The bells tolled once from the upper keep, their low, resonant chime echoing across the stone walls like a call sent down through bone.
Noon.
Veyra stood at the foot of the stair with her cloak drawn tight, the collar of her travel coat pinned high against her jaw. The southern wind cut low across the courtyard, sharp and sunlit, but her eyes remained steady on the arched gate ahead—where the stone teeth of Fort Dalen met the road south.
Beside her, the iron hinges of the lower stable groaned open. She didn't flinch. Only adjusted her gloves. Her armor—dark leather and steel-lined at the shoulders—moved with her like second skin, the hilt of her sword flashing once in the light.
A beat behind, Liora emerged from the shadows of the inner gate tunnel, her boots quieter now than they'd been days ago. She wore the navy-blue tunic Veyra had left for her, belted at the waist and paired with worn traveling trousers tucked into high boots. Her hair had dried in loose waves down her back, catching warm threads of rose-gold where it escaped her hood.
And around her neck, set neatly into place, gleamed the altered collar.
It was subtle, compared to the ones imposed by caste decree—lighter, finer, clasped at the front rather than locked at the back. But it was still there, undeniably present, and the moment she stepped out into full light, heads turned.
A pair of kitchen servants paused where they were stacking crates near the courtyard wall, arms full of smoked graincloth and linen-wrapped bundles. One whispered to the other, too quiet to hear, but their gazes followed Liora with something close to awe—not mockery, not pity. Like they were watching a story walk past them on two feet.
Liora's pulse hitched.
She kept her chin high.
But she noticed the shift again near the stables: two Beta guards leaned at attention near the gatepost, flanking the heavy iron doors. One of them—young, broad-shouldered—let his gaze flick from Veyra to Liora… then back again to the collar. A subtle twitch of his brow. Not quite disapproval.
Not quite neutrality, either.
The older Alpha beside him caught the glance and said nothing, but his jaw worked for a moment behind his helm, as though turning something over that couldn't be said aloud.
Liora pressed a hand to the edge of her cloak, tugging it slightly closer around her. Not to hide. Just to breathe.
The strange thing was—she didn't feel small.
Not exactly.
If anything, she felt seen. Not as prey, not as a whisper behind closed doors, but as a piece of something… changing.
She stepped up beside Veyra, close enough that the pine-spice scent of her traveling coat brushed faintly into her own breath. Veyra didn't speak yet. Just tipped her chin toward the stable yard where three figures stood waiting: Kellen, armored and stone-faced as ever; Lieutenant Deyla, pale-haired and sharp-eyed in her field leathers; and Malen, the healer, dressed in his quiet grays and carrying his satchel.
Liora blinked. "He's coming with us?"
"For the first stretch," Veyra murmured. "Until I know you're fully stable. Then he'll return with the scouts."
"You didn't say—"
"I didn't think you'd argue with caution."
Liora huffed softly. "Fair."
She kept her voice low as they walked. "You noticed them staring?"
"I did."
Veyra's expression didn't change, but her hand hovered near the pommel of her sword in a familiar, calming gesture—an old tic of protection.
"We will have to be on guard," she added. "Some won't want to face what that symbol means. Even from my house."
"I'll be careful."
They reached the stable steps, boots thudding hollow against the worn wood. The wind tossed the edge of Liora's cloak behind her just as Kellen stepped forward, his gaze flicking from her face to the collar, then to Veyra with an unreadable weight.
Deyla was crouched beside one of the horses, checking the saddle girth with practiced hands. She looked up at the sound of boots, her gaze flicking to Liora first.
And then her brow rose—just slightly.
"That's a new look," she remarked.
Liora blinked.
Kellen turned as well, eyes narrowing for just a breath before returning to Veyra. "All set," he said. "Mounts ready. Supplies triple-checked. No suspicious scenting found on the tack."
"Good." Veyra stepped forward, inspecting the lead saddle. "Captain Ryven will remain at the fort to coordinate reports. If we don't return within six days, he delivers the sealed letter."
She didn't elaborate on what the letter contained.
Kellen didn't ask.
Deyla, now standing, dusted her gloves and turned toward Liora again, her expression unreadable but undeniably… interested.
"So," she said slowly. "You're coming along?"
Liora met her eyes. "Didn't realize you'd taken bets on it."
Deyla gave a soft, amused huff. "We did. You're late."
Veyra didn't interrupt, though a faint flicker of something passed through her gaze—approval, maybe. Or something wryer.
