Chapter 19: Fractured Reflections

Lyanna woke to the acrid stench of ash, blood, and antiseptic herbs—a symphony of ruin that seemed to hang in the air like a curse. Her body screamed in protest as she stirred, each movement a rebellion of stiff, uncooperative muscles. A splitting ache hammered behind her eyes, reverberating against her skull with a cruel rhythm.

She lay still for a moment, staring at the stained fabric of the tent ceiling above her, her breath shallow and uncertain. The world felt muted and distant, as though she were trapped behind a wall of glass, her mind weightless—a void where her thoughts should have been.

Then the memories came.

A torrent that crashed through her like a breaking wave.

The Beast Tide. Eda’s sacrifice. The clash of steel and the searing agony of losing her fingers. Her mind flooded with images: Eda’s divine light fading, Alric’s bloodied armor, the dragons tearing through the night sky. The rawness of it all tore at her, leaving her gasping as though her very soul had been ripped open and exposed.

Lyanna sat up abruptly. Breath quickened. Head throbbing with the aftershocks of exhaustion, and her right hand—her mangled hand—throbbed with a deep pain.

The tent spun around her as motion sent lances of pain flaring through her side. Her hand shot out, grasping for stability as panic rose in her chest. She was back on that battlefield—she could feel it. The constricting vines, the screaming metal, the choking smoke. She pressed a trembling hand to her ribs, her heart pounding as though it were trying to break free of her chest.

Her gaze darted frantically around the dimly lit tent, searching, needing to see them.

Ember. Scarlet.

They weren’t beside her.

Where are they?

Panic clawed at her throat, and she scrambled to her feet, the world spinning dangerously. She pushed herself upright, ignoring the shooting pain in her ribs and the way her head spun violently at the motion.

Her body protested every movement, muscles quaking under the weight of fatigue and magic depletion. She stumbled, catching herself on the edge of the cot, and her mind screamed at her to find her blades. Her feet hit the cold, hard ground, and she nearly toppled over. She caught herself against the cot, wincing as her injured hand flared with pain.

A row of cots stretched out beside her, each one occupied by motionless bodies swaddled in bloodied linen. Almost every soldier bore the marks of battle: jagged scars across cheeks, burns twisting up arms, bandaged stumps where limbs had once been. The tent was a monument to survival, and to the cost it demanded.

She searched the space with desperate eyes, kicking aside blankets and overturned buckets until she finally saw them. Beneath the cot she’d been lying on, resting clean and gleaming despite the carnage they’d endured, were Ember and Scarlet. Relief rushed through her in a trembling wave. She dropped to her knees, cradling Ember’s hilt with her left hand before reaching for Scarlet.

But when she tried to grip the sword, her mangled hand betrayed her.

The sword slipped.

Scarlet clattered against the cot frame. Her three remaining fingers couldn’t form a proper grip.

Lyanna swore loudly, the word breaking the silence like a whip crack. She clenched her jaw as frustration boiled inside her, sharp and unrelenting. The middle and index fingers of her left hand were gone, severed in the chaos of the Beast Tide. Though the wounds had been sealed, the phantom pain felt as real as the hot, searing agony she’d endured during the battle.

She gritted her teeth, adjusting her hold, but Scarlet tilted again, refusing her grasp. Her breaths came faster, shallow and uneven, until the tears welled unbidden.

Why couldn’t they heal my fingers? she thought bitterly. I’m no use like this. How can I fight? How can I wield Scarlet if I can’t even hold her?

She already knew the answer. The answer was as brutal as it was simple: healing magic had limits, and her fingers—hastily half-healed during the battle. The essence needed to fully regenerate them was more than anyone could afford. Even the most skilled healers couldn’t fix what her body had already accepted as “healed.”

Now time had sealed her fate.

