The ground was littered with bodies—both human and ghoul. The survivors moved quietly among the dead, gathering their fallen comrades and tending to the wounded. The air was heavy with the stench of blood and smoke, the rising sun casting a harsh light over the scene.
Lysandra sat on the steps of the barracks, her body trembling as the adrenaline ebbed away. Her wounds throbbed, and her head felt light, but she was alive. The healer knelt beside her, reapplying the poultice to her leg and checking her back for further damage.
"You're lucky to be breathing," the healer said, their tone matter of fact. "Pushing yourself like that with venom still in your system was reckless."
"Wouldn't be the first time," she muttered, wincing as they tightened the bandage.
Alaric approached, his sword sheathed, his armor streaked with blood and ichor. He looked tired but unbroken, his eyes scanning her face with a mixture of relief and irritation.
"Reckless doesn't begin to cover it," he said, folding his arms.
Lysandra smirked faintly, though her exhaustion was evident. "You're welcome."
He crouched in front of her, shaking his head. "Do you have any idea how lucky you are that no one noticed what you were really doing?" he said, his voice lowering. "Half the soldiers think you were using a massive torch to drive the ghouls back. It's the only reason no one's asking questions."
Lysandra raised an eyebrow, though the faint flush of embarrassment crept into her pale cheeks. "A massive torch? Creative."
Alaric didn't smile. "Lysandra, I'm serious. If any of the knights figure it out—if they realize you were using magic—they won't care that you saved their lives. You'd be facing a death sentence."
Her smirk faded, replaced by a flicker of unease. "And you? Would you care?" she asked softly.
His jaw tightened, but he didn't look away. "You know where I stand," he said after a moment. "But that doesn't mean I can protect you from everyone else. You've already pushed your luck."
She sighed, leaning her head back against the wall. "We were outnumbered and about to be overrun. What else was I supposed to do? Stand by and let them kill everyone?"
"No," he admitted, his tone softening. "But you have to be smarter about this. What happens next time? What if someone puts it together? You can't just gamble with your life like this."
"I'll keep that in mind," she said dryly, though her voice lacked its usual bite. "Next time we're being attacked by a horde of ghouls, I'll make sure my torch looks convincing."
His lips twitched, almost into a smile, but the weight of the night lingered too heavily for humor. "You saved lives tonight," he said. "But if you keep burning yourself out like that, there won't be much left of you to save."
She met his gaze, her expression softening. "We all did what we had to."
Roderic joined them then, his face grim as he surveyed the camp. "We few good men, some horses and a wagon." he said, his voice heavy. "But we're alive. For now, that's enough."
Alaric nodded, though his hand unconsciously tightened on the hilt of his sword. "We need to move soon."
Roderic gestured to the men gathering supplies. "We'll be ready by midday. Rest while you can."
As Roderic walked away, Alaric sat beside Lysandra, the two of them watching the camp slowly come back to life. The silence between them was heavy, but it wasn't uncomfortable. They had survived—barely—and the bond forged in the chaos of battle felt stronger now than ever.
"You're not out of trouble yet," Alaric said after a long pause, his voice low.
"No," Lysandra agreed, leaning her head back with a weary sigh. "But at least I've got you to remind me."
He shook his head, a faint trace of a smile touching his lips. "You're insufferable, you know that?"
She smiled faintly, her exhaustion evident. "That's what people have told me."
The hours that followed were slow, filled with exhaustion and grim determination. Knights and mercenaries moved among the wounded, offering what care they could. The dead were wrapped in cloaks or blankets, lined up near the edge of the outpost, a silent reminder of the price they'd paid to survive the night.
Lysandra remained seated on the barracks steps, her head leaning back against the wall. The healer worked on her leg again, muttering about the venom still lingering in her system. Her back throbbed, the claw marks aching with every breath, but the fever had begun to subside, leaving her clearer-headed but utterly drained.
"You'll live," the healer said finally, tying off a fresh bandage. "Try not to do anything else that could kill you."
"Noted," Lysandra replied weakly, watching the healer move on to another mercenary.
Alaric stayed close, sitting beside her on the steps with his sword resting across his knees. He had cleaned most of the ichor and blood from his armor, but streaks still remained, a stark reminder of the battle they'd barely survived.
"Feeling any better?" he asked after a while, his voice quiet.
"A little," she admitted, though her voice still carried the weight of her exhaustion. "The fever's breaking."
He nodded, his gaze drifting to the activity around the camp. "Good. You need to be ready to ride by midday."
"You're really not going to let me rest, are you?" she said, half-smiling despite herself.
