The General's Discovery
The scent of wet earth and copper clung to the air, a grim perfume for the battlefield. General Lyra, her armor scarred from the day's conflict, dismounted her warhorse with a weary grunt. The victory was hers, a decisive blow against the northern insurgents from the Kingdom of Valeria. The Valeria forces had been seizing villages and conquering the smaller kingdom of Avenfield from the east. But the cost of this war against their Kingdom of Oakhart was etched on the faces of her soldiers. They moved like ghosts among the fallen, their expressions hollow as they tended to the wounded and prepared the dead for burial. Lyra felt a familiar ache in her chest, a weight that had nothing to do with her armor and everything to do with the lives lost under her command.
"Any survivors on the ridge, Lieutenant?" she asked, her voice low and steady.
"None that we've found, General," Lieutenant Shawn replied, his gaze sweeping over the smoke-shrouded hills. "Just scattered patrols. We've secured the main camps."
General Lyra nodded, her own eyes tracing the battlefield. From a distance, Shawn watched her. She was only nineteen, four years his junior, yet she commanded with the hardened authority of a veteran. The war was her inheritance, a grim gift from her late father, General Grey. In the ranks, they whispered she was the youngest and most capable general the kingdom had ever seen. But Shawn saw something else in her posture—a profound weariness, the shadow of a life stolen by duty.
As Lyra turned toward her command tent, her eyes caught a flash of white where there should have been only mud and ash. Tucked into a cluster of scorched thorns, a scrap of clean cloth stood out like a beacon.
A flicker of curiosity—a trait often at odds with her disciplined nature—pulled her closer. She pushed aside the thorny branches, revealing a girl amidst the ruin.
She couldn't have been more than eighteen. Her clothes were simple and clean, an unusual sight in this war-torn land. Her hair, the color of moonlight, was tangled with mud and a streak of blood from a fresh cut on her temple. What was most arresting, however, were her eyes.
They were wide, a startling shade of green, but held no fear, no sorrow—no emotion at all. They were like a still pond reflecting a gray sky.
Lyra's hand went to the hilt of her sword, a reflex born of countless battles. "Who are you?" she asked, her voice sharp.
The girl didn't flinch. She simply tilted her head, her expression unblinking. Aside from the cut on her temple, a deep gash on her arm bled sluggishly, but she made no sound. Her lack of response was more unsettling than any scream of terror would have been.
"I asked you a question," Lyra pressed, taking another step forward. She crouched down, her armored gloves scraping against the dirt. "Where are your people? Are you from the village?"
Still, the girl offered nothing but that silent, vacant stare. Lyra reached out, her fingers gently touching the girl's shoulder. The girl's skin was cold, but not unnaturally so. She didn't recoil. It was as if she were a statue, a flawless work of art misplaced on a bloody canvas.
A soldier approached cautiously; his rifle raised. "General? Is she a survivor?"
"I don't know," Lyra said, her eyes still locked on the girl. "She's... unresponsive." She looked at the gash on the girl's arm. It was deep, but oddly clean, as though something had cauterized it. "She's hurt, but doesn't seem to feel it."
Lyra made a quick decision. The girl was a puzzle, a stray piece of innocence in a world of war. And for some reason she couldn't name, Lyra couldn't bring herself to leave her behind.
"Help me get her up," she ordered the soldier. "We're taking her back to camp. She's a survivor, and she's coming with us."
As they lifted the girl to her feet, the girl's hand brushed against Lyra's armored forearm. A strange warmth, like sunlight on a cold morning, spread through the General's arm. It was a fleeting sensation, one Lyra almost dismissed as her imagination, but it lingered, a quiet hum in her veins.
The girl's vacant eyes met hers again, and for the first time, a flicker of something—not emotion, but recognition—passed between them. Lyra's gaze softened, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "Do you know your name?"
The girl's lips parted slightly, a soft, raspy sound escaping them. "Sel... Selene."
A small, almost unnoticeable smile touched the corner of the General's mouth, a flash of warmth that made Selene's heart skip a beat. As quickly as it appeared, it was gone, replaced by the stoic mask of command.
Lieutenant Shawn frowned, his gaze flicking from the young Alpha General to the silent girl. "General, with all due respect, we know nothing about her. She could be an insurgent scout, a spy planted to sow discord. You have to be careful." His warning held a deeper weight, a silent communication between two Alphas in a world ruled by scent and instinct.
Lyra held up a hand, a silent command that brooked no argument. "The healers will do what they can. But I'll have her housed in the command tent, where I can keep an eye on her."
