low and displeased. Whether in herself or in the soldiers, it was hard to tell.

  "Has anything changed?" Korie asked suspiciously, looking down at her. Her eyes held passion in them, the type that would never fade.

  "The harpies have... multiplied. Seven of them now," She clicked her tongue, as though it was a minor inconvenience.

  Seven. They were majorly outnumbered, but surely she would not let them go alone. Surely there were others that would fight alongside them. Or at the very least distract the foul beasts so he could clean them up with his bow.

  "They've… they've taken down many." She repeated, her voice quieter now, burdened by the weight of each loss. "Friends, family… people who shaped this community and held it together. I went there myself, and I'm ashamed to say that my heart froze in terror despite all I've seen through the years. Nathaniel..." She took a deep breath, shook her head. "I'm growing older. Moving slower. I could do nothing to save my allies but live to tell their tale."

  Korie swallowed, his jaw tightening. He really didn’t want to say it, but this was far more dangerous than they had expected, a job too big for just the two of them. Fifty gold wasn’t worth risking their lives. Maybe he should have felt guiltier about considering walking away, but he knew how quickly things could go wrong in a fight. This wasn’t their battle, and there was no reason they had to be the ones to see it through.

  She continued. "And they'll keep taking more good souls if nothing is done to stop them. It won’t be safe to travel through the valley soon unless we clear them out as swiftly as possible. Every day we wait, more lives are put at risk. Who knows how many travelers have already vanished without a trace, before they even had a chance to fight back…"

  Korie could feel himself falling for the guilt trip, which was not good. It was obvious she was exaggerating her grief, at least to some extent, and that kind of manipulation was something he couldn’t stand. No. They were not doing this. Why was she so willing to send them off to their deaths alone? And only for fifty gold when it was seven harpies they were dealing with?

  He turned to Lyra, expecting to find the same hesitation in her eyes, the same unspoken agreement that this was a terrible idea. Instead, her expression was set in stone, her jaw tight, her gaze sharp with a resolve he was not prepared to deal with. A sinking feeling settled in his gut; he knew that look all too well. She wasn’t just considering it. She had already made up her mind.

  Lyra didn’t blink.

  Not once during the Fieldmaster’s speech. Not when she spoke of friends lost. Not when she uttered Nathaniel’s name like a blade turned inward. And not when Korie’s voice, thick with doubt, cut through the air beside her. She watched Renn’s finger as it traced the valley, the path hugging the cliff’s edge, the harpy nest marked in charcoal. Seven of them. Confirmed. That was no longer a nest - it was a stronghold. No matter how quietly the Fieldmaster tried to deliver it, that fact rang clear as steel.

  Still, Lyra’s mind didn’t waver.

  Yes, it was dangerous. Yes, the odds weren’t great. But they weren’t impossible either. Seven harpies wasn’t a death sentence. It was a challenge. One she’d seen before in different forms - bandits with too many blades, fearsome creatures with too many teeth. You didn’t count the numbers. You read the battlefield. You made them bleed first. And gods, it had been too long since she’d been tested.

  Her hands itched for the weight of her sword. Not because she craved violence, but because she craved purpose. Something real. A fight that meant something. Not another bodyguard job for a merchant who only feared shadows, or a back-alley brawl pretending to be justice.

  This… this was right. This was the kind of battle she understood.

  As Renn spoke of the fallen, of the slow rot of fear creeping into the valley, Lyra felt a cold knot settle beneath her ribs. Not fear. Determination. She knew what it meant to watch a place unravel, to see a town fall apart at the seams because no one stepped forward. She’d seen it before - in war, in the borderlands, in the half-burned remains of towns where no help came in time.

  She wasn't going to stand by and watch it happen today.

  "Wait a moment--" He began to speak, a slow dread sinking in his stomach.

  She turned slightly as Korie began to speak, her eyes cutting toward him, expecting - hoping - for agreement. But what she saw instead was resistance. A flicker of hesitation, maybe even fear.

  There would be no turning away. Not this time.

  They weren’t just passing through. They had the skill. They had the weapons. They had the choice to do something.

