The ash clung to Lyanna’s armor like a second skin, the embers of the battlefield glowing faintly in the dim light of the afternoon sun filtering through the ashen clouds. The hot breath of the sapphire dragon – Nyxalor, she suspected – washed over her pauldrons, sending swirls of ash cascading like dark snowflakes over the canvas walls of the makeshift command tent.
Her boots crunched against the hardened, scorched earth as she entered the tent, steeling herself for what awaited inside.
The interior smelled of damp canvas and ink, the sharp tang of old blood faintly lingering beneath. The light came from a cluster of oil lamps, their flames guttering in the slight breeze.
A round table, battered and scarred with deep gouges, dominated the center of the space. It was strewn with maps and reports, some rolled into tight cylinders, others spread open to reveal strategic positions marked in dark ink. The edges of the maps were frayed and curling, and an empty tin mug sat precariously close to the edge, the remnants of its contents long dried into a dark stain. Around the table, mismatched wooden chairs stood like sentinels, their legs uneven and wobbling on the uneven ground.
She spotted the unmistakable figure of Seren Vraemir, confirming her guess.
Seren sat at the far side, his broad shoulders bent under the weight of some document in his hands. His dark hair fell in an unruly curtain, streaks of silver glinting in the flickering light. He looked up from the report in his hand as she entered, his sharp, gray eyes scanning her with an intensity that made her stomach twist. Though his youthful appearance belied his true age, Lyanna knew Seren had half a century of blood on his hands.
“Lady Lyanna,” Seren said, inclining his head in acknowledgment. “Sit.”
Lyanna dropped her gaze respectfully, aware of the gulf between their stations. As her tutors and her mother had drilled into her.
The silence stretched as she sank into the chair. It wobbled precariously, its back warped from the weight of previous occupants. She folded her hands folding tightly in her lap as she fought to steady her breathing. She forced herself to look up, meeting Seren’s gaze. The lines of his face were grim, shadowed by the weight of something she couldn’t yet name.
“I won’t delay,” Seren began, setting the parchment down with a heavy sigh. He pushed a stray lock of hair out of his face, his expression softening for a moment before hardening again. “There’s no point in dragging this out. *Lady Karina and Pyrope are dead.*”
The words hit her like a blade to the gut. Lyanna’s breath caught in her throat, and for a moment, the room spun around her. Her vision blurred as her mind scrambling to process the impossible. Karina, the indomitable champion, her sister—the one who had been her guiding star, her shadow, her tether to something greater—gone. Pyrope, the fierce and loyal dragon who had grown from a trembling hatchling into a creature of fire and might.
“That… that can’t be,” Lyanna stammered, her voice trembling. “They’ve only been gone a day. Surely, if we just waited—”
“It’s been two days,” Seren interrupted, his tone measured but unyielding. “The battle ended two nights ago. You and the mages were unconscious, drained to the brink. The Burnt Sea and the Beast Tide stripped the essence from the air. It’s a miracle you’re even awake now.”
Lyanna shook her head, her hands clenching tightly. “Two days…? No. They can’t be—” Her voice broke.
The memories surged, unbidden. She saw Karina as a young cadet, always standing just a little taller, her confidence shining like a beacon. Her thoughts turned unbidden to Pyrope, the dragon that had been as much a part of their family as any human. She remembered Pyrope as a wobbly-legged hatchling, so small she could cradle her in her arms.
During Karina’s brief visits home from the Queen’s dragon riding university, Lyanna would sneak the little dragon into her room. She would read stories aloud, resting her head against Pyrope’s warm, scaled body, comforted by the dragon’s rhythmic breathing as winter howled outside.
Karina’s laughter as she teased her about the growing pile of books on her bedside table. The shadow her sister cast—a shadow Lyanna had both resented and relied upon.
Her vision blurred, and she realized too late that tears were spilling down her cheeks. Seren leaned forward, his expression softening, and offered her a handkerchief. She took it with trembling hands, dabbing at her face as shame coiled in her chest.