"General, that's not wise," Shawn pressed, his voice low and firm. "Her scent… she's an omega."
"And the war is my inheritance," Lyra replied, her tone softening just enough to show her weariness. "This girl... she's a question without an answer. And that's something new." The quiet defensiveness in her voice, the almost protective instinct, was not lost on Shawn.
He fell silent, his frown deepening. He watched as Lyra led the girl, now named Selene, away from the battlefield. The girl walked without a sound, her eyes still vacant, her head tilted slightly as if listening to something no one else could hear.
Lyra felt a new purpose settle in her bones. In a world defined by the brutal certainties of war and the endless cycle of death, this girl was a fragile, quiet mystery she was determined to solve, a blank slate that drew her in with a power she didn't yet understand. about her. She could be an insurgent scout, a spy planted to sow discord. You have to be careful." His warning held a deeper weight, a silent communication between two Alphas in a world ruled by scent and instinct.
Lyra held up a hand, a silent command that brooked no argument. "The healers will do what they can. But I'll have her housed in the command tent, where I can keep an eye on her."
"General, that's not wise," Shawn pressed, his voice low and firm. "Her scent… we can't tell if she's an Omega or even an Alpha. Her pheromones are a blank slate. That's not natural."
"And the war is my inheritance," Lyra replied, her tone softening just enough to show her weariness. "This girl... she's a question without an answer. And that's something new." The quiet defensiveness in her voice, the almost protective instinct, was not lost on Shawn.
He fell silent, his frown deepening. He watched as Lyra led the girl, now named Luna, away from the battlefield. The girl walked without a sound, her eyes still vacant, her head tilted slightly as if listening to something no one else could hear.
Lyra felt a new purpose settle in her bones. In a world defined by the brutal certainties of war and the endless cycle of death, this girl was a fragile, quiet mystery she was determined to solve, a blank slate that drew her in with a power she didn't yet understand.
Selene's Morning
The world was a haze of unfamiliar shapes and smells. Two days had passed since I'd woken up, and the tent still smelled strongly of canvas and cured leather, a stark contrast to the acrid smoke that clung to the air outside. My head throbbed, a dull ache that resonated with the silence in my mind. All I remembered was my name, I didn't have a clue on where I came from, or why I had a deep gash on my arm and a smaller one on my temple. The wounds didn't hurt; they only felt like faint echoes on my skin.
I sat up, the woven blanket falling from my shoulders. The woman from yesterday—the one with sharp, commanding eyes and heavy armor—was there. Her hair, the color of a pale summer sun, was pulled back from a face that was young, yet etched with a weariness that went beyond a single night of sleep. She was hunched over a map on a small table, her brow furrowed in concentration. Her name, I had heard a soldier say, was Lyra.. General Lyra.
I watched her, my blank mind absorbing the details. My gaze drifted to her hands. They were strong, calloused, and currently nursing a fresh, red gash across her knuckles. An instinct, powerful and ancient, surged through me. It wasn't magic, but a deep, intrinsic need to mend what was broken. I pushed myself to my feet, the canvas floor cold beneath my bare soles. Lyra's head snapped up, her eyes narrowing in a flash of surprise and suspicion.
"You're awake," she said, her voice a low rumble. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"
I shook my head slowly, unable to form words. I simply walked toward her, my gaze fixed on the wound on her hand. As I got closer, I saw the lines of exhaustion around her eyes, the set of her jaw that told of a constant, unrelenting strain. This wasn't just a physical wound; it was a mark of her burdens.
I reached for her hand. Lyra hesitated, her muscles tense, but she didn't pull away. My numb and clumsy fingers wrapped gently around hers. A familiar coolness, like a drop of dew, seeped from my palm. I saw the deep red cut on her knuckles, and a hazy, fragmented memory surfaced in my mind: crushed leaves, a steaming pot, and a delicate root. My hands, without my conscious thought, began to move.
Lyra's sharp gasp broke the silence. She wasn't wincing in pain; her expression was one of pure shock as I gently ran my thumb along the wound. It wasn't closing, but the bleeding had stopped, and the raw edges of the cut seemed to calm. My mind was still a blank, but my hands remembered what to do.
Lyra pulled her hand back as if burned. The wound on her knuckles, once a vivid red line, was now a pale, thin scar. She stared at it, then at me, her sharp eyes filled with a new kind of suspicion—one laced with awe and a flicker of fear.
"What did you do?" she demanded, her voice a low growl of surprise.