  She didn’t raise her voice. Didn’t make some grand declaration. That wasn’t her way. Instead, she looked Korie dead in the eye, her own steady and sharp as frost as she cut him off.

  “We can do it,” she said quietly, but with absolute certainty. "We will do it."

  Her gaze flicked to the map. The valley. The ruins. She saw the approach already in her mind - the high cliffs, the narrow paths, the cover from wind. She was already calculating routes, already considering bait, already weighing what they’d need to ground the beasts long enough for a kill. She could feel the battle forming on the edge of her senses, distant but inevitable.

  “I’m not walking away,” she added. “These people have no one left to fight for them. That means we do.”

  His jaw tightened. He said nothing, though words hung on the edge of his tongue like a dam about to burst. He did not speak nor move, but inside, it was a warzone; thoughts racing, cheeks flickering brightly with a hot frustration.

  Seven harpies. Was Lyra really so arrogant as to assume a fight of the sort would be child's play? A strong need to cut her off simmered within him, yet he knew that her noble stubbornness would not allow any form of argument to spark. Seven harpies was a death sentence for him; how was he meant to put seven arrows in seven heads at once? Sure, he was damn fine with a bow, but he was no magician.

  He crossed his arms and leaned back, meeting her eyes with a tight gaze. She would be fighting too. He'd not witnessed her in combat. He knew not of her skill and he was assuming the worst; perhaps an unfair assumption. Her titles, First Sword, Third Sentinel, were surely not bestowed freely, so they must've carried something significant. To earn them she had to have demonstrated her skills well over the years; but she very well could also be one of those nobles, the ones whose titles were bought rather than earned.

  A part of him, a part that he truly wished not to let grow further, scorned himself for the mere insinuation that she'd have done anything other than prove herself worthy of such a title.

  He… did want her dead. But even if he formed a plan to kill her in this way, it was a disaster waiting to happen. It didn’t just sound bad, it was reckless and overkill in a way that set off every instinct he had for self-preservation. He'd let Lyra die, and then what? He'd be caught right in the middle of it. Harpies didn’t discriminate. Ally, target, bystander, once they were in the air, everything became prey. The whole setup put him at enormous risk for an attempt at assassination that didn’t even guarantee success. It reeked of desperation. No precision, no strategy. Just wild violence.

  "You don't make decisions for the both of us," Korie hissed at her, his eyes flicking to Renn's awkwardly. Arguing right in front of her was simply embarrassing.

  She turned to Renn, voice calm. Unshaken. “We'll take the job.”

  "We'll consider taking the job," He nearly snapped at her, quite frustrated at her lack of care for his opinion. He turned to Renn, shifting the bow on his back awkwardly. "Do you have any others who could join us for the fight?"

  "We're down to nobody."

  The statement, solid and leaving not much up for negotiation, was clearly final. Not out of a lack of wanting, but clearly out of resources entirely. All those who'd been willing had already lost that battle.

  A pity brewed in Korie's heart and it was not one he could stifle this time. Not to mention how Lyra would probably snap his arm in two if he refused to participate, and he wasn't above admitting that her strength and height on him scared him... He sighed, refusing to meet her eyes, looked down for a moment. Held the silence, one second, two.

  "Seventy," he uttered, his gaze lifting to meet hers. In that instant, something stirred within him; those finely honed instincts for negotiation, long dormant, now sharpening with a quiet intensity. "Twenty up front. A fair request, is it not? Ten for each harpy. We'll use the gold for new supplies. I'm without armor, currently."

  She eyed him with surprise, clearly not expecting such a cruel negotiation after throwing such an obvious pity party for them both. Lyra may have fallen for such obvious trickery, but Korie ought to keep his head straight no matter what his heart was telling him. Sure, whatever. He could see how the beasts could've taken the lives of soldiers. But the risk was far higher than advertised in the flyer, and they deserved appropriate compensation.

  Renn assessed him. No armor indeed. Korie didn’t look like the typical fighter; his build was lean, wiry even, more agile than strong.

  He was the kind of person who relied on skill and speed over brute force, his movements more calculated than sheer power. But she could see it in his eyes, in the way he held himself, in the longbow that he carried; he was not scheming to trick her.

