The tavern was dimly lit, its walls covered with grime and the sour scent of stale ale hanging in the air. Lyra adjusted her cloak, pulling the hood low over her face as she stepped inside. It wasn't the sort of place she would have chosen to enter under normal circumstances, but the spirit's vision had burned the scarred man's face into her mind. This was where she would find him.
She slipped into a shadowed corner, her eyes scanning the room. The whispers in her armor murmured faintly, their presence unsettling but familiar. Patrons crowded the wooden tables, their voices a chaotic blend of raucous laughter and whispered dealings. A bard strummed a worn lute in the corner, his tune barely audible over the din.
Then she saw him.
The scarred man sat near the hearth, his back to the fire. His disfigured cheek twisted his sneer into a permanent smirk as he leaned forward, speaking in hushed tones with a group of rough-looking men. They laughed and drank, oblivious to Lyra's watchful eyes.
She resisted the urge to act. Barging in without a plan would only get her killed. Instead, she stayed in her corner, sipping the watered-down ale she'd bought to avoid suspicion. The whispers in her armor grew louder, pressing her to move, to confront. She gritted her teeth, focusing on the scarred man's movements instead.
He gestured toward one of his companions, a wiry man with a tattoo snaking up his neck. Their conversation was low, but Lyra caught fragments when the room quieted briefly.
"…shipment arrives… guards won't even see us coming…"
Her heart quickened. These men were more than petty criminals—they were organized, precise. Was this the same group her parents had stumbled upon? She had no proof, but the whispers in her armor stirred as if to confirm her suspicions.
The scarred man stood, clapping his companions on the back before heading toward the exit. Lyra stiffened. If she followed him, she might learn more. The whispers in her mind buzzed, urging her forward, but then another voice cut through them—a whisper unlike any she'd heard before.
Leave now… danger comes…
The words were urgent, frantic. Lyra's breath caught in her throat as she scanned the room, searching for the source. No one seemed to notice her, yet the warning was clear. She hesitated, torn between following the scarred man and heeding the mysterious voice.
The decision was made for her when a burly man at a nearby table turned his head slightly, his eyes narrowing as they landed on her. Lyra's blood ran cold. One of the scarred man's companions had noticed her after all.
She rose quickly, pulling her hood lower as she slipped out of the tavern. The cold night air hit her like a slap, but she didn't stop. Her boots clattered against the cobblestones as she made her way down the alley, the faint sound of footsteps behind her confirming her fear.
She ducked into a side street, her hand instinctively resting on the hilt of her sword. The whispers in her armor surged, their tone shifting to a warning. The alley was dark and narrow, with no clear way out except back the way she'd come. Her pursuer was close now—she could hear his heavy breathing.
Lyra turned to face him. He was a hulking figure, his face hidden beneath a hood, but his posture radiated menace. "You've been watching us," he growled, his voice low and gravelly. "Who sent you?"
"No one," Lyra replied, her voice steady despite the hammering of her heart. "I'm just passing through."
"Liar."
He lunged at her, drawing a dagger from his belt. Lyra sidestepped, her sword flashing as she parried his strike. The clash of steel echoed in the confined space, drowning out the whispers in her armor. Her opponent was strong, but his movements were sloppy, fueled more by brute force than skill.
Lyra ducked under a wide swing, slashing at his side. Her blade bit into flesh, and the man let out a pained grunt. He stumbled, but his eyes burned with fury as he came at her again. This time, Lyra didn't hold back. With a swift motion, she drove her sword into his chest, the whispers in her armor reaching a fever pitch as the man collapsed to the ground.
The alley fell silent.
Lyra stared at the body, her chest heaving. The whispers in her armor surged, filling her mind with a chaotic mix of triumph and despair. She pressed a hand to her necklace, trying to calm herself, but the emotions were overwhelming.
"You brought this on yourself," she muttered, though the words felt hollow.
She crouched beside the body, searching his pockets. A few coins, a crude map, and a slip of paper with hastily scrawled notes—nothing that gave away much about the scarred man's plans. Frustration bubbled within her as she stood, wiping her blade clean on the man's cloak.
Before she could leave, the whispering returned—not from her armor, but from the shadows around her. Lyra froze, her eyes darting to the corners of the alley. A faint shimmer appeared, coalescing into a ghostly figure. It was the spirit from the woods, its translucent form flickering like a dying flame.
"You again," Lyra said, her voice low. "What do you want now?"
The spirit didn't speak, but its whispers filled her mind. Careful… they know you…
"What do you mean?" she demanded, stepping closer. "Who knows me?"
The spirit's form flickered violently, its outline distorting. Eyes are watching… shadows hunt… With those final, cryptic words, it vanished, leaving Lyra alone once more.
She clenched her fists, frustration and unease warring within her. The spirit's warning was vague, but the implication was clear—she was in more danger than she'd realized. If the scarred man's group suspected her involvement, they wouldn't rest until they found her.
Lyra slipped out of the alley, moving quickly through the labyrinthine streets. By the time she reached the inn, her hands were trembling. She pushed the door open quietly, finding Emmy asleep on the small bed they shared. Lyra sat on the edge, her sword resting against the wall, and stared at her sister's peaceful face.
"I won't let them find us," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "No matter what it takes."
The whispers in her armor were faint now, their presence like a distant hum. Lyra clutched her necklace, drawing strength from its familiar warmth. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, but tonight, she allowed herself a brief moment of calm.
For Emmy, she would endure anything.