The morning after the wolf hunt, Lyra woke to the muffled hum of whispers and a heaviness in her limbs. She sat up on the lumpy cot, rubbing her temples. The inn's small room felt suffocating, the voices in her armor louder than usual. Even as she tried to block them out, fragments of the previous day's battle surfaced in her mind—the wolves' snarls, the metallic taste of fear, the surge of borrowed strength.
Across the room, Emmy stirred, her hair a mess of golden tangles. She sat up, blinking sleepily, and gave Lyra a toothy grin. "Good morning, big sis."
"Morning," Lyra replied, managing a smile despite the tension in her chest.
Emmy padded over and hugged her tightly. The warmth of her small arms brought Lyra a moment of peace, the whispers quieting as though soothed by the child's innocence. Lyra held her sister close, finding comfort in the steady rhythm of her breathing.
"Are you going out again today?" Emmy asked, looking up at her.
"Probably," Lyra said. "There's always work to do."
Emmy pouted. "I wish you didn't have to."
Lyra ruffled her sister's hair. "Don't worry. I'll be careful."
After a quick breakfast of bread and cheese, Lyra made her way to the guild hall. The bustling room was filled with adventurers of all ranks, from greenhorns like herself to seasoned fighters boasting scars and tales of glory. Lyra scanned the job board, her eyes landing on a notice for an escort mission. A merchant caravan needed protection on its way to the next town—simple enough, but lucrative compared to other tasks.
"This one's got your name on it," a familiar voice said.
Lyra turned to see Jonas, the scarred axe-wielder from the wolf hunt. He smirked, his arms crossed. "You did good yesterday. Got a knack for staying calm under pressure."
"Thanks," Lyra said, keeping her tone neutral. She didn't want to attract too much attention, especially not from someone as observant as Jonas.
"You thinking about the escort job?" he asked.
She nodded. "Pays well."
"Careful with those," Jonas warned. "They're easy on paper, but bandits like to hit caravans, especially ones carrying anything valuable."
"I'll manage," Lyra said, hoping her confidence sounded genuine.
Jonas shrugged. "Suit yourself. Just don't bite off more than you can chew, kid."
After signing up for the job, Lyra met with the merchant—a rotund man with a booming voice and a nervous energy that set her on edge. The caravan was modest, consisting of two wagons loaded with crates and barrels. Another adventurer, a wiry man with a longbow, had also been hired for the job.
"Let's get moving," the merchant said, glancing nervously at the horizon. "I want to reach the next town before nightfall."
The journey started uneventfully. Lyra walked beside the wagons, her hand resting on the hilt of her borrowed blade. The whispers in her armor remained quiet, their presence a faint undercurrent beneath the sounds of creaking wheels and the merchant's chatter. The longbowman, who introduced himself as Kerr, kept to the rear, his sharp eyes scanning the surrounding countryside.
It wasn't until midday that Lyra felt the shift. The whispers grew louder, urgent. She slowed her pace, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the road ahead. The fields on either side of the dirt path were tall with wild grass, swaying gently in the breeze. It looked peaceful, but the whispers told a different story.
"Kerr," Lyra called over her shoulder. "Something's wrong."
The archer frowned but didn't argue, his bow already in hand. "You see something?"
"Not yet," Lyra admitted, gripping her blade tighter. "But—"
The ambush came swiftly. Bandits emerged from the tall grass, their weapons glinting in the sunlight. There were five of them—three armed with crude swords, one with a club, and another holding a crossbow aimed directly at the merchant.
"Drop your weapons," the leader growled, a scarred man with a sneer that reminded Lyra of Jonas. "And hand over the goods. No one gets hurt."
Kerr loosed an arrow before the man finished speaking, the projectile burying itself in one of the bandits' legs. The injured man howled, and chaos erupted.
Lyra moved instinctively, the whispers guiding her as she rushed the nearest attacker. Her blade met his with a clash of steel, and she pushed him back, her movements faster and more precise than she expected. The whispers surged, filling her mind with fragments of strategy and intent. She ducked under a wild swing and slashed at the man's side, her blade cutting through his armor.
Blood splattered the ground as the bandit fell, his screams echoing in Lyra's ears. The whispers roared in triumph, their presence overwhelming. She stumbled, momentarily disoriented, but forced herself to focus. Another bandit was charging at her, his club raised high.
Lyra sidestepped the attack, her blade darting out to slice his arm. The man dropped his weapon with a cry of pain, and Lyra kicked him to the ground. She hesitated, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The whispers demanded she finish him, their tone insistent, but something held her back.
A crossbow bolt whizzed past her ear, snapping her out of her trance. She turned to see the archer bandit reloading, his attention split between her and Kerr. Without thinking, Lyra sprinted toward him, her blade flashing. The whispers guided her steps, weaving her through the fray with eerie precision.
She reached the archer just as he raised his weapon, her blade striking true. The crossbow fell from his hands as he crumpled to the ground, his eyes wide with shock. Lyra stood over him, her chest heaving, the whispers still clawing at her mind.
By the time the fight ended, three bandits lay dead and the remaining two had fled. Kerr was unscathed, though his quiver was nearly empty, and the merchant was unharmed but visibly shaken.
"Nice work," Kerr said, giving Lyra an appraising look. "You're quicker than you look."
Lyra didn't respond. She was too focused on the whispers, which were still celebrating their victory. She touched the edge of her armor, trying to calm them, but the fragments of emotion she'd absorbed from the bandits lingered—fear, anger, desperation. It made her stomach turn.
"Let's keep moving," she said finally, her voice steadier than she felt.
The rest of the journey passed in tense silence. When they reached the town, the merchant paid them quickly and disappeared, muttering about never traveling this road again. Kerr offered Lyra a brief nod before heading toward the tavern, leaving her alone with her thoughts.
Lyra leaned against the wagon, her hands trembling. The whispers had made her stronger, faster, but at what cost? Each time she fought, she felt herself slipping further into their grip, the line between her own thoughts and theirs blurring.
She touched her necklace, its familiar weight grounding her. "I can't let this consume me," she whispered to herself. "I have to stay in control."
But as she turned to leave, she couldn't shake the feeling that control was slipping further out of reach with every battle.