The palace courtyard was alive with motion and sound. Banners snapped in the afternoon breeze, their gold-and-crimson threads flaring like fire in the sunlight. The clash of practice swords rang out in steady rhythm, punctuated by the sharp commands of drill captains. Guards moved in disciplined formation across the flagstones, each step precise, each strike measured and relentless.
Away from the ordered ranks, Rory trained alone at the edge of the yard.
His shirt clung to him with sweat. His arms trembled with strain as he swung his wooden practice sword again and again. His form was still rough, his footwork too stiff, but there was fire in every strike—raw, stubborn determination that refused to be extinguished. He pressed himself harder with each breath, as if sheer will might carve him into a warrior.
From the shade of a colonnade, Lyra watched him.
Then she moved toward the older recruits.
Her arms were folded, her sharp gaze tracking every misstep, every correction, with the precision of a commander who had seen countless soldiers rise—and just as many fall.
A soldier overreached.
His grip slipped.
The wooden blade struck the ground with a hollow crack.
"Pick it up faster," Lyra's voice cut across the yard like a whip. "Drop your sword on a battlefield and you die."
Lieutenant Shawn leaned against a pillar nearby, casually chewing on a strip of dried fruit, while Captain Rita barked orders at the archers drilling at the far side of the courtyard.
Minutes passed in relentless correction—stances adjusted, grips refined, mistakes sharply called out.
Then Lyra turned.
She was already moving toward Rory.
"And that's enough for you, Rory."
He stilled, then straightened slowly. His chest heaved with heavy breaths.
"I can do more," he said through clenched teeth.
"You already have," Lyra replied calmly. She bent, lifted the wooden blade with ease, and tested its weight. "But training isn't about swinging until your arms collapse. It's about control. Knowing when to push—and when to stop."
She held the sword out to him.
Rory hesitated, jaw tight with frustration. Sweat slipped into his eyes, but he refused to blink. "If I don't push, I'll fall behind."
Lyra studied him, and for a brief moment, she saw a younger version of herself—all hunger, all fire, no patience.
Her voice softened.
"You'll never be ready if you break yourself trying. Rest is part of training. Reflection is part of training."
She stepped back and met his gaze.
"You've earned a pause. And there's something else you should do with it."
Rory frowned. "Something else?"
"Go to Selene." Lyra nodded toward the arched doors leading into the palace. "She's in the royal library. She'll welcome your company."
Surprise flickered across his face. "You're… sending me away?"
"I'm giving you leave," Lyra said faintly, almost smiling. "And if you wish to understand Oakhart— Battle strategy or even the truth behind dragons—the library will teach you more than any sword stroke ever will."
Rory shifted awkwardly. "But… I can't read very well."
"Then ask Selene to help you."
He looked down at the sword in his hands, weighing her words. At last, he nodded. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he jogged toward the palace doors. His footsteps faded into the stone halls as he disappeared inside.
Shawn stepped up beside Lyra once Rory was gone.
"You're hard on him," he said with a smirk. "But you care. He'll remember that."
"He reminds me of someone I once knew," Lyra replied quietly, her gaze lingering on the doors. "He thinks strength comes from the edge of a sword. But strength comes in quieter forms too."
"Like what?" Shawn asked.
Lyra was silent for a long moment.
"Like protecting those who don't yet realize the danger they're in."
Shawn nodded. "The kid's too eager. Eagerness burns fast. He'll need guidance to temper it."
Then he paused. "Oh… you meant Selene."
Lyra said, "Selene's research grows deeper. We found a flower. The shopkeeper say its in Avalon."
"A flower?" Shawn echoed.
"Only found in Avalon."
Shawn whistled softly. "The strictest kingdom on the map. Not just anyone walks into Avalon."
"She spends hours chasing whispers," Lyra continued. "Of Avalon. Of the Moon Weavers. She looks like someone who believes she's safe—"
"But knowledge has sharp edges," Shawn cut in. "Sometimes sharper than swords."
Lyra shot him a flat glare "That's comforting, Shawn."
For a while, they said nothing.
The banners snapped in the wind. Steel flashed as soldiers moved in perfect rhythm, their voices rising in echoing unison.
Yet Lyra's gaze kept drifting upward—to the high windows of the royal library where warm light spilled softly across the stone.
Behind those walls, Selene hunted secrets that might never have been meant to surface.
She had promised to help Selene uncover the truth of her past. She had spoken the vow with steady certainty, believing knowledge would be a shield.
Now she wasn't so sure.
What if, instead of protecting Selene, she was guiding her straight into the teeth of danger? What if every secret uncovered was another step closer to something that could take Selene from her forever?
The thought struck deeper than any blade.
Battles she understood. Enemies she could face. But this—this quiet, creeping fear—was something she could not strike down with steel.
What if, in chasing the truth of who she had been, Selene was walking toward a fate Lyra could not follow?
And worse—
What if Lyra lost her along the way?
And Lyra's chest tightened at the thought.
Noticing her worry, Shawn lifted his practice blade.
"A spar, General?"
Lyra turned to face him.
"Very well."
They stepped into the open circle as nearby soldiers instinctively pulled back. Shawn rolled his shoulders loose and took a relaxed stance, blade angled low. Lyra stood opposite him, posture precise, her grip firm and unwavering.
"Try not to cripple me," Shawn said lightly.
Lyra didn't answer.
The moment stretched.
Then she struck.
Steel met steel with a sharp crack that rang across the courtyard. Shawn barely managed to parry as Lyra drove forward with sudden, controlled force. High strike. Low feint. A swift cut to the side. She pressed him back with disciplined precision.
"Still furious, I see," Shawn grunted.
Their blades met again in a burst of sparks.
Lyra said nothing. Her movements were swift but deliberate—each strike carrying more than strength alone. Worry hid beneath her control like a blade beneath silk.
Shawn countered with a sweeping cut. Lyra twisted aside, their shoulders brushing as they passed. He turned fast, pressing her center.
"Careful," he said. "You're fighting like you're chasing something."
They locked blades.
For a breathless instant, neither moved.
"Or running from it," Lyra murmured—and shoved him back.
Shawn stumbled, then surged forward again. Their weapons clashed in rapid succession, the steady cadence echoing like thunder across the stone.
"You're thinking too much," Shawn said between breaths.
"You talk too much."
He laughed—and the opening appeared.
Lyra twisted inside his guard and struck upward. His blade flew from his hand, skidding across the flagstones.
Shawn froze, chest rising sharply.
Lyra's blade hovered at his throat.
The courtyard fell silent.
Then Lyra lowered her weapon.
Shawn bent to retrieve his sword, still breathing hard. "That wasn't anger," he said quietly. "That was fear."
Lyra turned slightly away. "You mistake readiness for fear."
"Do I?" He stepped closer. "You don't fear battle. You fear what's waiting beyond it."
Her gaze drifted upward again—to the library.
Warm light still burned there.
"You sent Rory to protect him, I know you quite well, Lyra" Shawn said softly. "But who's protecting her from what she's uncovering?"
Lyra's jaw tightened.
"I am," she said.
"From here?"
She didn't answer.
The banners cracked in the wind once more.
And far above them, behind stone and parchment and ancient truths, Selene searched ever closer to something even Lyra's blade might not be able to cut through.
Peace in Oakhart felt fragile.
Too fragile.
And Lyra feared it would shatter far sooner than any of them expected.