"I hope you pack light," Deyla added, already reaching for her own kit. She grinned faintly and tilted her head toward Liora. "You planning to keep up, or should we tie a rope between the horses?"
Liora raised a brow. "Try it, and you'll find pine needles in your boots for a week."
"Don't fall behind," She added, straightening her cloak.
Deyla chuckled under her breath. "Spirited. I like her."
Kellen sighed through his nose. "Just keep her alive."
"Oh, I intend to," Veyra said coolly, swinging into her saddle. "And anyone who tries otherwise answers to me."
There was no humor in that.
Only certainty.
A moment later, Liora stepped forward and let one of the stablehands help her onto the second mount—smaller than Veyra's, but steady. She settled the reins with more ease than expected, her hands practiced, though slightly stiff.
Deyla took the rear, Kellen the flank, and Veyra led them through the yard as the outer gate yawned open.
The wind picked up beyond the arch, carrying dust and promise both.
And without another word, they rode into it.
—
The road sloped gently downward from Fort Dalen, curving southeast through low hills and the thinning edge of the southern forest. Sunlight broke through the canopy in angled gold, casting long streaks of warmth across the leaf-littered path. Pine gave way to cedar and ash. The wind shifted, softer now—carrying no orders, no steel, no scent of judgment.
Liora inhaled deeply.
It wasn't the same as freedom. But it was close enough to let her shoulders ease for the first time in days.
Behind them, the keep walls were still visible in the distance—sharp and gray against the skyline—but they were shrinking with each hoofbeat. The further they rode, the less she felt like she had to earn her right to breathe.
Veyra rode just ahead, cloak trailing behind her like a drawn banner, the back of her armor gleaming in the sun. She rode like she was born to it—straight-backed, fluid, one hand resting casually on the reins, the other never far from her sword hilt. Her presence cut through the quiet as surely as her name did through council chambers.
Liora's gaze lingered, caught in spite of herself.
"Keep your eyes on the road," Deyla called from behind, her voice lilting with dry amusement. "That one's only good for the view if you don't tip off your own horse."
Liora rolled her eyes but didn't reply. Deyla had ridden behind her since the gates—close enough to be protective, far enough to feign indifference.
"You know," the lieutenant added after a beat, "I thought you'd be softer."
Liora didn't look back. "Disappointed?"
"Not yet." Deyla's voice curved in something close to a grin. "But the day's young."
Branches shifted overhead as the trees began to thin. The air grew warmer here, the ridgeline in the far distance casting shadows across the lowlands like a waiting wall. Karsen Vale was still hours ahead, hidden behind that spine of stone and wood. But already, Liora could feel the land change beneath her—more wild, more tense.
Like something was watching.
She drew her cloak tighter.
Veyra slowed slightly, letting her fall alongside. "You're riding well."
The compliment caught her off guard—but she didn't flinch.
"Thank you," she said quietly. Then, with more edge, "Though you could've warned me we'd be going backward along a smuggler's route."
"It's the most direct way to answers," Veyra replied. "And the least expected."
Kellen was silent as ever, reins steady, one hand curled loosely near the pommel of his saddle. Behind him, Healer Malen rode pillion, stiff but determined. His knees barely wrapped the horse's flanks, and he muttered something about "preferring solid earth" under his breath as they passed over a shallow rise.
Liora glanced sideways at the sound, hiding a smile behind the edge of her cloak. She didn't mind the pace. The quiet gave her time to think—and time to watch.
Deyla brought up the rear with an easy grace, her horse cutting cleanly through the narrowing trail. Her eyes tracked Liora now and then, the corners of her mouth curling in quiet amusement whenever their gazes met.
Liora pulled her cloak tighter, but she didn't hide.
She was still adjusting to the feel of the new collar. Not its weight—lighter than most—but the way it didn't chafe or bite. The front clasp rested neatly below her throat, and somehow, it didn't feel like a chain. It felt like… choice. A quiet declaration she hadn't meant to make but now carried with unexpected calm.
The silence of the road was strange, but welcome. Not empty—just honest, as nature was.
Ahead, Veyra slowed her mount near a crook in the trail and turned slightly in the saddle. "We'll rest by the eastern ridge for water," she called back.
Kellen gave a nod, and Malen murmured something in assent.
Liora nudged her horse forward beside Veyra's, voice low. "You always this quiet on the road?"
Veyra glanced sideways. "Would you rather I recite battle history?"
Liora smirked faintly. "Gods, no."
Deyla's voice carried forward from behind them. "Speak for yourself. I've been waiting for her to monologue all week."