  "Alright," She caved, stepping back for a moment. "I'll be with you in a moment with that gold." And just like that, she stepped out of the room and up the stairs, leaving them be for the time being.

  Korie turned to Lyra, that frustration from before beginning to bubble and ready to burst. "Seriously..." He squinted at her, holding back any unsavory terms. "Don't do that again. We're travelling together. We make decisions together."

  Lyra stared at him, unmoving, like a statue carved from cold resolve. Her face gave nothing away - not at first - but her silence spoke in volumes, and none of it was kind. Her expression didn’t shift. Not when he squinted at her like she’d just betrayed him, not when his voice snapped with controlled venom, and especially not when he dared to talk about decisions as if saving lives was something to be tallied and voted on like goods at a market. Korie's words still lingered in the air between them, bitter and biting. “We make decisions together.” He looked at her as though she’d broken some sacred oath, as though doing the right thing - saving people - was somehow a betrayal.

  The tension beneath her skin tightened like a drawstring pulled taut and something burned beneath her breastplate.

  Her jaw tensed, and her fingers flexed once at her side before curling into a quiet fist. Korie stood there with that look in his eyes, like she was the problem - like she was reckless, impulsive, too headstrong to share a plan. Her gaze dropped to the map still spread across the table, the crude charcoal markings that pointed toward the ruined aqueduct, the valley, the jagged cliffs… and the place where seven harpies had made a nest of bones.

  Seven.

  Too many, perhaps. An admittedly steep risk for just two.

  But that didn't excuse walking away.

  She could name it then - that slow, unmistakable burn building in her chest. Not rage or frustration. Not entirely. But a deep, seething disappointment. And confusion, because she couldn’t make sense of it - how he could hear those names, feel the grief in Renn’s voice, and still hesitate. Still treat it like a decision to be measured in gold and consequence. Her breath left her in a slow, quiet exhale, but the tension didn’t leave with it.

  "Seriously?" she muttered, almost scoffing. She turned from him, pacing half a step toward the table, then back again, her boots thudding against the stone with the clipped weight of someone containing far too much. “You think this is about us?” she said, voice low, sharp. “About decisions and sharing and who says what first?”

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  She finally turned to face him again and the look she gave him could've sliced flesh, her eyes like sharpened glass - green, bright, and cold. “They’re dying, Korie. Good people. Civilians. Farmers. Families. Not fighters. And we’re standing here arguing over if we should help them or not like it’s a damned business transaction.”

  She took a step forward, a measured one, not enough to crowd him, but enough to make it clear she wasn’t going to back down. Not on this.

  “You heard her,” she hissed, jerking her chin toward the door Renn had left through. “They’ve got no one left to send. Every person brave enough to try is already dead. So tell me - what happens next time? What happens when the next caravan disappears? Or a child goes missing on the way to town?”

  Her jaw clenched so hard it ached, and for a moment, her eyes drifted to the ground. Not in defeat. In thought.

  She remembered the way Korie had said seventy. Calm. Precise. His words cutting through the moment like frost underfoot. Even now, part of her grudgingly acknowledged how ruthlessly clever it had been - striking for more coin while the grief was still fresh, while Renn was still bleeding loss into every word.

  And gods, he wasn’t wrong. The extra gold would help. Supplies. Protection. Even the barest excuse for armour on his back could mean the difference between living and dying out there.

  But still - her jaw tightened further - what did gold matter when weighed against the worth of a life? What price could possibly justify turning their backs?

  She swallowed down that thought, hard. It wasn’t one she could say aloud. Not here. Not yet.

  When her eyes met his again, they were colder now. Not cruel. Just distant. Like a door had been quietly shut.

  “I’ve walked away before,” she said, quieter now, but no less certain. “Too many times. I’ve heard screams I couldn’t answer. I’ve seen towns fall because no one came. And I’ve lived with what that silence sounds like after. I won’t do that again. Not just because you don’t like the odds.”

  There it was. The heart of it.

  She wasn’t trying to win. She was trying to understand.

  Why couldn't he see what she saw?

