Hours passed in a quiet journey beneath the stars. The forest thinned, and the sharp scent of pine gave way to fresher, crisper air. The land sloped upward, and in the far distance, Selene saw a faint glow—a cluster of lights scattered across the valley floor like fireflies in the dark.
She leaned closer to Lyra. "What is that?"
Lyra reined in her horse, her voice low. "That's Berthold."
Shawn drew nearer, his horse's hooves soft on the dirt path. "This town is under Governess Gessa. She was the General's senior—they trained under the same mentor."
"Who was your mentor, General?" Rory asked, curiosity bright in his voice.
Shawn answered before Lyra could. "Her father, of course. General Grey."
A faint smile touched Lyra's lips. "I have more than one mentor," she said, her gaze fixed on the lights.
Rory frowned, leaning forward in his saddle. "Really? Who?"
Her smile deepened, quiet and secretive. "You'll meet them."
By dawn, they stood on the crest of a high ridge. Below, the town of Berthold spread across the valley, smoke curling from chimneys, roads winding like threads between rooftops. After the storm and the broken span, the sight of civilization promised warmth, safety, and rest.
Lyra's posture straightened in her saddle. The weariness of the wilds slipped from her shoulders, replaced by calculation. She had delivered them this far—but towns carried dangers of their own.
"We ride down carefully," she said, her voice calm but firm. "Stay together. And be on your guard. A town can be as dangerous as a forest."
Rory's eyes went wide as the valley opened before him. "It's huge!"
Shawn chuckled. "Kid, this is small compared to the capital."
"What?!" Rory's jaw dropped.
Elise, riding at the rear, rested her hand on the hilt of her dagger, eyes scanning the cliffs above as though expecting arrows.
Selene pressed closer into Lyra's embrace, anxiety quickening her breath. The village she knew had been simple, quiet. Berthold—with its smoke, its sprawl, its countless faces—felt overwhelming. Lyra's arm tightened around her waist, a silent promise of safety.
As they descended the winding road, the sounds of Berthold carried up to meet them: the clang of a blacksmith's hammer, the lowing of cattle, the coarse shouts of voices. Not harmony, but chaos.
They passed through the main gate—wide open, unguarded.
"That's… strange," Lyra murmured, frowning. "No watch, no knights."
The streets teemed with bodies, but not with order. Drunks stumbled. Merchants shouted. Deals turned to arguments in the dust. Lyra's party was halfway across the main square when the chaos broke into violence. A pack of rough-looking men swaggered into the stalls, shoving vendors aside and snatching food.
One thug tore a basket of tomatoes from a cart—only to have one slip free and smash across Captain Rita's breastplate.
Elise groaned. "Not again." Her hand dropped instantly to her dagger.
Captain Rita drew his horse alongside Lyra, jaw tight. "General?"
Lyra's gaze swept the square. No guards. No order. Her voice cut through the noise. "Go."
Rita wheeled, her voice a soldier's bark. "Elise. Ava. With me!"
The three dismounted in one fluid motion, their discipline like a blade against the chaos. Elise and Ava moved first, quick and precise, each strike disabling without wasted effort. Rita's gauntleted hand locked around the ruffian leader's arm like an iron trap.
The man sneered, struggling against the unbreakable grip. "Who do you think you are?!"
"You dare cause trouble in broad daylight?" Rita growled, his voice carrying authority over the crowd.
Another ruffian froze mid-step, his gaze flicked from the banner on Lyra's horse to the Oakhart emblem gleaming on her armor. His face drained of color. "It's... it's the Knights of Oakhart!"
The words spread like fire. Fear rippled through the gang. One bolted, then another. Within heartbeats, the mob scattered, their bravado crumbling into terror. Whispers chased them: General Lyra… the Oakhart knights…
From his saddle, Rory watched in awe. A moment ago, the thugs had ruled the square; now they fled like rats. His gaze flicked to Rita and Elise, standing tall, their prisoners subdued with ease.
"See, kid?" Shawn leaned down, his voice full of pride. "The General doesn't need to draw a blade. Her name does the fighting."
Rory swallowed, his awe shifting into something deeper: respect.
Around them, merchants scrambled to gather scattered wares, relief softening their fear. Lyra urged her horse forward, eyes narrowing.
"Where are Berthold's knights?" she asked, her tone low and dangerous.
The captured ruffian refused her gaze, mumbling, "I don't know."
A merchant stepped forward, voice trembling. "They were ordered away, Lady General. By Governess Gessa. None have returned."
Lyra's eyes darkened. "And the Governess?"
The merchant pointed to a distant spire that rose above the rooftops. His hand shook. "At her mansion. But… she hasn't been herself."
Lyra followed his gesture. The spire stood tall, but to her, it loomed with shadows. Governess Gessa—her senior, her friend.
The mission had changed.
Berthold was not safe.
And Gessa was not at her post.