Kellen cringed, his voice lowering as he muttered, "Don't encourage her."
Liora chuckled under her breath, the sound light. "Fine. I'll take the silence."
But she glanced at Veyra again, studying her profile against the shifting trees—the shadows, the light, the line of tension just beneath her calm.
And for the first time since she arrived at the fort, she didn't feel like a prisoner riding beside her warden.
The forest deepened ahead.
Behind them, the birdsong stilled.
Liora looked up, instinct sharp.
Veyra's hand returned to her sword.
Even Kellen lifted a hand in signal—halt.
They stopped as one. The horses shifted, snorting quietly.
The road ahead curved down into a narrow defile—a dip in the landscape choked by underbrush and framed by leaning trees. A place easy to overlook. A place easy to ambush.
No sound. No breeze.
Just waiting.
Then Deyla spoke, low but calm. "We're being watched."
Veyra's gaze didn't waver.
She looked to Kellen.
He nodded once, then dismounted silently, motioning Malen to stay seated. The captain moved forward along the brush, crouched low, hand resting on the knife at his hip.
Liora's heart pounded.
Veyra turned her head just slightly. "Stay with Deyla. Don't dismount."
"I wasn't planning on it," Liora muttered.
Veyra's silver eyes flicked toward her for a breath. Then she urged her horse forward slowly, following Kellen's path with silent precision.
The quiet deepened.
Not broken… but waiting.
And beneath it all, the smell of something faint—foreign.
Liora stiffened, then inhaled slowly, steadying herself.
The last few days had taught her how suffocating stone could be—how every glance in Fort Dalen carried expectation, suspicion, control. Even the rooms that had kept her safe held the weight of command and consequence. Veyra's presence had eased that weight… but not erased it.
Here, on the path between places, there were no thick walls pressing down on her lungs. No banners snapping like warnings. No judgment in every corridor.
Just space.
She didn't feel free—not yet. But the tension in her shoulders had eased without her realizing. Her limbs weren't curled in on themselves anymore. Her breaths came easier between the trees.
Even with danger ahead, the road felt more honest than the keep ever had.
She looked toward Veyra again, just a sliver of her profile visible between windblown strands of dark hair. The Alpha hadn't spoken since the halt. Her sword was unsheathed now, held low against her thigh in silence, eyes fixed on the path ahead.
That steadiness. That quiet readiness.
It made something in Liora's chest ache.
Not with fear.
With want.
She swallowed it down.
Deyla's voice reached her in a near-whisper. "You alright?"
Liora blinked.
Then, almost surprised by her own answer, she nodded. "Yeah. I think I am."
The lieutenant gave a slow, almost approving hum. "Good."
They waited a breath longer.
The trees remained still. Kellen's shape vanished into the underbrush.
And the moment before movement stretched long as shadow.
From somewhere ahead, Kellen returned the signal.
The stillness broke.
"Let's move," Veyra murmured.
The reins shifted in her gloved hands as she nudged her mount forward, and the others fell in behind her. Liora touched her heel to the horse's side, following with a steadier grip than she'd had earlier. Her fingers no longer trembled against the leather.
Malen adjusted behind Kellen with a quiet complaint—something about his spine not being designed for saddles—but no one paid it much mind. Even he didn't sound truly upset. Just tired. Cautiously loyal.
The ridge line rose sharper now ahead of them, the ground turning rockier where the forest thinned into open slope. The trees here stood older, their trunks dark and gnarled, bark scored by years of wind. Sunlight glinted on scattered shale. In the distance, a hawk circled once, then disappeared into the cloudbank near the higher peaks.
Liora drew her cloak tighter again—not from chill, but from habit. Beneath the clasp, the collar no longer felt foreign. She'd stopped adjusting it. Stopped tugging at it when no one looked.
Deyla fell into rhythm beside her now, riding with one hand loose on the reins, the other resting atop the hilt of her curved dagger. "You're better in the saddle than I expected."
Liora raised a brow. "Thanks, I think."
The lieutenant smiled without teeth. "Meant it. I figured you for a caravan girl, not a rider."
"I was both," Liora said after a pause. "You learn quick when your trade route is half forest and the other half filled with people who'd gut you for salted grain."
Deyla chuckled softly. "Fair."
They rode a few more paces in silence. Liora caught her studying her again—more openly this time. The way her eyes flicked to the collar. The way they didn't linger, but didn't flinch either.
"You really not afraid?" Deyla asked, not unkindly.