  She turned then, not sharply, not to storm away - but deliberately. With purpose. Her hands braced against the edge of the war table, knuckles pressed white against the wood as she stared down at the map, tracing the line toward the ruins with her eyes.

  She didn’t speak for a while. Not until the silence thickened between them.

  Then, without turning back, she said, voice lower than before:

  “I don’t get you. I thought perhaps I did. But right now…”

  Her words drifted off, unfinished. A fracture in the air. She didn’t want this to be a fight.

  But she wasn’t going to apologize for doing what was right.

  Korie blinked. Stared in silence for a few seconds, his posture rigid though not fearful. The expression on his face was entirely blank, void of any tells for what turmoil was in his head.

  Us? Us.

  Somehow that was the point of focus his brain decided to pluck at and neither the ensuing argument nor Lyra's irritation. The simple pronoun she'd used to describe them, us.

  He'd never been a part of an us before. Not in a way that carried weight, that showed importance. Once, his us had meant nothing; disposable people, no voice to speak opinion or complaint. Us implied a different sort of inclusion now. Unity. Not the kind that a hivemind operated with, no; he, much like Lyra, were a group now. For better or for worse, that meant they worked together. That meant that his word held just as much significance. Just as much power.

  It startled him, how much it lingered. Even as she walked up to him with that frustration, her voice in a pitch laced with irritation, his mind was locked in on the newfound emotions coursing through him. Maybe regret. Maybe fear. He ran a hand through his hair, staring at the floor like it might offer clarity. Us. As if he didn’t see her as temporary. As if she hadn’t made up her mind that he was just as important on their journey, whatever that meant now.

  "You don't know me, Lyra," Korie said quietly. His tone was laced with irritation, though there was also a hint of guilt. Guilt because he could not tell her. Guilt because she would have to be disposed of, one way or the other. Guilt, for retelling his story was something he'd forbid himself of ever doing, lest they come searching for him.

  After a dense silence, Renn's boots clicked on the ground as she walked down the stairs. She held a small, brown sack in her hand, the gold they were owed to. Her posture was relaxed, but Korie watched the way it grew tense the more she approached the two of them, silent and still. She stopped a few steps away and offered the pouch out between them, glancing from one to the other. Her expression was neutral, businesslike, though there was a flicker of curiosity behind her eyes, quickly buried. “Advance, like we agreed,” she said. “Half now. The rest when the job’s done.”

  Korie took it with a nod, the weight of it familiar but still strange. He wasn’t used to being trusted with payment before risk; not by strangers, not by any business, and definitely not by someone like her. Practical, clipped. The previous emotion from her tone had faded, though not necessarily out of a drop of an act. Lyra clearly appeared to believe in their struggles, and considering that they were helping them, he may as well do the same rather than resist it any longer. Might be easier to go into a fight with the idea that it was a noble deed.

  He tightened his grip on the pouch, then looked over at Lyra. No words passed between them. None needed.

  They moved in sync, boots quiet on the worn stone as they made their way to the staircase. The building was quieter now, the last murmurs of guild clerks and scribes fading into the background. As they ascended, the light shifted; warmer, filtered through the tall windows of the upper floor. At the top, they pushed through the doors once more and stepped out into the city again, gold in hand, the job ahead of them like a shadow stretching just out of sight.

  The doors of the Sovereign Guild groaned shut behind them, locking away the last remnants of tension - even though it still enveloped Lyra like an extra cloak.

  She said nothing.

  She didn't even spare Korie a glance as they stepped beneath the towering arch of the Merchant's Gate once more. The world around them burst back to life - shouts overlapping, carts creaking, coins clinking, and wheels clattering on uneven stone - but none of it managed to reach her. Not truly. Not with the storm still churning quietly in her chest.

  Korie had pocketed the gold without even a hint of a smile or gesture of thanks, and now he strode a few paces ahead with his characteristic, light-footed gait. Part of her appreciated the silence as an excuse to keep her mouth shut, allowing her clenched jaw and guarded thoughts to remain undisturbed. Yet the larger, louder part of her simmered with anger.

  He didn't understand - and that drove her insane. Helping and saving people shouldn't come with such strings attached. It shouldn't have required a bargain.

