CHAPTER 20: WEIGHTS THAT CRUSH THE STRONG

The casualty lists were a cruel companion. Lyanna scanned the parchment under the dim glow of the tent’s lantern, its flickering light casting jagged shadows on the walls. Her fingers tracing the names as if their absence from this world needed more proof. The inked words blurred under her scrutiny, every letter a silent eulogy.

Grandmaster Aelric - Deceased.

Grandmaster Feredal - Comatose. Prognosis grim.

Fifty. Less than fifty Grandmasters in the entire kingdom, and two of them had been hers to command. Now, one lay in a grave, and the other might never wake. If Feredal succumbed, her house would be bereft of Grandmasters entirely. A blow from which her house might never recover.

That would only matter, of course, if her parents survived. Her hands clenched as the thought slid in, unbidden. If they fell, it would be up to her to carry the name of Ashthorn. To stand alone. The image of the empty halls of her ancestral home chilled her to the bone. Her mother’s absence, her father’s booming laughter silenced forever. No allies. No family. Nothing.

Alone.

Lyanna shivered and pushed the thought away, forcing her focus back to the list. Duty was a cruel salve, but it worked. Being alone, truly alone, was a shadow she dared not contemplate for long. The thought lingered, though, in the back of her mind like a predator waiting for her guard to drop.

She was still drowning in the names when the flap of her tent parted. A messenger entered, their cloak bearing the Queen’s sigil—a stark silver serpent entwined with a spear. The scroll they carried gleamed with runes, the Queen’s cipher etched into its surface.

“Lady Lyanna,” the messenger said, bowing as they handed her the missive. “This is addressed to Lord Alric.”

Her heart prickled with curiosity, a sensation she quickly smothered. The cipher was unique to each house, meant to ensure only the intended recipient and the Queen could decipher the message. It also ensured that no one, not even the most clever minds, could indulge their curiosity without consequence. Even so, the Queen’s name carried a gravity that set her mind spinning.

“Wait here,” Lyanna said, her voice clipped. She set the scroll down on her table and reached for parchment and a quill.

If Alric could receive a message from the Queen, so could she. Her own letter was quick but deliberate, encoded with the cipher that bound her house to the crown. The heart of her request was simple: confirmation of Soren’s orders. Dragon riders were noble by design—or so the gods claimed—but their moral compasses often twisted under pressure. A rider’s vision of “right” could shift dangerously. And the rest of his house? They’d sell their souls to manipulate him. It was not uncommon for orders intercepted and twisted into tools for their house’s ambition.

She added a second request, almost as an afterthought, for griffin riders. A long shot, but their aerial agility would be invaluable. The Queen would likely refuse, but Lyanna had learned to press where she could.

When the messenger departed with her reply, she turned to the next task—a small stack of reports on candidates to fill the gaps in her camp aides. They were short by two, and while the process of vetting was usually exhaustive, Lyanna lacked the luxury of time. She worked through the reports mechanically, circling names, jotting notes in the margins. A few met her standards—barely.

The interviews passed in a blur of forced smiles and stilted conversations. By the time the last one left, her voice was hoarse, her patience frayed.

Lyanna resisted the pull of her own thoughts by reaching for the scout and messenger reports. She spread them across the table, their conflicting accounts forming a chaotic patchwork. Monsters moved in the dark—where, exactly, was the question.

Her quill danced across the surface as she marked the likely paths of monster movements.This, at least, was tangible. Monsters followed patterns. People didn’t. Yet, as she delved deeper into her analysis, a growing sense of certainty began to take root within her: the trolls, it seemed, were the ones orchestrating the movements of the monsters.

Time slipped away unnoticed. A thief stealing away the hours.

“Gods, you look worse than I feel.”

The voice startled her. Lyanna looked up to find Alric standing in the entrance, his face pale and drawn, eyes shadowed like bruises. He sank into the chair opposite her, his exhaustion palpable.

“You look horrible,” she remarked, sitting back and stretching her aching shoulders.

Alric laughed, a dry and humorless sound. “Mara, one of the cooks, told me to tell you to eat. Something about how you’re scaring the rest of the staff.”

Lyanna blinked. “Is it sundown?”

“Barely. Not that it matters due to all four moons being full and all this blasted ash. Light’s the same no matter the hour.” Alric gestured to the table. “What’s that?”

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She flicked the Queen’s scroll toward him, her quill tapping on the tabletop. “From the Queen. Sent for you.”

Alric’s expression darkened, but he said nothing as he took the scroll. Lyanna rose, muttering something about dinner, and left him to his thoughts.

When she returned, the air in the tent was heavy. Alric sat slumped at the table, his head cradled in his hands. Lyanna coughed, startling him upright.

“Everything all right?” she asked, her tone even, though her eyes lingered on his disheveled state.

Alric rubbed his temples, sighing deeply. “Fine.”

Lyanna raised an eyebrow.

“It’s nothing.” His words were sharp, but they carried the weight of a lie. He leaned back, exhaling slowly. “The Queen stopped my cousins from taking my place as heir. But even if I return, my chances of holding my claim are...” He trailed off, his eyes distant. “Let’s just say they’re slim.”

“Why?” Lyanna prodded, sensing the answer would be bitter.

“My cousin. Ember Rider. Dragon and all.” Alric’s lips curled in a bitter smile. “What am I compared to that?”