Alaric turned to her, his expression softening. "Rest now. Once we're on the move, I can't guarantee you'll have the chance."
Lysandra sighed but didn't argue. She closed her eyes, letting the sounds of the camp wash over her as she drifted in and out of a light doze.
By late morning, the soldiers had repaired the worst breaches in the palisade and cleared as much of the battlefield as they could. The bodies of the fallen ghouls had dissolved into dark, oily stains on the ground, their unnatural forms leaving no trace beyond the blood and fear they had sown.
Roderic walked the perimeter, his sharp eyes scanning the tree line. Donall and Kellan were posted near the gate, their weapons ready, though their faces were drawn with exhaustion.
"The forest is too quiet," Roderic muttered as he approached Alaric. "I don't like it."
"Neither do I," Alaric replied, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "How's morale?"
"Frayed," Roderic admitted. "The men are holding it together for now, but last night shook them. If the ghouls come back while we're moving, it'll be chaos."
"Then we'll make sure they don't," Alaric said firmly, though his jaw tightened.
Roderic nodded, though his expression remained grim. "We're almost ready to move. Another hour, maybe less. Make sure everyone knows the plan."
Alaric glanced toward the barracks, where Lysandra was sitting upright now, looking pale but determined. He walked over, kneeling beside her.
"Midday's coming fast," he said. "Are you ready to ride?"
"I'll manage." she replied, though she winced as she shifted her weight.
Alaric frowned but didn't press her. "Good. Because if you fall off that horse, I'm not carrying you this time."
She smirked faintly. "I'll try not to ruin your day."
As the sun climbed higher in the sky, the camp was a flurry of activity. Wagons were loaded with supplies, knights and mercenaries alike mounted their horses, their weapons ready. The tension was palpable, every creak of the wagons and rustle of the forest setting nerves on edge.
Lysandra swung herself into the saddle with some effort, her injured leg trembling under her weight. She bit back a grimace, gripping the reins tightly. Alaric was already on his horse beside her, his sharp gaze scanning the surroundings.
Roderic rode to the front of the caravan, raising his hand to signal the departure. "We move fast and stay together," he called out. "Eyes on the forest, and don't fall behind!"
The caravan began to move, the wagons creaking as they rolled onto the dirt path. Soldiers rode in tight formation, their faces grim and alert. The sound of rushing water faded as they left the river behind, plunging deeper into the forest.
Lysandra kept her eyes forward, her body tense with pain and lingering fatigue. Alaric rode beside her, his presence steadying, though his attention never wavered from the trees.
The forest was quiet, too quiet, and every shadow seemed to hold a threat. But the caravan moved swiftly, the determination of its members outweighing their fear. The steady rhythm of the caravan filled the tense silence, the sound of hooves and creaking wagons a constant backdrop to Lysandra's thoughts. Her leg ached, her back throbbed, and the fatigue made every breath feel heavier. To distract herself, she glanced at Alaric, who rode beside her, his sharp eyes scanning the forest as if daring it to challenge them.
She cleared her throat, breaking the silence. "You're going to keep looking at me like that until I say something, aren't you?"
Alaric's gaze flicked to her, one brow arching. "I was wondering how long it would take you to speak up."
Lysandra smirked faintly, though her fatigue dulled the usual sharpness of her expression. "Well, here I am. What's on your mind?"
He didn't answer immediately, his gaze lingering on her with an intensity that made her shift uncomfortably in the saddle. Finally, he spoke, his voice quieter than usual. "Back in the barracks. When the fever had you... hallucinating."
Her body tensed instinctively, and she clenched the reins tighter. "I don't remember much of that," she lied, her tone flat. "Fever dreams don't exactly stick around."
"You called out," he pressed, ignoring her attempt to brush it off. "You said someone was chasing you. I woke you up, and you kept saying 'he's here.'" His voice grew softer. "Who were you talking about?"
Her breath hitched, and she turned her gaze forward, the tension in her shoulders palpable. "It was just the fever," she said curtly. "Doesn't mean anything."
"Lysandra," Alaric said firmly, his tone cutting through her defenses. "I know a nightmare when I see one. That wasn't just the fever—it was something real. Someone real. Who was it?"
She let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. "You don't let anything go, do you?"
"Not when it's this important," he replied, his voice unwavering.
She was quiet for a moment, her jaw tight as she wrestled with herself. Finally, she sighed, her grip on the reins loosening slightly. "You really want to know?"
"Yes," he said simply.
She took a deep breath, her voice lowering as if speaking the name would summon the figure back.