  She deliberately let herself fall back further, each step measured, her boots striking the stone out of sync with his. Not enough for him to slip out of sight, just sufficient to maintain a small gap between them. It was simpler that way. She wasn’t ready to meet his eyes - not yet, not while her heart raced and her pride throbbed from the words they’d exchanged. Watching him navigate the narrow street from behind, Lyra felt an odd flutter in her chest.

  It was the way he moved - steady, slightly hunched as if trying to shrink his presence, ducking a bit whenever a guild banner swept too low above him. Always on edge, always calculating, always alert to prying eyes. It reminded her all too much of someone else.

  Her.

  The memory slid in like a knife beneath her ribs. Liora, striding ahead with her silvery tresses swinging behind her, ever one step ahead of danger and certain that Lyra would follow. And follow she did - every time. Not solely out of obligation, but also by choice. Now she found herself once again trailing behind someone who never asked her to join and actually, didn't expect her to - yet despite everything, she still did.

  Lyra shook off the thought as if dislodging water from her armour.

  This wasn’t the same. This wasn’t her.

  Still, she kept her distance. Let him lead, letting him wind through the street until the crushing crowd finally thinned near the edge of the merchant square, where specialized trades held their stalls - leatherworkers, armourers, bow makers. The steady, deep clanging of hammer on steel resonated like a heartbeat.

  They eventually reached a stall that barely seemed fit to stand. Its sagging awning and creaking wooden frame testified to its age, while the anvil out front bore the scars of countless blows; next to it, the forge still burned low, pulsing with a deep, orange glow. The man tending the stall looked as if he embodied rust itself - broad shoulders, rope-like arms, and a face forged from weathered bark. His beard, streaked with grey and ash, and his eyes, bleak and heavy with the burden of too many battles, betrayed a deep-seated loathing for conflict.

  Before Lyra could fully size him up, he caught sight of them.

  His gaze landed squarely on Korie.

  Immediately, his lip curled in disgust.

  “My wares aren’t for your kind, darkspawn,” he growled, his voice rough as gravel underfoot. “Get out of my sight.”

  Korie did not walk about without the expectation of such treatment, at any rate. Judgemental eyes followed him near everywhere, not to mention the whispers of mockery; he murmurs were constant, hushed voices glaring at his appearance. Rarely would they speculate on the curse that must have twisted him so.

  Most surface dwellers knew so little on the dark elf race that they ignored the finer details that made Korie differ from any darkspawn; those bright, snowy freckles, the frostbite shaded hands, the icy eye colour that only a true moon elf could have. It was through that very judgement that he had originally heard of the dark elves in the first place. That elf is no different than a monster or a fiend. Stay away.

  The first few years after his escape had been full of daydreams about leading a normal life. One where people respected him instead of starting the conversation with an ugly stare, or a my wares aren't for your kind. One where he'd never been tainted.

  "I hold no ill intent towards you," Korie tried to explain himself, staying right where he'd stopped when he'd first approached the stall. He had no fear to show in his heart. That little comment had barely touched the surface of the insults he'd endured in his past. "I only wanted--"

  "I don't care what you want," the man spoke gruffly, with a heavy timber voice. "I know your kind. In Ire's name was what you'd screamed when you tried to push for the capital a hundred or so years ago. And we Eclipsari do not forget."

  Korie paused. That... was a new one.

  Korie’s gaze shifted briefly to Lyra, just a flicker of movement, too quick to be noticed by most. He wasn’t sure what he expected to find in her expression. Did she share the man’s sentiment, deep down? Did she have her own thoughts about the attack this stranger so bitterly remembered? Surely she did, as a loyal servant of the royal family, but her face remained unreadable, stone cold as ever. Korie looked away.

  This was the first time someone had so confidently assigned him a history he didn’t even know he had.

  “I wasn’t there,” he said carefully, the words tasting strange in his mouth. “I don’t remember any attack.”

  The man scoffed, hardly sparing him a glance as he waved him off with the attitude of someone superior. He seemed to notice Lyra then; his eyes fell onto her armband, the royal insignia, and he immediately stiffened with pride, as though only then in the presence of one who truly loved their kingdom. “Funny how Ire’s kind always play humble. Quiet hands, quiet mouths, and blood on both,” He said to Lyra. He pointedly ignored that Korie was even there, his attention taken by the presence of a royal guard.