“Forgive me,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “I… I shouldn’t have lost my composure.”
“You’ve lost family,” Seren said simply. “I wouldn’t hold it against you. But time is not on my side, and there is much to discuss.”
She nodded, swallowing hard and folding the handkerchief neatly before setting it on the table. “What must I do, my lord?”
Seren’s eyes darkened. “I’m leaving for Kandria,” he said. “The city is under siege.”
Lyanna’s heart lurched. “Kandria?” she whispered. “My parents…”
“They’re alive,” Seren assured her. “For now. But the situation is dire. Two Ruin Beasts lead the tide, and a cultist of the Fallen One betrayed us and left a hole in the wards. The Skybreaker cannon has been destroyed, and the beasts have overtaken the outer defenses.”
The words left her reeling. Kandria—the city of stone and magic, her family’s seat of power. It had stood against countless enemies for two millennia. How could it fall now?
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“But Kandria’s defenses are unmatched,” she protested. “The walls, the wards—Lord Hammerfall himself built them! And the army—five thousand strong—they can hold—”
Seren winced, his unease clear. “This is no ordinary tide,” he said. “The Ruin Beasts leading it are far stronger than anything your army faced here. Her Majesty has ordered five dragon riders and ten corps to aid the city.”
“Five?” Lyanna’s voice rose, incredulous. “Only five? If the threat is as grave as you say, why—”
“Thirteen corps are deployed along the troll border,” Seren interrupted. “The dwarves have committed six legions as well. The rest of the riders are tied up there.”
Lyanna’s thoughts raced, her fingers twisting a strand of red hair. “That still leaves six corps,” she pressed. “And the Queen always keeps two in reserve—”
“They’re at the elven border,” Seren cut in, his tone sharp. “Alongside the rest of the dwarven legions. Her Majesty commands them personally. No one knows why.”
Silence fell between them, heavy and oppressive. Lyanna’s mind churned, grappling with the enormity of it all. Her sister was gone. Kandria was under siege. And the world itself seemed on the brink of collapse.
“And you’re leaving for Kandria,” she said finally, her voice hollow.
Seren nodded. “The rest of my wing has already flown ahead. I waited only to pass command back to you.”
Lyanna’s chest tightened. “I’m not ready,” she admitted, the words bitter on her tongue. “You’ve read the reports. I’m the reason most of my army is dead.”
“You made the right decisions,” Seren said firmly. “All but one. And that mistake… it was only Karina’s intuition that could have prevented it. No one else would have seen it coming.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but Seren raised a hand, silencing her. “These are Her Majesty’s orders,” he said. “Your task is to clear the woods of monsters and march to Kandria. Clear any overrun towns along the way.”
“But my forces—” Lyanna began, desperation creeping into her voice. “I have only a few hundred soldiers left. They’re broken. They need rest. The supply lines—”
“Are long and fragile,” Seren finished for her. “And you lack aerial support. I know. But the Queen has set no time limit on her command. If I were you, I’d spend the next few days fortifying your camp and letting your troops recover.”
Lyanna sat in silence, her mind churning. Her sister’s shadow loomed large in her thoughts, but now, for the first time, it felt like a void—a gaping hole that she could never hope to fill. The weight of responsibility threatened to crush her, but she forced herself to straighten her spine and lift her chin.
“Very well, Warden,” she said at last. “I will do as the Queen commands. But may the gods have mercy on us if I fail.”
Seren stood, the chair creaking beneath him as he pushed it back. “Good. Kandria needs me, but your path is just as important. Take care, Lady Lyanna.”
And with that, he was gone, leaving her alone in the flickering light.
The air in the command tent felt heavier after Seren's departure, as though the very fabric of the space were trying to crush her. Lyanna sat motionless in the rickety chair, her mind replaying Seren’s words on an endless loop. Lady Karina and Pyrope are dead.
