Returning to the castle felt different after a day in the village, the weight of ceremony and stone pressing in after the sea-washed air and laughter.
Lara had sand on her boots, her wrists still tangled in the bracelets—one bright and wild from Sarisa, another tiny one for Aliyah tucked safely away in her pocket.
Her skin smelled of salt and sun. For a while, walking the marbled halls beside Sarisa, it felt like the old world had receded and they could just be a pair of fools, happy in a borrowed moment of normalcy.
But the illusion broke before dinner, as it always did.
The captain of the Southern Guard—a wiry man with sunburned cheeks and an air of perpetual exhaustion—found Lara just after she and Sarisa stepped through the main doors, still giggling at something whispered, still a little drunk on each other.
He bowed with the stiff precision of someone who respected tradition because it was safer than rebellion.
"General," he said, voice pitched low, "apologies for intruding. The king requests your presence in the war room. The hunt is to begin tonight."
Lara felt her shoulders stiffen, pleasure draining from her limbs like water from a sieve. "So soon?"
"Yes, General. Our spies found movement east of the main port. They're gathering. If we wait, we may lose the advantage. The king would have your expertise."
Lara glanced at Sarisa. Even in the brief silence, the longing between them sang like a taut string. She didn't want to leave.
Not after this day—not after all they'd shared. She'd always been the first to run to a fight, the first to volunteer for danger, but tonight…tonight she wanted to stay.
To guard Sarisa with her own hands. To fall asleep beside her, tangled up in her scent.
But she was a soldier. Her duty was to protect, and not always the way she wanted.
"I don't like leaving the Princess unprotected," Lara said, meeting the captain's eyes.
The captain gave a thin, weary smile. "There will be double the usual guard, General. Her safety is our priority."
Sarisa touched Lara's arm, her hand warm and steady. "Go. I'll be all right."
Lara wanted to protest, to fight for this night. But she just nodded, tucking a strand of Sarisa's hair behind her ear. "I'll come back," she said softly, "before dawn."
Sarisa's lips curved in that knowing, crooked way. "You'd better."
Reluctantly, Lara let go and turned down the hall. The stone echoed under her boots, her bracelets clinking with every step.
She changed in her quarters—out of the red and gold festival uniform, into dark leathers and a loose shirt that left her arms free for fighting.
Her sword belt was heavier than usual, a second dagger tucked at her back, just in case. She bound her hair tight, tucked the bracelet further up her arm where it wouldn't snag.
Before leaving, she paused to look in the mirror. She didn't look like a woman in love—she looked like a hunter, every muscle tense, every line sharp. Her reflection gave her a tired smile.
"Go on, then. Don't get yourself killed."
The war room was thick with urgency—captains hunched over maps, runners coming and going with scraps of new intelligence.
The king himself stood at the head of the table, pointing out the pirate movements, the known ships, the likely routes.
Lara stepped into the circle and every head turned. She didn't waste time with pleasantries.
"Show me what you've got," she said.
The king handed her the newest map. "They're gathering in the marsh east of the outer bay. There are too many for a fishing party—at least thirty, maybe more."
Lara studied the map, marking out every possible escape route, every likely ambush. "We'll need to flank them. Cut off the river so they can't reach their boats."
The captain nodded. "We've got three squads ready, armed and waiting. But General…we could use your…unique abilities."
Lara's mouth twisted in a wry smile. "You mean my nose for blood? Or my talent for starting trouble?"
A ripple of nervous laughter spread around the table. The king's eyes were kind but serious. "We mean your demonic power, General. With it, we can find them before they move. End this before it spreads."
Lara shrugged, fighting down a strange, resentful pride. "Fine. But you'll need to keep your men close. If I move too fast, they'll be lost before the first blade is drawn."
---
The preparations moved quickly—she was handed a talisman, a woven charm meant to ward off the more superstitious kind of pirate.
She tucked it into her belt for luck, more for the comfort of the soldiers than for herself. They made their way through the back halls, avoiding the festival revelers and the curious eyes of the court.
Outside, the moon was silver and fat, a lantern hanging over the restless sea. The squads moved like shadows, boots muffled by sand and grass.
Lara led the way, her senses wide open—listening for the unnatural, the wrongness that always came with men about to do violence.
As they reached the marshes east of the bay, she felt it—a prickle at the base of her spine, a heat behind her eyes.
She let her power rise just enough to sharpen her hearing, her sight, her smell. The world became a tapestry of scents: salt and sweat, iron and mud, and the musk of fear.
She signaled, dropping low. The captain followed, his men arrayed in a crescent behind her.
Lara pressed her hand to the ground, closing her eyes for a moment. She felt the faint thrum of booted feet—dozens, shifting nervously.
She listened for voices, catching snatches of desperate, angry plans: "Wait for the signal—take the boats—kill anyone who follows—"
She opened her eyes, nodding once. "They're here. Thirty-five, maybe forty. Armed. Restless. But not expecting us."
The captain swallowed, eyes wide. "How did you—?"
Lara just grinned. "Demon trick. Works every time. We go on my mark. Circle the far end—don't let them reach the river. If they make for the boats, cut them off. Leave the leaders to me."
The men fanned out, blades glinting in the moonlight. Lara took the lead, moving through the grass with the easy silence of a predator.
As she crept closer, the pirates came into view—rough men and women, scarred and desperate, some armed with cutlasses and axes, others with pistols or nothing but their fists.
They clustered around a fire, nervy, muttering. One man, taller and broader than the rest, wore a coat of faded red. The leader.
Lara gestured, and the squads closed in, silent as ghosts. She waited until the pirates were ringed in, then let out a single, piercing whistle.
The pirates sprang up, weapons drawn, eyes wide with shock.
"Surrender!" Lara shouted, stepping into the light. Her demonic power shimmered around her, yellow fire licking at her fingertips, eyes blazing red.
"Drop your weapons and kneel, or you'll answer to me."
For a moment, no one moved. Then one pirate, braver—or more foolish—than the rest, lunged. Lara caught him by the wrist, twisting hard and sending his blade skittering across the mud.
A second man rushed her; Lara dodged, sweeping his legs out from under him. The squads closed in, corralling the rest.
A brawl erupted, but Lara was everywhere at once—ducking, weaving, striking with flat of blade and burst of demonic fire.
She spared only enough power to dazzle, not kill. This was not war—these were desperate people, driven by hunger and fear. Still, she made sure no one touched her, no one got near the soldiers.
The pirate leader tried to slip away, but Lara caught him by the collar, dragging him back. "Not so fast. You'll answer for every family you've hurt."
He spat at her, eyes full of hate and resignation. "You're not from here. You don't understand."
Lara's voice was cold as the night sea. "I understand enough."
Within minutes, it was done. The pirates were bound, weapons gathered. No one dead. A miracle.
The captain stepped up, shaking his head in awe. "You were right, General. You find people quick."
Lara shrugged, rubbing a smear of blood from her knuckles. "I have my uses."
As the men began to march the prisoners back toward the city, Lara lingered a moment at the edge of the marsh, letting the adrenaline fade. She looked up at the stars, tracing the patterns, grounding herself.
Her hand went to her wrist, touching the bracelet Sarisa had made—thread and beads and the promise of more than just survival. It anchored her, steadied her heart.
Duty was a heavy thing. But tonight, for the first time in years, she carried it with pride—and with hope that there was something to come home to, something she wanted to protect with all the fierceness in her soul.
The night wind carried her promise: I'll be back. Before dawn. She would keep it.