  Korie remained rooted in place. His heart no longer followed a calm beat, quickening with uncertainty the more his anxiety rose. He couldn’t understand how everyone seemed so certain of who he was when he had no clear sense of it himself. Not only that, but he lacked a lot of information about the world outside of that forest he'd been oathbound to in the past. Eclipsia was a kingdom that he'd read about in books once or twice. Only ten years ago had he been given the opportunity to explore it.

  It wasn't as though he could simply ask either. How incriminating would it be, for a dark elf to ask for knowledge that he was meant to clearly have about his "own people"? He was trying to somewhat keep a cover there, camouflage himself amongst the regular folk so as to avoid unnecessary attention. Pressing this matter further would only make everything worse, really, and the man did not want him there. Fully ready to leave, he turned to step away and find another stall to purchase his wares at.

  Lyra didn't move at first. She stood a step or two behind, watching the exchange unfold with arms crossed and her fingers tightening against the crook of her elbow. Her eyes drifted between the blacksmith’s hard glare and Korie’s still frame, the tension between them drawing taut like a bowstring, and the longer she listened, the colder her expression became. She wasn’t looking at Korie, not directly - not after everything said between them - but she was hearing him. Every word. Every hesitation. She was hearing the venom behind the blacksmith’s voice more clearly still.

  The man spoke with certainty, as if his prejudice was an heirloom passed down, polished by time and bitterness. “I know your kind,” he said, the words thick with generational disdain. Lyra’s stomach twisted at the sound of it. Then, came the name.

  Ire.

  Her gaze sharpened. The war had many names depending on who you asked. The Deep Wars. That was what the scrolls and the historians had called it. The official name, always spoken with a certain reverence in history books, always footnoted in gold-leafed script. Strategic. Clean. Distant. Conveniently clinical. A series of "subterranean incursions" from the Underspires, swiftly quelled by the noble might of the Eclipsian crown. A war summarised in neat lines of ink and decades on marble plaques.

  The nobles, however, didn't call it that. In the high halls of the court, it had another name.

  The Black Rebellion.

  A blight. A betrayal. The moment the darkspawn - the “godless wretches” whispered to by Ire - rose up in defiance of divine order. It was painted as an attempted usurpation of the gods themselves, of the king, of balance. Lyra had heard the stories all her life. In those stories, they were monsters.

  The soldiers? The ones who actually bled for the capital? They never called it that. Not once.

  They called it The Hollowing.

  Simply because that was what it did.

  It hollowed people out. The ones who died. The ones who survived. And the ones who lived with the guilt of both. It left nothing. Not in the land. Not in the people. Just husks where hope had lived. That was the truth no textbook ever wrote down. The older guards used it as a warning. It was a wound in the heart of the kingdom that never quite closed and Lyra remembered the way their voices changed when they spoke of it - quiet, cautious, as if saying too much might make it happen again.

  Beneath it all, a lesson carved deeper than any sword form or patrol protocol:

  Dark elves are not to be trusted.

  It had been drilled into her like a sacred truth. They were deceivers. Twisted by their god Ire, betrayers of the old order, responsible for the screams in the dark and the blood in the fields. The royal family had survived because they had stood against them. Because they had held the line.

  Now here she was - standing beside someone who bore all the marks of that forgotten enemy. Who the world looked at and saw that past reflected back at them. Even she had, at first.

  Korie, however, didn't belong in any of those tales of the dead.

  He looked different to the monsters she’d been told of and had seen. He acted nothing like them. He was strange, yes - otherworldly in a way that unsettled her, a puzzle with too many missing corners - but he was no threat. Not the kind this man saw. Yet that judgment had landed all the same.

  She saw the flicker in Korie’s expression. The way he stood. How he held himself steady, even when it hurt. And she remembered the way he’d looked at her when she hadn’t let him speak. When she had decided for them. Her anger with him was still there - tight across her shoulders, raw beneath her ribs - but this? This was not something she would let stand.