Lyanna didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she sat down, resuming her work on the reports without looking at him. After a moment, she spoke, her voice quiet but firm.

“You survive. That’s what you are. More than most can say.”

Alric said nothing, but his gaze lingered on her as she returned to her maps, each mark a step further from despair.

Alric leaned forward in his chair, elbows on the table, his fingers steepled under his chin. The flickering lantern light exaggerated the lines of exhaustion on his face, but his voice cut through the heavy silence like a blade.

“Where’s your sister, anyway? Champion Karina should’ve been back by now.”

Lyanna froze. Her breath caught in her throat, and her hands trembled as she attempted to focus on the parchment before her. Her quill, steady a moment ago, now hovered awkwardly above the map, ink pooling on the edge of a marked road.

When she didn’t respond, Alric’s brow furrowed. “Lyanna?” His tone softened, but the damage had been done. His sharp eyes caught the way her jaw tightened, the way her posture stiffened like a bowstring. His own expression shifted, regret flickering across his features. “Ah. Damn it. I didn’t know—”

“She’s dead.” Lyanna’s voice was flat, a monotone, but it carried the weight of a world shattered. She forced the words out quickly, as though saying them faster might dull the pain. “Karina and Pyrope. Two days ago.”

The silence that followed was unbearable, a heavy, suffocating thing that pressed down on the tent. Lyanna didn’t dare meet Alric’s gaze, her eyes fixed on the map. A monster’s trail she’d traced earlier seemed almost mocking now, a mess of ink she could no longer interpret.

“I… I’m sorry, Lyanna,” Alric finally said, his voice low.

She waved him off with a sharp motion, though the tears she’d been fighting now threatened to spill. “Don’t. Just… don’t.” Her words trembled with anger, though she didn’t know who it was directed at—Alric, herself, or the gods who’d stolen everything from her. “What’s done is done.”

The quill in her hand snapped as she clenched her fist, and she hissed in frustration. Ink spattered across the map, black smudges marring the careful marks she’d made. She threw the broken quill aside and grabbed another from atop the table, her movements brisk, almost frantic.

“Lyanna, maybe—”

“I said drop it!” she snapped, her voice cracking.

Lyanna bit her lip hard enough to taste blood. She inhaled sharply, forcing the emotions into a box she couldn’t afford to open. Not with the weight of command bearing down on her like a crushing tide. “I don’t need your sympathy,” she said, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her. She hated how weak she sounded, how exposed.

Alric hesitated but finally nodded, sensing her fragility and stepping back. He cleared his throat awkwardly, as if trying to dispel the tension. “Why are we making camp here? Shouldn’t we be heading home?”

Lyanna exhaled slowly, dragging her focus back to the maps. The question offered a lifeline—something tangible, something to distract her from the suffocating grief clawing at her insides. She straightened her spine, her voice steadying as she answered.

“Warden Soren’s orders. He’s gone to Kandria. The city’s under siege. Two Ruin Beasts are leading the tide, and the defenses are crumbling. He’s left me in command. My task is to clear the woods of monsters and march to Kandria, reclaiming overrun towns along the way.”

Alric frowned. “Kandria’s falling? The Queen must’ve sent reinforcements already.”

“She has.” Lyanna’s tone was bitter. “Five riders and ten corps. Because the rest of the army is tied up elsewhere. Troll borders, elven borders, dwarven alliances…”

“And what about aerial support?” Alric pressed. “No griffins?”

Lyanna’s hands stilled, her quill hovering over the map. “None. The Queen has given me no time limit, but we’re expected to make do with what we have. Which is less than three hundred soldiers, most of whom can barely stand after the last battle.”

The weight of her words hung between them. Alric rubbed his temples, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a curse.

“And you’re just… going along with this?” he asked after a moment, his gaze searching hers. “You know it’s suicide, right? Marching to Kandria with a broken army?”

Lyanna’s eyes snapped up to meet his, and the fire in her gaze silenced him. “What choice do I have?” she demanded, her voice rising. “The Queen’s command is absolute. I don’t get to choose my battles, Alric. We follow the Queen’s orders. Or we get to taste Aurora’s fire.”

She slumped back in her chair, her hands falling limply to her lap. “Besides,” she added quietly, “what’s the alternative? Abandon the towns? Let people under my family’s banner die? Let the monsters spread unchecked?”

Alric didn’t respond immediately. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together as he studied her. “You’re stronger than you look, Lyanna,” he said at last. “But even the strongest trees snap under enough weight.”

She looked away, her jaw tightening. “If I break, I break,” she said simply. “But I’ll do it on my terms.”

The silence returned, but it was different this time—less oppressive, more contemplative. Alric stood, stretching his arms above his head, before giving her a small, tired smile. “Well, if we’re marching to our deaths, I suppose I’d better make myself useful. Let me know where you need me.”

Lyanna didn’t look up, but a faint smile ghosted across her lips. “I will.”

As he left the tent, Lyanna turned back to the map, her mind racing. The weight of her sister’s shadow pressed down on her, but she refused to let it crush her. There was too much to do, too many lives depending on her.

And yet, in the quiet moments between tasks, the grief would creep in. Memories of Karina’s laughter, of Pyrope’s warmth, of a life that now felt so distant. She would push it away, bury it deep, and focus on the work before her.

Because if she stopped—if she let herself feel the full weight of her loss—she feared she might never stand again.