The air shifted.
Liora didn't hear it at first—didn't smell it either. The trail had gone quiet in that unnatural way, where no birds dared sing and even the wind seemed to crouch low.
Then came the hiss.
A split-second whistle cut through the trees—and Veyra was already moving.
The arrow missed her throat by an inch, thudding into the leather strap of her shoulder pauldron. She twisted with it, one fluid motion, dragging her horse aside with the reins, blade already drawn in her other hand. Silver steel flashed in the half-light.
"Down!" she barked.
Another arrow hurtled through the mist, but this time it came toward them—toward Liora. Before she could even register it fully, her hand moved on instinct. She ripped the dagger from her belt and knocked the shaft away mid-flight, the clash of metal sparking as the arrow veered into the dirt. Her breath caught; Kellen was still frozen beside her.
"Not bad," he muttered, startled, before snapping back into motion. "Stay low!"
From the treeline, figures surged.
No banners. No crests. No visible allegiance—just lean, fast silhouettes in grayed leathers, faces masked and weapons bare. And worse: Liora couldn't smell them. No musk, no pheromone tinge. Just cold, blank air where instincts should've screamed warning.
Suppressants—had to be.
But none of them mattered the moment Veyra roared.
She didn't scream, not like a soldier—hers was lower. A guttural, wordless sound that tore from her chest like it had been waiting there for years. It wasn't rage. It was command—the sound a storm made when it cracked open a mountain. It echoed across the trees.
And then she charged.
Veyra's horse reared as she leapt down, the great black cloak slashing behind her. Her sword moved like a second limb—no wasted motion. The first man that reached her lost his arm in a single blow. The second she gutted with a brutal upward arc, then kicked the body back into his companions.
Steel rang. Boots thundered on wet soil. Veyra's silver eyes caught the light and didn't blink.
She moved through them like something holy and furious—her armor dark against the forest, a blur of muscle and purpose. Three men tried to flank her.
None of them got the chance.
Liora had seen her hold back before. In training courts, in council halls, always measured—always controlled. This wasn't control.
This was war.
Her lieutenant, panting, caught up behind her, blade raised, trying to match her pace. She couldn't. No one could.
Kellen dismounted near Liora, shield snatched up from the saddlebag and raised. "Stay behind me."
"I'll manage," Liora breathed, heart pounding.
But her eyes stayed on Veyra. On the Lion's Heir.
A title she had never fully understood—until now.
Veyra barely heard the crunch of boots behind her before a hand shoved against her chest—firm, unyielding.
"MOVE," Malen barked, his voice sharper than she'd ever heard it.
The world swayed, but she let go. Just barely.
She staggered back a step, breath ragged, fingers still curled like claws at her sides. Malen was already kneeling beside Liora, satchel flung open, cloth pressed hard against the wound. Blood soaked his forearms.
"It's deep," he muttered. "But not through the lung. She's lucky—gods, she's lucky."
Lucky.
The word rang like a bell, cold and surreal.
"Veyra!" Kellen's voice snapped across the clearing. "We're not done!"
She turned just in time—another wave breaking from the tree line, five of them this time, rushing with blades unsheathed, faces hidden beneath hooded cloth. Still no identifying marks. Still no scent.
Suppressants.
That alone made it treason.
A flash of steel came too fast—Kellen intercepted the blow meant for her with a vicious counterstrike, knocking the man flat with a crunch of bone. Deyla slammed her shoulder into another and drove him into a tree, blade dragging red as she withdrew it clean.
But the last three rushed her.
Veyra's expression iced over. She was already moving.
The first swung wide—sloppy. She ducked and cut low, severing the tendons in his knee before driving her elbow into his jaw. He didn't rise again.
The second was faster. Their blades clashed—once, twice—before Veyra spun into a brutal kick, knocking the wind from his lungs. She didn't wait for the third to close in.
She drove her sword straight through his chest before he could react.
Every movement was clean, honed, without hesitation.
But inside—
She was burning.
Liora's scent still clung to her skin. It haunted her nostrils, curled around her spine like fire. She could feel the heat of it under her armor, the instinct clawing back up even now that she was no longer at her side.
She couldn't afford it.
Couldn't allow it.
She didn't know if she was furious at Liora for moving... or herself for reacting like this.
Behind her, Malen pressed a tincture to Liora's lips and whispered something low and steady. Liora was still awake. Barely. Her eyes fluttered toward Veyra with something like recognition. Her lips parted—
But whatever she would have said was lost.