I took a step back, my heart pounding. My mind was still a blank canvas, but my hands had painted a picture I didn't understand. The memory of the crushed leaves and the root was already fading, a wisp of smoke in the wind. The familiar coolness that had seeped from my palm was gone, leaving only a faint tingling. I opened my mouth to explain my own confusion, but the words caught in my throat.
I was an omega, and she was an alpha. The unspoken laws of our world, the hierarchy etched into our very beings, slammed into my consciousness. How could I, a nameless omega with no pack and no memories, have dared to touch a general? The sheer audacity of the act, the disregard for the natural order, made my stomach clench with shame.
My gaze dropped to the ground, my hands trembling as I clasped them behind my back. A flush of heat rose to my cheeks, and my silence was the only apology I could offer. A low, guttural growl rumbled in Lyra's chest, a sound of dominance and warning. It was a sound I recognized deep in my bones, a sound that demanded submission. I instinctively lowered my head, my shoulders hunching inward.
"Answer me," she commanded, her voice like a whip. "What are you?"
But I had no answer. I was just Selene, a woman with a blank mind and a strange power in her hands. A woman who had just committed an act of unbelievable presumption, and was now waiting for the consequences.
The General's Proposition
Lyra's gaze shifted from my hands to my face, her sharp blue eyes—the color of a winter sky—searching for answers I didn't have. "You're not a healer," she stated, her voice a low whisper. "Not in the way I've ever seen. But your hands... they're a gift."
Confusion painted my features. "I don't... I don't know," I stammered, the words finally breaking free. "It just... happened."
Lyra nodded slowly. "The King's Royal Library is a repository of ancient knowledge and forgotten arts. It is said to contain lore that has been lost for centuries. If you come with me, perhaps we can find out what you are, and why you can do what you do."
The proposal hung in the air, a lifeline and a burden all at once. For the first time since waking up, I had a choice. A chance to find out who I was and, perhaps, a reason for being. But there was a catch.
"What would I be expected to do?" I asked, my anxiety making my voice tremble.
Lyra's gaze hardened slightly. "A lot of my men are injured," she replied, her tone dropping to a serious tone. "Even if you can't heal them completely, just stopping the bleeding could save a life. It would be a debt I would be glad to repay."
I was an omega with no pack and no memories, now faced with the choice of working for a powerful alpha. My mind was still a blank canvas, but my hands had painted a picture I didn't understand. The memory of the crushed leaves and the root was already fading, a wisp of smoke in the wind. The familiar coolness that had seeped from my palm was gone, leaving only a faint tingling.
"I... I can't," I stammered, my heart pounding against my ribs. "I don't remember how to do it. It just... happened." The truth was, I was terrified. The General's initial reaction, that flicker of fear and awe, had been a clear warning. My instincts told me to hide this strange ability, to bury it deep and never let it resurface. To do so would mean drawing attention to myself, a danger to an omega like me could not afford. For some reason, I decided to open up my fears to the general, "I don't want them to know..."
Lyra's gaze softened, the dominant hum of her alpha presence fading into a quiet stillness. She took a step back, giving me space, and the tent suddenly felt less stifling. The rigid lines of her face eased, and I saw not a general, but a tired woman burdened by too many secrets of her own.
"I see," she said, her voice a low murmur. "And you believe your secret would put you in danger?"
I nodded, my eyes fixed on the canvas floor. My hands trembled slightly as I clasped them behind my back. "The magic... it's a tale. It's not something they believe in anymore. They'd think I'm a monster, or a spy sent to poison their ranks."
Lyra was silent for a long moment, the only sound the distant chatter of the camp. "You're right," she finally admitted. "The kingdom's mages were hunted a century ago. Any hint of magic is met with fear and suspicion."
She knelt down, bringing her face level with mine. Her blue eyes were piercing, but held no threat, only a deep, thoughtful resolve. "But your hands... they are not a curse. They are a gift. If you don't want to use them to heal, that is your choice. But I can't leave you here. And I can't take you back to my kingdom without a plan."
She stood and began to pace, her movements sharp and deliberate. "Here's my proposition, Selene. We leave in five days to return to Oakhart. If you come with me, I will house you in my personal quarters. I will keep your ability a secret, and no one will question your purpose."
Lyra stopped and looked at me, her face a mask of determined authority. "In return, you will be my personal ward. You will be seen as my responsibility and my burden. But know this: I cannot risk a spy in my camp. The moment you are, I will have no choice but to turn you over to the King's guard. I cannot risk my kingdom for one girl, even one with a gift."
I lowered my head, the message clear. I was being given a chance, but it came with a heavy price. The unspoken words hung in the air: You are mine now. My responsibility, my burden, and my secret.