The world outside the tent seemed muted, as if mourning alongside her. The steady breathing of the sapphire dragon, the distant clinking of armor from her soldiers, even the muffled voices of officers attempting to instill some semblance of order in the shattered remnants of her forces—all of it blurred into the background. Her thoughts refused to settle, racing from memory to memory.
Karina had been her sister, her guardian, her idol. For years, Lyanna had stood in the shadow of the Champion, both comforted and suffocated by her brilliance. Karina had made everything seem so simple, so effortless. She had always known the right words to say, the right decisions to make. And Pyrope—her fiery, mischievous partner—had been an extension of that confidence, a beacon of warmth and strength.
Lyanna clutched the handkerchief Seren had given her, its fabric coarse against her skin. Her chest ached with the weight of unspoken words and memories long buried. She had always meant to tell Karina how much she admired her, how much she had learned just by watching her. But she had never said it aloud. And now, she never could.
The thought sent a fresh wave of anguish crashing over her. She bit her lip to stifle a sob, her nails digging into her palms. Not here. Not now. You are a Commander now, not a grieving sister. You can mourn when your soldiers are safe. She repeated the mantra in her head like a prayer, but the words felt hollow.
The tent flap rustled, snapping her out of her spiraling thoughts. She looked up sharply, half-expecting Seren to have returned, but it was one of her captains—Davor, a grizzled veteran with a limp and a permanent scowl etched into his face. He bowed stiffly, his armor clinking.
“Commander,” he said, his voice gravelly. “I was told you’ve taken over command. We need orders.”
Orders. Of course. She was in charge now. The thought made her stomach churn. She sat up straighter, forcing herself to meet Davor’s gaze. “How are the men?” she asked, her voice steadier than she felt.
“Alive,” Davor replied bluntly. “Most of ‘em, anyway. What’s left of ‘em.” He scratched his beard, glancing at the map on the table. “We’ve got about two hundred fit for duty, give or take. Another fifty too injured to fight, but not bad enough to need the mercy blade. The rest...” His voice trailed off, but Lyanna didn’t need him to finish. She knew what he meant.
Her mind raced, trying to recall the numbers they’d started with before the battle. Almost a thousand soldiers had marched under her banner. And now? Less than a quarter remained. The weight of that failure pressed down on her like a millstone. She had made the calls. She had issued the orders. And now those lives were gone, snuffed out like so many candles.
“Supplies?” she asked, trying to push through the fog of despair clouding her thoughts.
“The Supply Corps sent enough to last a week, maybe two,” Davor said. “But the supply lines—”
“—are unreliable,” Lyanna finished for him, echoing Seren’s words. She leaned forward, her hands gripping the edge of the table. “We’ll need to set up a proper camp. Fortify our position, tend to the wounded, and salvage what we can from the battlefield. The men deserve rest before we march again.”
Davor nodded approvingly, though his expression remained grim. “Aye, Commander. I’ll see it done.”
He turned to leave, but Lyanna stopped him with a question that had been gnawing at her since Seren’s departure. “Davor,” she said quietly. “How long have you served in the Queen’s army?”
The captain paused, turning back to face her. “Thirty years, give or take.”
“And in that time, have you ever seen beasts like these? Have you ever heard of Ruin Beasts leading a tide?”
Davor’s scowl deepened, and he shook his head. “No, Commander. Never. The ones we faced two nights ago were bad enough, but what if the messengers say about Kandria…” He trailed off, his eyes shadowed. “If those beasts are stronger than what we saw here, then the gods themselves will need to step in.”
Lyanna swallowed hard, nodding. “Thank you, Captain. Dismissed.”
Davor bowed again and left the tent, the flap swaying behind him. Lyanna stared at the map on the table, her eyes tracing the lines and markings that represented the Burnt Sea, the dense forests, and the long, perilous road to Kandria. It was a road she would have to march. A road she might not survive.