The first horn blast rattled the cages.
The second carried across the trees, long and deep, and Lyra felt it in her chest like a hammer on bone.
They were coming.
She could already hear the chaos on the far side of the camp—the roar of men, the clash of steel, Rowan's waves crashing, Brennar's voice booming above it all. But here, among the prisoners, the sound was different. The captives pressed against the bars, whispering, crying, pleading. The young girl and her brother clutched the iron, eyes wide.
Lyra knelt, brushing a strand of dark hair from her face, and pressed her hand against the bars.
"Stay calm. You'll be free soon."
The girl nodded, lip trembling, though her brother only stared with hollow anger.
Tamsin and Ari were already working on the locks, knives flashing in the torchlight. But Lyra's attention snapped upward. She caught the gleam before the sound—arrows slicing the dusk.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
They were aimed for the cages. For the weak, the unarmed, the already broken.
Lyra didn't think. She thrust both hands up, her voice tearing raw.
"DOWN!"
Light burst from her palms. A dome bloomed above the prisoners, shimmering gold, curving like a giant lantern. The first volley slammed into it, sparking and clattering harmlessly to the dirt.
Gasps rippled through the cages. Children cried out, but none screamed in pain. The shield had held.
Lyra staggered on her knees, sweat already dripping down her temple. That had taken too much. She bit the inside of her cheek hard, forcing herself to stand.
Another volley.
She raised her hands again. The barrier flared, humming like struck glass. Arrows hissed, broke, fell smoking. The shield dimmed, flared, dimmed again. The golden surface cracked like ice beneath a boot, then sealed itself under sheer will.
Her vision blurred.
"Lyra!" Tamsin's voice, sharp. "Hold it! Just a little longer!"
"I know!" Lyra hissed back. Her arms shook as though she carried a mountain.
Behind her, the prisoners pressed closer, as if her body itself could shield them. A woman gripped Lyra's shoulders when she sagged, steadying her arms in the air. A man crouched at her side, bracing her waist so she wouldn't collapse. She could feel their fear, but also their determination.
And then came the smallest touch.
A boy no older than ten crawled out from the back of a cage and pressed his small hand to hers against the barrier. His palm was soft, shaking, but his voice was clear.
"Don't stop."
She looked down, startled, and met his steady eyes. "Please don't stop."
Something in her chest cracked open—not from weakness, but from fire. She swallowed hard. "I won't."
The third volley came, heavier, aimed cruelly low—at heads and faces. She screamed, pouring everything she had left into the barrier. The light flared so bright it turned the night white for a heartbeat. Arrows shattered.
When the volley ended, she nearly collapsed. Tamsin caught her elbow.
"Rest! Just for a moment!"
"No." Lyra shoved her away, panting. "Not until they're free."
Her eyes locked on Tamsin. This couldn't go on forever. "Listen to me. Take the ones who can't fight. The children, the elders—anyone too weak. Get them into the trees, far enough they won't be found if we lose this."
Tamsin froze. "And if you—?"
Lyra cut her off, eyes blazing. "Don't argue. If we fall, they'll need you alive. Go!"
Tamsin clenched her jaw, then obeyed, gathering the terrified into the dark woods. Lyra watched them vanish, her heart pounding. If this fails, at least someone will live to remember us.
Another wave of raiders broke from the treeline, torches high. Shouts rose. Lyra's shield flickered.
Not enough. I'm not enough.
She caught sight of the two young archers from Verdant Hollow—the girl with her bow, the brother pale but standing tall. They were waiting, not cowering.
"Up in the trees!" Lyra barked. Her voice was sharp, commanding. "Now! Both of you! Take the high ground and fire at will!"
They ran, scrambling for the branches. Others followed—captives who had found courage, blades in hand.
Lyra raised her hands one last time as arrows whistled toward them. The barrier flared, then shattered outward in a spray of golden shards, scattering the volley wide.
The cages were open. The prisoners were running. Her shield was gone.
Lyra dropped to one knee, chest heaving, palms smoking. But when she looked up, she saw hope—freed men and women sprinting for the forest, some turning back to fight, others carrying children.
The raiders roared as they realized what was happening. The horn blew again, louder.
Lyra forced herself upright. She was trembling, half-blind with exhaustion, but she stood. Her shield was gone, her strength bled dry—but she still had her Soulkin.
With a whistle, the mule lumbered forward out of the shadows, harnessed to a cart. Its eyes glowed faintly as if firelight lived inside them. The endless bags slung across its sides clinked with bandages, cloth, herbs—things she hadn't packed herself.
Not into the fight, but into the wreckage it left behind.
She dragged the cart to the fallen, pulling bodies up, binding wounds with glowing hands, sealing cuts just enough to stop the bleeding. The mule trudged steady beside her, never tiring, hooves crushing stray arrows beneath them.
The raiders saw her as easy prey, a healer burdened with the wounded. Twice they rushed her, and twice the mule lashed out, its hooves caving ribs, its teeth snapping like iron. Once a freed prisoner stepped in front of her, blade flashing, dying for her but giving her time to drag another child to safety.
She pushed herself past breaking, whispering through clenched teeth:
"Not one more body on the ground. Not one."
The battle raged around her. The camp was fire and blood and screams. But wherever Lyra and her mule moved, light followed, and the wounded lived to fight another moment longer.
And for those too far gone, at least they did not die alone.