"The man in the dream—he was an assassin. Sent after me when I was a child."
Lysandra's voice softened as she spoke, her gaze fixed on the forest ahead. "I grew up at Hillhouse, near the northern border between Voltaria and Eldren. It's on the Voltarian side, close enough to the border that you could feel the tension in the air. My mother's family owned the estate. It had been in their bloodline for generations."
"And they raised you after she passed?" Alaric asked, his tone cautious.
She let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. "Raised me? That's generous. They kept me there, out of obligation. To them, I was a stain on their reputation, the bastard daughter of the Prince of Eldren. My uncle, my grandfather, even my cousin—they tolerated me because they had to. To do otherwise would have been worse for appearances."
Alaric frowned, his expression darkening. "They treated you like that. Even though you were family?"
"To them, I wasn't really family," she said, her tone matter of fact. "I was a reminder of my mother's 'mistake'—and bringing shame to their name. My uncle spent most of his time avoiding me, my grandfather barely spoke to me unless he had to, and my cousin…" She trailed off, her jaw tightening. "Well, let's just say she made it clear I wasn't welcome."
Alaric didn't reply immediately, his sharp gaze lingering on her. "And your father? The Prince of Eldren?"
"He never came," she said flatly. "Not once. He sent his representatives every few months, on their way to the capital, to make sure I was still alive and behaving myself. They'd ask a few questions, glance around the estate, and leave like I was some inconvenient task on their to-do list."
His hands tightened on the reins, his voice quiet but firm. "That's no way for a child to grow up."
"It's the way I grew up," she replied, shrugging as if it didn't matter, though her voice betrayed the faintest edge of bitterness. "Hillhouse was never really a home, not for me. It was just a place to hide me away, to make sure I didn't embarrass anyone important."
"And the assassin?" Alaric asked, his voice lowering. "You mentioned him during the fever dream. Was he sent after you there?"
She hesitated, her grip tightening on the reins. "Yes. I was nine. I'd snuck out of the estate one night—I liked to wander the grounds when no one was watching. I was in the gardens when he found me. Dragged me into the shadows. I didn't even have time to scream."
"What happened?" Alaric pressed gently.
"I should've died," she admitted, her voice hollow. "He was faster, stronger, trained for this. But then… the magic came. I didn't even know I had it, but it erupted out of me—wild and uncontrollable. Fire, everywhere. It burned him, gave me just enough time to get away."
Alaric's gaze softened, though his jaw remained tense. "And after that?"
She let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. "My grandfather panicked. He tightened security around Hillhouse and sent word to my father, demanding that he do something. You know what he did? He sent more representatives—just like before. They came, looked around, told me everything would be fine, and left without so much as a second thought."
Her fingers tightened around the reins; her knuckles white. "But this time, one of them was different. Among the group was a mage—a noble from Eldren. He was one of the only people who treated me like something other than a stain on their reputation. He sensed the magic in me almost immediately."
Alaric frowned; his curiosity clear. "Magic is illegal in Voltaria," he said cautiously. "It's dangerous just to practice it here. Why would he take that risk?"
"Because it's different in Eldren," Lysandra explained, her tone a mix of bitterness and pride. "There, magic isn't just allowed—it's praised. Practitioners are celebrated, elevated in society, admired for their gifts. But here in Voltaria?" She gestured around her, her voice dripping with disdain. "Here, it's forbidden. Feared. If anyone had known what I was, they wouldn't have praised me—they would've killed me."
"So, this mage… he chose to help you?" Alaric asked.
"He did," she said, her voice softening slightly. "He pulled me aside after the others left, gave me this rune." She reached toward the hidden pocket in her satchel where the stone rested, her fingers brushing against the fabric. "Then he started teaching me—little by little, in secret. He taught me how to control the fire, air, healing, how to channel it through the rune, how to keep the magic hidden."
"For how long?" Alaric asked.
"Three years," she replied. "Every time the representatives came, he'd find me. We'd meet in the shadows of the estate, and he'd teach me what he could. He knew it was dangerous—if anyone in Voltaria found out, it would've been the end of us both. But he said the magic wasn't going away."
"And then he left," Alaric guessed, his voice quiet.
She nodded, her expression hardening. "One day, when I was 12, he just didn't show up. I overheard one of the staff saying he'd been 'reassigned.' No explanation, no warning. Just gone. That's when I realized I couldn't stay at Hillhouse anymore. I wasn't safe there—not from my magic, not from the people around me. So, I ran."
Alaric was silent for a moment, his jaw tightening as he considered her words. "And the rune?"