Her breathing quickened as she tried again, her determination as fierce as her fury. But the blade tilted in her grasp, refusing her control. Frustration welled up inside her, sharp and hot. She bit down on a scream, but a choked sob escaped instead, raw and broken. Tears blurred her vision as she gripped her wrist tightly, her good hand trembling. Pathetic. You're pathetic.

Tears streaked her face as she forced herself to her feet, the weight of her swords pulling at her arms. Get it together, Lyanna. She wiped her face with her good hand, swallowing the lump in her throat. Her mother’s voice rang in her mind, sharp and unyielding. “Mirrorguards don’t cry. Especially not in front of soldiers. You’re their strength when they have none.”

Lyanna forced herself to her feet, dragging her swords into their scabbards with a movement that felt clumsy and incomplete. The weight of them felt wrong now, an unfamiliar burden instead of a comfort. She wiped her face with her good hand, swallowing the lump in her throat. You’ll adapt. You have to.

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The camp was a hive of subdued activity. The sun hung low in the late afternoon sky, its pale light filtering through the smoky haze, painting everything in shades of gold and dust. Soldiers bustled about, erecting new tents and repairing makeshift fortifications. The smell of cooking food wafted through the air, mingling with the ever-present stench of blood and burnt flesh.

The sight made her stomach churn, not from its beauty, but from its contrasts. Just hours ago—had it been hours?—this ground had been a battlefield, soaked in blood and ringing with screams. Now, it was an eerie semblance of normalcy, soldiers building defenses, mending armor, and tending to wounds.

A strange kinship gripped her chest as she watched them. Just a day ago, she would have resented the decision to prioritize the soldiers over her own injuries. But she’d bled beside these men and women, seen their courage and sacrifices. They deserved their lives back, even if hers felt shattered.

Lyanna walked stiffly, her movements slow and deliberate as she fought the exhaustion still weighing her down. She caught sight of a young soldier—barely more than a boy—dragging a crate of supplies. His arm was in a sling, and a jagged scar ran across his face, but he gave her a weary nod as she passed.

Her stomach churned. Do they see me as broken? she wondered. Do they see me as weak? She nodded back, forcing her expression into a mask of calm, though her insides twisted.

Lyanna moved through the camp, her steps unsteady but determined. Each face she passed deepened the ache in her chest. Soldiers nodded respectfully, some murmuring her name, but their gazes were like weights she couldn’t shake. That mix of respect and sorrow, as though they were looking at a ghost. As though she were already half a ghost. She wasn’t sure if it was because of her missing fingers, Eda’s death, or some other tragedy she hadn’t yet uncovered. The thought made her stomach churn.

She clenched her jaw, forcing her gaze forward. The makeshift commander’s tent loomed in the distance, a grim monument to the battle they’d survived. It had been built atop the remnants of the Skybreaker cannon’s platform, now repurposed as a central hub for the camp’s operations. The massive tent, patched together from military fabric and salvaged tarps, dominated the camp like a warlord’s throne.

Near the tent, a sapphire dragon lay coiled, its shimmering scales catching the pale afternoon light. Its head rested on its forelegs, eyes closed. To anyone else, it might have looked serene, even majestic, but Lyanna knew better. Dragons never truly rested, not in the aftermath of a battle. Their breaths might slow, but their ears—if you could call them that—remained attuned to the faintest disturbances.

The sight of the dragon stirred conflicting emotions in her. Comfort, because it was a reminder of the immense power that had saved them. Unease, because it raised a question she couldn’t ignore: Where are the others?

Pyrope’s absence gnawed at her thoughts. If Karina and Pyrope had fought through yesterday, they should be here, resting. Pyrope, in particular, never strayed far from where the dragons’ riders gathered, and her nosy nature usually meant her snout would be poking through the tent’s specially designed flaps, eavesdropping on the conversations within. The absence of that familiar sight sent a ripple of anxiety through Lyanna.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sharp twist of hunger clawing at her stomach. The ache was a reminder that magic, for all its wonder, couldn’t stave off hunger without a price. Better to endure the gnawing emptiness than waste what little essence remained. She scanned the camp for relief and spotted a group of soldiers near a cookfire.