Liora tilted her head. "Of what?"
"Of being seen. With that"—she nodded toward the collar, now clearly visible as Liora's cloak shifted—"on your terms, sure, but still visible. That's rare."
Liora thought for a moment.
"I was afraid of being caught," she said. "Not of being seen."
Deyla blinked. Then gave a low, quiet whistle, clearly impressed.
Behind them, Veyra's pace slowed just enough to listen—but she didn't turn. She didn't need to.
The road ahead curved toward a narrowing trail hemmed in by bramble and brush. The shadows of the Vale ridge began to stretch across the path in slanted lines.
They were getting close now.
Karsen Vale would rise just beyond the next bend—a wall of timber, stone, and border scrutiny. Liora felt it like a heartbeat in the earth.
They reached the narrowing pass just as the sun dipped behind the ridge, casting long blades of light across the forest floor. Veyra raised her hand in signal, and the group slowed to a cautious walk.
The land here was different—denser somehow, though less crowded with trees. The trunks were spaced wider, but taller, their branches high and heavy, turning the air dim despite the hour. The soil turned to packed red clay underfoot.
Liora's horse picked its way forward carefully, and she shifted slightly in the saddle to absorb the uneven ground. She could feel the change in atmosphere before she could name it—like the forest had grown still on purpose.
Deyla leaned forward, peering ahead. "Karsen Vale's just beyond the ridgeline."
Veyra didn't answer, but her sword was still unsheathed, riding low across her thigh. The grip had worn smooth where her fingers rested.
Kellen emerged a moment later from the underbrush, silent and dust-streaked. He gave a nod. "Road's clear. No signs of sentries."
"No sentries?" Veyra's tone was clipped, sharp with implication.
Kellen's jaw tightened. "Gates are shut. No posted lookout on the westward tower. No visible patrols along the ridge path either."
"That's not right," Malen muttered from behind him. "They always have someone posted at the trees. Even during quiet seasons."
Veyra's gaze sharpened. She dismounted in one motion, landing lightly on the path. "We go the rest of the way on foot."
"Commander—" Kellen began.
"If it's quiet at the gates, it means someone wants it that way." Her voice was quiet, steel beneath velvet. "And if we ride in loud, we're not getting answers. We're becoming the story."
The others moved quickly. Deyla dismounted with a practiced ease and stepped to Liora's side, offering her a hand. Liora hesitated a beat—then accepted.
Their fingers clasped only briefly, but Deyla gave a small, approving hum.
Liora gave a short, dry laugh.
Beside her, Malen slid off the back of Kellen's horse with far less grace, grumbling under his breath. "If I tear something important, I'm holding someone responsible."
Kellen ignored him.
Veyra moved toward a low slope of rock near the tree line, crouching behind it with narrowed eyes fixed on the ridge. The watchtower of Karsen Vale peeked above the trees now—dark stone, flanked by forest, with the faint outline of iron bracing its structure.
But no banners flew.
No signal smoke curled from the chimney stacks.
Not a single soul moved along the perimeter wall.
Veyra's voice came low. "Something's wrong."
Liora stepped forward quietly, her cloak brushing the edge of the red clay path. The wind stirred again, and with it came a scent—faint, coppered.
Her pulse jumped.
"Blood," she whispered.
Deyla's head turned sharply. "Where?"
Liora pointed—not to the ridge, but to the undergrowth off the path, where bramble had been disturbed. Just beneath one thorned branch, a smear of dark rust marked a snapped root.
Old blood. Not hours old. But not yet weather-worn either.
Veyra was already moving, sword raised, eyes cold.
"Form a tight pattern," she ordered. "We go in quiet."
Liora's breath caught as she followed—heart racing, mind turning.
Karsen Vale waited just beyond the trees.
And whatever silence had swallowed its gates…
They pressed forward with soundless urgency, boots slipping over clay and root, the brush growing thicker as they neared the final rise before Karsen Vale's outer wall.
Veyra raised a hand again, halting them.
Then—movement.
Just a flicker between the underbrush. Low. Desperate.
Kellen stepped forward immediately, sword half-drawn, but Veyra caught his arm.
"Wait."
Another rustle—closer this time. A strained, guttural breath.
Deyla's eyes narrowed. "Someone's crawling."
Veyra moved first, pushing through the thorns with her blade angled low. Liora followed without thinking, ducking beneath the bramble that snagged at her cloak. The scent of blood was stronger here—earthy and raw. A moment later, she saw it.