  The blacksmith turned to her now, eyes catching the insignia on her armband - the mark of the crown, once worn with pride, now dulled and weathered by time and exile. His gaze lit up with a flash of respect she didn’t want from him.

  Funny how Ire’s kind always play humble. Quiet hands, quiet mouths, and blood on both.

  That did it.

  Lyra stepped forward, slowly, shoulders squaring as she placed herself not beside Korie, but in front of him - between him and the forge, her presence cutting between them like drawn steel. She didn’t need to look at him. This wasn’t about comfort. It was about a line being drawn. Her voice was low and level, but carried like a drawn blade through the noise. “You speak like someone who fought in the Hollowing.”

  The man’s mouth twitched, but he said nothing.

  “But I don't see any old scars. Just an old mouth,” she went on, her voice rather like ice. “You remember the war, but not well. If you did, you’d know the ones who survived it don’t spit history like it makes them brave. They speak of it softly, or not at all. You only know of it through stories. Through fear. Through hatred passed down like an heirloom. You’ve let memory curdle into myth. It’s easier to point a blade at someone who looks the part than ask why you’re still sharpening it.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and for the first time, she met the blacksmith's gaze - unchallenged, unflinching.

  “I grew up on those stories too,” she said. “Learned them from soldiers who had bled on that soil. I was raised to believe what you do. That there’s no such thing as innocence when it comes from the dark. That what you look like is proof of who you are.”

  She stepped closer. Just a hair.

  “But I also learned how to tell when a man’s just looking for someone to hate.”

  The silence between them pulsed with heat.

  “Don’t mistake your ignorance for loyalty,” she said at last. “You shame the dead every time you speak for them.”

  Korie was dead silent, holding his breath as Lyra stepped in, sudden, eyebrows furrowed and green eyes dark. Her tone was unlike anything he'd heard of her before. It was ice, true and cold. She had been angry with him earlier as he had with her, upset even, but this...

  It sent a shiver down his spine, gave him goosebumps. She was upset. He was upset right with her.

  He did not fear her. Not exactly. This was another emotion entirely, and one he'd do well to suppress it before it grew too big to hide away. His stupid heart. His stupid, stupid heart. He was meant to be angry at her still. He was meant to be dismissive and just as cold. And he recognized that she wasn't entirely coming for his defence, that she was more so defending the soldiers injured, the lives lost. But there was that something, a semblance of belonging there unlike any other, that caused his heart to race and his palms to grow cold with sweat.

  The memory of that early morning came to him. He tightened his fists, suppressed the need to claw at his hair. What in the world was wrong with him? He should be offended. Yes, that he should. She was insulting the dark elves, and they were supposedly his people, and he should... He should not be that soft. He should not be that weak.

  "Let's leave," He spoke quietly, reaching for her but stopping himself. His hand hovering over her arm, about to pull her back, to calm her down. It twitched, froze up, and he pulled away, turning around instead. He knew she'd follow, anyway.

  They walked around market stalls, found the best sales and picked out a set of armour, as well as a quiver and arrows. The leather set was stained black, fitting entirely too well with his current colour scheme though that was hardly the reason he'd purchased them. The leather was durable, finely woven at the seams with not a strand out of place. He could only hope it wouldn't suddenly fall apart on him.

  Next were their horses. Well-fed and groomed, they stood patiently in their stalls at the local stable, ears flicking at the sounds of morning activity. The two of them moved with practiced ease, checking saddles, tightening straps, and brushing down their mounts. Once everything was secure, they led the horses out into the open, the soft thud of hooves echoing against the cobbled road. The late morning air was cool, laced with the scent of hay and leather.

  "I, look, I hate to ask, and it might seem..." Korie shook his head, waving his hand around as though the movement would explain anything about what he was trying to say. He was at a loss for words on this one, lips feeling drier than normal.

  He had given up attempting to lie or deceive about the topic of his race, at this rate. She'd shared her observations with him multiple times; she had taken notice of the curse on his skin. That he's stained with black magic. She was aware that he was hardly anything at all like his "people". Allowing the curtains to drop, he moved right on with the original question that had been caught on his lips since she'd spoken of the war.