An older woman stood at its center, ladling broth into wooden bowls. Lyanna’s heart lifted slightly at the sight of her: Mara, a seasoned veteran whose presence was as steadying as it was familiar. Mara had served her family for decades, and though time had creased her face and streaked her hair with gray, her sharp eyes remained as piercing as ever.

When those eyes landed on Lyanna, they softened with a warmth Lyanna didn’t realize she needed.

“My lady,” Mara said, her voice warm with relief. “We didn’t expect you to wake so soon. If at all.”

“I’ve always been difficult to kill,” Lyanna said with a faint smile, though the words felt hollow. Her gaze flicked to the pot. “Any chance there’s enough for me?”

Mara snorted, already filling a bowl. “You shouldn’t be out of bed,” she chided, handing it over. “But I suppose telling you that would be a waste of breath.”

Lyanna accepted the bowl with a murmured thanks, the rich scent of the broth a sharp contrast to the carnage that still lingered in her memory. She hesitated before asking, her voice carefully steady, “Have any of the other mages woken?”

Mara’s expression darkened, her lips pressing into a thin line. “A couple,” she admitted, her tone low, as though the words themselves were a burden. “But fewer than we’d hoped. Less than two dozen of you are still breathing, and maybe half that will wake.”

Lyanna’s stomach tightened at the number. Less than two dozen? Her mind reeled. She thought of the lines of mages at the Skybreaker’s base, each one a vital piece of their defense, their faces illuminated by firelight and determination. Now those faces blurred in her memory, each one stamped with death’s shadow.

Mara continued, her voice quieter, almost reluctant. “We’re hoping young Lord Blackthorn is among them.”

The mention of Alric’s name hit Lyanna like a blade to the gut. She swallowed hard, but the lump in her throat refused to budge. Alric. Severe wounds. That was a generous way to describe what she’d seen. His blood-soaked armor. The slackness in his features as he fought.

“Alric...” Lyanna faltered, her good hand tightening on the bowl as if the warmth might ground her. “It’s unlikely. His wounds were...” She stopped again, the words catching in her throat. “Severe,” she finished finally, the word feeling hollow and insufficient. “And the magic he used—it took everything he had.”

Mara’s sharp eyes flicked to her face, the faintest lift of an eyebrow betraying her curiosity. She noticed, Lyanna thought grimly. She’d slipped, letting the familiarity of Alric’s name creep into her voice, the weight of her worry laid bare. She braced for a comment, but Mara only nodded, her gaze shadowed.

“Where are the dragon riders?” she asked instead, the question slipping out before she could stop herself. Her voice betrayed her tension, edged with a sharpness she hadn’t intended. “My sisters?”

Mara’s hands stilled, and a flicker of something—pity, hesitation—crossed her face. Her grip tightened on the ladle. She looked away, busying herself with the fire as if its flames held the answers Lyanna needed.

“You’ll want to speak to the general,” Mara repeated, her tone quieter now, more careful. “She’ll explain everything.”

The silence that followed was suffocating, pressing against Lyanna’s chest like a physical weight. She opened her mouth to demand more, but the words wouldn’t come. Her heart hammered in her chest, a frantic rhythm of unease. Why won’t you just tell me? she thought, anger and fear tangling together in a knot of frustration.

Mara glanced at her again, her eyes softening despite the tension in her features. “Eat,” she said gently, pushing the ladle back into the pot. “You need your strength. We all do.”

Lyanna nodded mechanically, raising the bowl to her lips. The broth was hot and savory, its warmth spreading through her like a fragile balm. But it did little to chase away the cold dread coiling in her chest. Mara’s reluctance to answer was like a shadow creeping at the edges of her thoughts, whispering of truths too painful to face. What aren’t you telling me?

She drank the broth in silence, her mind a storm of questions she wasn’t sure she wanted answered.