A soldier—barely more than a boy—lay sprawled in the brush, his armor torn and soaked through at the ribs. His face was bloodied, his eyes wide but glassy, limbs twitching weakly as though he'd been dragging himself for hours.
Veyra dropped to one knee beside him. "Soldier," she said firmly, already pressing her hand to his side. "Can you hear me?"
The wounded soldier was young. Too young.
His breath rasped shallowly as Kellen knelt beside him, one hand pressing gauze against the oozing gash near the ribs. Blood soaked through the torn tabard bearing the black-stone crest of Karsen Vale. His eyes fluttered—clouded, unfocused. Another soldier lay a few paces behind, already still. A third gasped once, then no more.
But this one clung, barely.
"He's conscious," Malen said, crouched low beside them, already uncapping a tincture. "But slipping fast."
Veyra's voice came sharp, low. "Name?"
The soldier blinked. His lips trembled, blood-pinked. "C—Cerin…"
"Cerin," she said. "Who did this?"
He blinked again. Struggled. "Didn't… see—wrong colors. Came through the pass. Not traders…"
His chest hitched. The effort of speaking was too much. Malen tried to tip the vial to his lips, but Cerin coughed hard, the liquid dribbling uselessly down his chin.
"We're losing him," Malen muttered.
"Let me," Veyra said, shifting to lean closer. "Cerin—look at me. Who gave the order to let them through?"
He didn't answer.
His eyes had started to roll, breath seizing in short, frantic bursts.
"Damn it—"
"Wait."
The voice was soft.
But it stopped Veyra cold.
Liora moved past her.
She didn't speak again until she reached the soldier's side, dropping to her knees with no hesitation, heedless of the blood soaking into her trousers. Cerin's eyes barely moved now. His hands twitched like he was still trying to crawl—away, toward something that no longer existed.
Liora leaned forward.
"Easy," she whispered, gently touching his jaw. "You don't have to run anymore."
She pulled him into her lap with a steadiness that surprised even herself. He was too light. His armor had been stripped. Beneath the blood and sweat, his scent barely lingered—already fading.
Veyra started to move—reflex or protest, she didn't know—but Liora turned her head and met her eyes.
And Veyra stopped.
There was something in Liora's gaze—not defiance. Not even pleading. Just quiet certainty. A kind of calm that didn't belong to the battlefield.
And then—
Liora began to sing.
Softly. It was a gentle sound, just audible under her breath.
But the words carried.
A lullaby, not meant for the living.
"Hush now, sir, the gates are near,
The Lion waits, the path is clear.
Lay down your blade, your watch is done,
The night will pass, the morning come…"
Deyla stilled first, her breath catching faintly. Her head tilted just slightly, eyes fixed on Liora like she wasn't sure what she was seeing.
Kellen didn't move at all.
Even the wind hushed.
"No hound will chase, no flame will bite,
No oath shall follow past this night.
The banner falls, but not your name—
You walk the sky of silver flame."
Cerin's eyes fluttered. His chest, frantic moments before, began to slow.
Malen, kneeling beside her, lowered his hand and simply watched.
The final verse came like smoke:
"So hush now, sir. The dusk runs deep.
The stars will cradle those who sleep."
Liora's voice faded.
So did Cerin's breath.
But not in fear.
He passed in silence, curled in the lap of a stranger who had dared to sing him out of the world.
Veyra exhaled, barely audible. Her sword was still drawn, her posture taut—but her expression was not the commander's.
It was the daughter of a house that had sung this song once. Long ago.
Deyla looked away and scrubbed a hand across her face, her lips parted as if she might say something—but no words came.
Even Kellen, ever-guarded, gave a slow blink and bowed his head.
Liora brushed Cerin's hair gently back from his brow. Her voice didn't tremble.
"He didn't need orders anymore," she said quietly, mostly to herself. "He needed peace."
Malen reached to close Cerin's eyes. "And he found it."
The forest around them seemed stiller than before.
Veyra knelt down beside Liora then, one gloved hand resting near her arm but not touching. "That song… it's old."
Liora nodded. "I learned it from a trader once. He said his mother sang it to soldiers in the old wars."
A pause.
Then Veyra's voice, low:
"My mother did too."
Their eyes met. No rank. No caste. No weight between them but the one they had chosen to share.
Then the wind stirred again.
Veyra rose, voice regaining its edge. "We bury the others. Then we press on."
No one argued.
But none of them would forget what they'd just seen.
Not the blood.
Not the death.
And not the Omega who sang a soldier home.