  "There was... a war, then? The Hollowing?" He asked, his eyes looking up at her, facing her truly.

  Lyra didn’t answer right away. Instead, she glanced over at him, brows slightly drawn, a flicker of surprise passing through her expression at the question, but it was brief. It vanished beneath something older, heavier. Then, she chose to focus on Orion instead, running her hand down his flank, checking the girth strap for a second, unnecessary time. The leather creaked softly beneath her gloves, and the steady presence of the horse helped her keep the weight of the past at arm’s length. For a little longer.

  Then, slowly, she turned, leaning one forearm on the saddle as she faced Korie, arms crossed loosely now, as if the words might carry better without steel pressing into her chest.

  “It wasn’t just a war,” she said at last, her voice soft but not uncertain. “It was a decade of dying.”

  Her voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. The tension it carried came from age, from repetition, from being told this story so many times that parts of it felt like her own.

  “It started deep. In the Underspires. Or beneath them. The records don’t agree, just that something stirred down there and when it rose, it rose slowly. Not like an invasion. Like an infection. The first mines went silent. Then the scouts. Then the towns near the mountains.”

  She shifted slightly, not moving to mount just yet.

  “It was years before the Crown even called it war. They thought it was sabotage. Disease. But then the attacks grew bolder. Coordinated. Whole caravans torn apart. Forts overrun in a single night.”

  She exhaled hard through her nose. “The nobles called it The Black Rebellion. Claimed the darksp—”

  She stopped. Bit the word off at the root. Corrected herself, jaw tense.

  "—the dark elves had turned against the gods. That they rose in Ire’s name to burn the balance of Sol and Luar to the ground. I grew up on that version. The version where the enemy is clear, where the world divides neatly between light and shadow.”

  Her tone had cooled, not with detachment, but with something else. Like she was reciting a song she’d been made to learn, and now only half believed the lyrics.

  “I was taught to see signs in the skin, the eyes, the way someone moved. They trained me to flinch from shadows that moved wrong. To kill first and ask nothing.”

  She moved then, lifting one foot into the stirrup and pulling herself into the saddle in one fluid, practised motion. She sat tall on Orion’s back, her silhouette cutting against the light slanting through the alleyway.

  “But the soldiers, the ones who actually fought, they didn’t call it The Black Rebellion. And the historians in their robes didn’t name it right, either. They put it in scrolls as The Deep Wars. Nice and tidy.”

  She looked down at Korie now, her expression unreadable but steady.

  “The soldiers called it The Hollowing.”

  The words came flat. Final.

  “Because that’s what it did. Hollowed out cities. Families. Gods, even the ones who lived through it didn’t come back whole. Some wore their silence like armour. Others… just broke.”

  Her gloved fingers tightened on the reins. She looked past him now, to where the path out of Aurumvale waited, distant hills like faded teeth on the horizon.

  “I wasn’t born until it was already over but I’ve lived in its shadow my entire life. I was trained by men who lost brothers to it. Studied under captains who wore the names of fallen squadrons stitched into their uniforms. I was taught to keep my back to the walls of tunnels. To watch for songs that didn’t come from birds.”

  A grim smile touched her mouth, thin and tired. “My first lesson about justice wasn’t about balance. It was about light and how easily it could be taken. They told me it was my duty to never trust the dark.”

  Then quieter, almost as if to herself:

  “I still believe it. Sometimes. Without meaning to. That fear - that hatred - it gets in you. Carved in deep. And you don’t always see where it’s rotting until someone else makes you look.”

  Her gaze flicked back to Korie and she studied him for a moment before she added, "You're not like them."

  She didn't smile nor offer any comfort but her voice was gentle.

  "I don't know what you are, Korie. Not really. But whatever you are," she murmured, "you're not what I was raised to hate."

  Then, just like that, she gave Orion a gentle nudge. The horse stepped forward into the dappled streetlight, hooves tapping a slow, steady rhythm against the cobbled stone.

  “Let’s go,” she called over her shoulder.

  Even as she turned to focus on the road ahead, even as she turned, her mind lingered on what she’d just said.

  And for the first time, Lyra wondered not just what Korie was…

  …but what it meant that she had defended him.