"It's all I have left of him," she said, her voice softer now.
He let out a slow breath, his eyes narrowing as he looked ahead. "He was right, you know. Magic like yours doesn't just go away. But you're carrying the weight of it alone."
"I don't have a choice," Lysandra said sharply. "You know what they'd do to me here if they found out. It doesn't matter what magic means in Eldren—it's forbidden here. I've spent my whole life pretending it doesn't exist, hiding what I am, because the alternative is a death sentence."
He studied her for a long moment before responding. "Maybe. But you're not alone anymore. Whatever comes next, you won't face it by yourself.
For a moment, she said nothing, the weight of his words settling over her. Then, with a faint smirk, she said, "Careful, Alaric. Keep talking like that, and I might think you care."
He chuckled softly, though his gaze remained steady. "What if I do?"
Her smirk faltered, and her eyes hardened as she turned her gaze back to the forest ahead. "Don't," she said sharply, her tone cutting through the quiet like a blade.
Alaric's expression softened, but he didn't look away. "Why not?"
She exhaled slowly, her grip tightening on the reins. "Because I'm beneath you," she said finally, her voice laced with bitterness. "You're a prince, Alaric. Next in line to the throne of Voltaria. And me? I'm just a bastard mercenary. I'm not the kind of person royal nobles should care about, or even think about."
Alaric's jaw tightened, his grip on the reins flexing. "That's not for you to decide."
"Yes, it is," she shot back, turning to him with fire in her eyes. "You think the world will look at us and see anything but a prince lowering himself to associate with someone like me? People like you aren't supposed to care about people like me. That's how it's always been."
"Maybe it's time things changed," he replied, his tone steady but resolute.
Lysandra let out a dry laugh, shaking her head. "That's a nice thought, but it's not how the world works. People don't change, Alaric—not when they're holding onto power.
He studied her, his gaze unwavering. "You don't get to make that decision for me, Lysandra. I don't care what the nobles think, or what anyone else thinks. You matter. Whether you want to believe that or not."
She turned away from him, her shoulders stiff as she stared ahead. The silence between them grew heavier, the weight of his words settling over her like a storm cloud. Her throat tightened, but she forced herself to speak, her voice quieter now.
"You're a fool if you think this can end well."
"Maybe I am," he said softly.
For a moment, she didn't respond, her gaze fixed on the path ahead. Her heart clenched against the possibility of believing him, of letting herself think he meant it. The rhythmic clatter of hooves and creaking wagon wheels filled the silence as the caravan pressed onward, weaving through the dense forest. The dirt road was uneven, and each jolt sent a sharp twinge of pain through Lysandra's injured leg. She shifted in the saddle, trying to ease the pressure, but it was no use. The dull throb had grown into a steady ache. The fatigue that had briefly loosened its grip was dragging her down again, making every movement feel heavier. Her hands tightened on the reins as her vision blurred slightly. She blinked hard, willing herself to stay alert. This wasn't the time to falter.
"Lysandra," Alaric's voice broke through her thoughts, soft but firm. She turned her head toward him, meeting his steady gaze. His sharp eyes scanned her pale face, the slight tremble in her grip.
"You're fading."
"I'm fine," she said quickly, though her voice lacked conviction.
"You're not," he countered, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You're pushing yourself too hard. If you don't rest soon—"
"I can manage," she interrupted, though even as the words left her mouth, she felt her strength faltering. Her hands slipped slightly on the reins, and her horse shifted uneasily beneath her.
Alaric let out a low sigh, his expression caught between frustration and concern. "You're as stubborn as they come, you know that?"
"It's one of my better qualities," she muttered, trying to muster a smirk but failing as her fatigue weighed her down.
Before she could protest further, Alaric reached over, his hand firm but careful as he took hold of her reins. "You're not going to argue your way out of this," he said. "Lean on the saddle horn if you have to but stop pretending you're invincible."
She opened her mouth to retort, but the exhaustion stole the words before she could form them. Instead, she reluctantly shifted her weight, gripping the saddle horn to steady herself. The gesture felt like defeat, but at that moment, she didn't have the energy to fight him. Alaric kept hold of her reins, guiding her horse alongside his as the caravan continued down the road. His presence was steadying, his gaze flicking between her and the forest ahead.
"Just hold on," he said quietly. "We'll stop soon."
Lysandra nodded faintly, the fight leaving her as the ache in her leg and the pull of fatigue became too much to ignore. She leaned forward slightly, her grip tightening on the horn as her eyelids fluttered. She let herself rely on Alaric's steadiness, just this once.