The rain had been falling for hours, turning the cobblestone alleys into rivers of mud and filth. Lyra's boots splashed through puddles as she tracked the faint echo of steel on steel. The noise drew her to a forgotten courtyard—half-collapsed walls, weeds pushing between the cracks, and in the center… a man on his knees.
Three armored thugs circled him like wolves. His sword lay a few paces away, his armor battered and tarnished. Even through the grime, Lyra recognized the crest carved into the chestplate: House Veylor—once proud knights, now disgraced traitors in the eyes of the court.
She should've walked away. One less problem in the city. But the fire in her chest—the hunger for power and the itch to defy fate—pulled her forward.
"Step aside," she called, voice cutting through the rain.
The largest thug sneered, wiping his blade on his cloak. "Move along, girl. This one's debt is worth more than you'll ever have."
Her lips curved in a cold smile. "Try me."
It ended quickly. One moment, they laughed; the next, she blurred forward, her dagger flashing under the rainlight. A crimson arc splashed the stones, and two of them crumpled before they understood what had happened. The last fled, shouting curses into the storm.
The knight looked up at her, his breathing ragged. "Why?"
Lyra shrugged, offering him his sword. "You looked like you could be useful."
He took it, gripping the hilt as though it was the only thing tethering him to life. "Sir Kael of Veylor. You have my oath."
She studied him for a long moment, the rain dripping from her hood. An oath from a disgraced knight wasn't worth much in gold—but in blood and loyalty, it might be priceless.
"Then follow me," she said, turning toward the shadows. "We have work to do."
Behind her, she could hear his heavy footsteps falling into place, the first thread of the army she would one day weave.