Veyra turned her back before she could hear it.
—
Liora's world was blurring. The light through the trees fractured. Her breath came shallow, hitching. Something pressed at her side—firm, hot, rhythmic.
A voice—Malen's?—murmured things she couldn't catch.
But her eyes—her eyes found only one thing.
Veyra.
A storm in black, cutting through the chaos like the name they'd called her since she was old enough to wield steel.
Lion's heir.
It wasn't reverence that burned behind Liora's dazed stare. It was hunger, pride, something almost delirious. Her fingers curled weakly against Malen's coat. Her lips parted again, but this time no words came. Only a sound—a tiny, strangled gasp at the way Veyra moved, how everything bent away from her like the world itself remembered what fear meant.
A final attacker lunged.
Veyra spun with a snap of leather and steel, catching his weapon in hers. Their blades locked—but only for a second. She drove her boot into his ribs and, without waiting, flipped her sword in a savage arc that ended at his neck. Blood sprayed in a wide crescent.
Silence fell.
For a breath. Then another.
Then the panting. Kellen's shoulders hunched. Deyla dropped to a knee, catching her breath, blade bloodied.
Veyra stood alone in the clearing's center, her blade slick, her eyes unreadable. The leather over her left shoulder was torn, red staining beneath it. Her sword arm dripped slowly.
But she didn't seem to notice.
Her eyes were on Liora.
She crossed the clearing in three strides, her voice low, clipped.
"Status."
Malen looked up, startled. "Still bleeding, but not through the lung. I slowed it. She needs rest. Cool air. She's fevering."
"She's also still in heat," Veyra said quietly. Liora was especially weak in her current state.
Malen blinked. "Yes."
Kellen glanced over but said nothing.
Veyra crouched down. Her shadow stretched over Liora's trembling frame. And Liora, ever half-conscious, tilted her head weakly toward it—toward her.
The moment snapped like a stretched bowstring.
Veyra stood again, swift and sharp, and without a word, she turned back to Kellen.
"You let her off the horse," she said. Not a question. A cold accusation, sharpened by instinct and adrenaline.
Kellen stiffened, already bracing. "She jumped, Veyra. When Malen cried out—she was off before I could grab her. I wasn't about to drag her by her collar like a dog."
"You should have—" she started, voice too loud, too raw.
But then she saw it. The way his brows pinched. Not in guilt. In failure. In fear that he had done wrong. That she'd lost something precious because he hadn't gripped tighter.
Veyra's breath hitched. She closed her mouth and looked away.
"I know," she muttered. "You did what you could."
Kellen just nodded once, tightly. No pride in it. Just tiredness.
Behind them, Malen finished dressing the wound—binding Liora's side with stained cloth and murmured instructions she likely wouldn't remember. Her cheeks were pale but flushed high with fever, lips parted with every sharp, shallow breath.
And that scent—
Veyra moved before she realized it, one step, then another. Drawn like iron to the magnet of Liora's skin. The honey had soured into wine. The lavender burned like sun on stone. Her muscles tensed, her throat clicked dryly. She couldn't stop.
Just one more step and—
Crack.
The slap landed hard across her cheek.
It stunned her—not the pain, but the audacity. Her alpha instinct surged inside her.
She staggered a half step back and spun, lips curling in a growl before she even knew she was doing it.
Kellen stood there, grimacing, hand still half-raised.
"You said to do it," he said evenly, not flinching.
Silence. Then—
Deyla barked a low laugh. "Well, shit. He did need to."
Veyra blinked, breathing heavy. She looked between them, then at Liora—who hadn't even registered what just happened. Her eyes were glazed, focused only on the sky.
Malen was still fussing over the binding, quietly murmuring to keep her calm.
Veyra didn't speak again. But she sat back, jaw clenched, heat still flickering just beneath her skin.
She was losing control. And it terrified her.
The air still trembled with the echo of battle—metal on stone, the ragged gasps of the wounded, and the distant thrum of wind threading through the trees. Veyra stood still in it all, her breath finally steadying, her blade still red.
"Veyra," Kellen's voice came low at her side. Steady, anchoring. "We need to search the fallen. Anything—clothes, weapons, coins, paper—anything that could tie them to a house. Or give us a name."
Her gaze didn't shift from Liora, who lay curled beneath Malen's care, eyes half-lidded in a fevered haze. Her scent was still thick in the air. Sweet and laced with heat. It threatened to drown thought with instinct.
"I'll help you," she murmured, voice sharper than intended. "Deyla—Keep your distance, but keep them safe."
Deyla, already wiping blood from her sword with a grimace, glanced up. "You think I'd—?"
"I don't know what you'd do," Veyra said flatly. "Not with that scent, not this close. She can't defend herself."
For a moment, Deyla bristled—but then, with a muttered curse, she nodded. "Don't need to worry about me. I'll keep my hands to myself."
Veyra crouched beside the fallen fighter's body, her gloved fingers moving quickly beneath the loosened leather coat. Blood still soaked the collar. The man had died fast.
Her hand closed around a familiar weight at his belt.
She drew the dagger free.
It was worn from long use—unremarkable in shape, but as she turned the blade under the low sunlight, her breath caught. Near the hilt, nearly rubbed to nothing, was an old engraving.
A lion's head. Subtle. Stylized. But unmistakable.
Kellen leaned over her shoulder. "Is that—?"
"It is," Veyra muttered. "Old border insignia. Tareth's regiment. They stopped using it years ago."
Deyla straightened from a second body nearby, her expression tight. "They didn't want us to know who they were. But someone was sloppy."
Veyra stood slowly, blade still in hand, and crossed to Deyla's find. The second corpse—a lean soldier with greying hair and a crushed arm—still clutched something in his dead grip. Deyla had already pried open the hand.
The parchment was half-burnt. Its edges charred, the wax seal cracked.
But the courier stamp was untouched.
Tareth's mark. The swirling sigil of the Dalen supply corps, customized for high-security transport.
Veyra took it in silence, scanning the lines not yet destroyed:
"...confirmation received. Envoy awaits south of the Vale."
"...safe passage coordinated—do not delay." "...rendezvous confirmed near Ember Hollow Trail."
She folded the paper carefully, sliding it into the inner pocket beneath her chestplate.
"Keep that dagger too," she told Kellen, her voice like flint. "That mark alone will be enough to raise questions."
Kellen nodded and knelt to retrieve it, wrapping the blade in a strip of cloth.
Veyra turned her eyes toward the distant camp, the scent of ash and blood fading only to be replaced by something more dangerous.
Lavender. Thick on the wind. Feral. Intoxicating. She growled under her breath and clenched her teeth as she averted her gaze towards the trail they'd taken from Karsen Vale.
"Let's go," she said quietly. "We have what we need."
The wind tugged at the edges of Veyra's cloak as she folded the courier letter with sharp, controlled fingers and slid it into the hidden pocket inside her breastplate.
"Deyla," she said without looking up, her voice edged with command.
The lieutenant straightened from where she crouched beside a body, still holding a bloodstained satchel. "Commander?"
"I want you to ride south. Quiet and fast. There's a meeting point near the Ember Hollow Trail—we need to find the envoys. Bring them back. No delays."
Deyla's gaze flicked between the dagger wrapped in cloth and the faint remnants of the courier's message. "You think they'll speak now?"
Veyra's jaw flexed. "They'll have to. Tareth's already started moving pieces, and I don't intend to fall behind."
Deyla nodded once, sharp and focused. "Understood." She gave a tight salute and turned to ready her horse, already moving with swift precision.
Veyra turned to Kellen and Malen next, her eyes shadowed with thought.
"You two—take Liora and return to last night's camp. Travel slow. Stay off the main path."
Kellen nodded. "Understood. And you?"
"I'll come behind on the ridge path," she replied. "I want a wider look at the route they used."
Kellen frowned but didn't challenge her. Instead, he turned toward the brush where the horses had been left wandering around. They had stayed despite the commotion, trained to remain near their owners.
Liora was pale but barely conscious still despite being feverish, and leaning her back weakly against a tree. She absently rubbed a hand across the bandages bound tight around her and winced. Malen crouched beside her, checking the makeshift bindings.
"She needs rest," Malen said under his breath. "And I'll need to clean and bind it properly before nightfall."
"Make sure she gets it," Veyra said.
The sun was already tipping westward. Shadows stretched longer through the trees. They'd reach the camp by dusk.
As Deyla spurred her horse and vanished between the trees, Veyra remained standing still a moment longer—face unreadable, silver eyes turned toward the horizon.
Something had begun.
And she would not let it spread unchecked.