The blade in Marrick's hand was already raised.
Firelight ran along the steel like a flame trapped in its edge. Around them, the circle of soldiers had tightened completely. No one spoke now. They only watched.
Rowan was still on his knees in the dirt.
His leg throbbed beneath the healer's bandage, but his gaze remained steady on the man before him.
Marrick took a step forward.
— Soldier of Edric — he said, his voice thick with contempt. — Do you think surviving the battlefield gives you the right to breathe in my camp?
Rowan didn't lower his eyes.
— I didn't ask to come.
A few soldiers murmured.
Marrick ignored them.
— You were fighting for the enemy yesterday.
— And you tried to kill me yesterday.
The reply came fast.
Dry.
That drew a few nervous laughs.
Marrick's expression hardened.
— Many survived the dragon's attack.
He pointed the blade at Rowan.
— But none of them had the audacity to walk into the middle of my army.
Rowan braced a hand against the ground to ease the weight on his leg.
— I didn't walk in.
He took a breath.
— I was brought.
Marrick lifted the sword again.
— Then that was a mistake.
The blade began to fall.
And then—
— Marrick.
The voice cut through the circle.
Not loud.
But it carried something that made half the soldiers turn instantly.
Lyra stepped through the crowd.
The men parted without hesitation.
She walked into the center of the ring with the calm of someone who knew exactly the power she held.
Her eyes fell on Marrick.
Then on the blade.
— Move that away.
Marrick didn't budge.
Not an inch.
— You don't command here.
The response was immediate.
Cold.
Lyra tilted her head slightly.
— Don't I?
Marrick pointed the sword back at Rowan.
— This man fights for King Edric.
Lyra answered:
— Fought.
— I don't care.
Now there was open irritation in Marrick's voice.
— He is the enemy.
He glanced around at the soldiers.
— And in my army, enemies don't get healers.
Rowan let out a tired breath.
— Do you two always settle things like this?
No one laughed.
Marrick stepped forward.
— You speak too much for someone about to die.
The blade rose again.
Lyra spoke before it could fall.
— If you cut even a single piece of him—
Marrick turned his head slowly toward her.
— …I will have Vaerith turn this entire camp to ash.
Silence dropped like a stone.
Heavy.
Absolute.
Some soldiers exchanged glances.
Others instinctively looked toward the dark sky.
Marrick stared at her.
— You wouldn't.
Lyra didn't raise her voice.
Didn't change her tone.
— Try me.
The wind passed through the fires.
Flames flickered.
For a moment, no one breathed.
Then Marrick let out a short laugh.
Without humor.
— An enemy soldier.
He pointed the blade at Rowan again.
— Is this what your army is now?
His expression was pure disdain.
— Pets?
Lyra crossed her arms.
— He belongs to me now.
A few men murmured.
Rowan turned his head toward her.
— "Belongs"?
Lyra didn't even look at him.
— Would you rather die?
Rowan thought for a second.
— Still deciding.
A few soldiers let out quiet laughs.
Marrick watched everything.
Jaw tight.
Then, with a sharp motion, he lowered the blade.
But didn't sheath it.
— If he's lying—
Lyra cut in immediately:
— Then I'll take his head myself.
Silence again.
Marrick finally shoved the sword back into its scabbard.
— Get him out of my sight.
He looked straight at Rowan.
— Because if I see you near my tents again—
A brief pause.
— Not even your dragon will get there in time.
He turned and walked out of the circle, shoving two soldiers aside.
The crowd slowly began to disperse.
Murmurs returned.
Rowan was still on the ground.
He pushed himself up slowly.
His leg protested immediately.
Lyra watched.
Arms crossed.
— You have an impressive talent for irritating commanders.
Rowan brushed dirt from his hands.
— I have that effect on people.
Lyra tilted her head.
— It shows.
She made a short gesture.
— Move.
Rowan looked at her.
— Where to?
Lyra answered without hesitation:
— Before Marrick changes his mind.
They walked through the camp in silence.
The fires burned low now, and the soldiers who were still awake simply watched as Lyra passed. Some looked away. Others followed Rowan with open curiosity.
The tension from Marrick still lingered in the air.
Rowan walked a few steps behind her.
His leg stiff.
Still hurting.
Ahead, Lyra's tent rose larger than the others, guarded by two men who immediately stepped aside as she approached.
That's when Rowan spoke.
— Wait.
Lyra didn't stop.
So he did something none of the soldiers around them would have dared.
He reached out—
And grabbed her arm.
For a moment, the world seemed to stop.
The guards reacted instantly.
One of them already reaching for his sword.
Rowan opened his mouth to speak—
But never finished.
Lyra moved with the speed of someone who had survived war too long.
She turned sharply.
Her hand seized his arm.
And in one clean motion, she used his own momentum against him.
The ground came fast.
Rowan hit the dirt hard.
The air left his lungs in a single blow.
Before he could react, Lyra was already on top of him.
One knee pressed against his chest.
One hand gripping his collar.
The other resting close to his throat.
Her gaze dropped to his face.
Cold.
Empty.
There was no anger in it.
No emotion at all.
It was the look of someone observing something that belonged to them.
Something that had crossed a line.
— Don't touch me.
Her voice was low.
Calm.
Far more dangerous than a shout.
Rowan tried to pull in air.
— I just—
She tilted her head slightly.
— Next time you do that…
A brief pause.
— I'll punish you.
Her weight still pressed down on him.
Rowan took a breath, trying to recover.
— I just wanted to say—
He swallowed.
— I want to leave.
Something shifted in her expression.
Not anger.
Something colder.
— Leave?
Rowan nodded slightly.
— This isn't my place.
The silence lasted only a second.
Then her hands moved.
Fast.
Lyra's fingers closed around his throat.
Tight.
Not a threat.
Real force.
His throat pressed into the dirt.
Air stopped.
His eyes widened.
Real surprise this time.
— You… — her voice dropped to a near whisper — still don't understand.
The pressure increased.
Rowan tried to breathe.
Nothing came.
His hands grabbed at her wrists instinctively.
— I said…
She leaned closer.
— you are mine now.
For a moment that felt much longer than it was, Rowan thought she was actually going to kill him.
Then suddenly—
She let go.
Air rushed back into his lungs.
Rowan turned his head, dragging in breath.
Lyra stood up calmly.
As if nothing had happened.
She adjusted her sleeve.
Then looked down at him.
— Get up.
Rowan was still breathing hard.
He touched his throat.
Then rose slowly.
Lyra turned toward the tent.
— Come.
She lifted the flap and went inside.
As if expecting obedience.
Rowan stood still for a moment.
Then followed.
But they were not alone that night.
Far beyond the campfires, where the shadows of the trees swallowed the light, two men watched.
Dark cloaks.
Sharp eyes.
Men sent by King Edric.
Spies.
Waiting to confirm something simple.
If he was still alive.
Now they had their answer.
One of them watched Rowan disappear into the tent behind the woman.
Still touching his throat.
— By the gods… — the other muttered.
— She almost killed him.
The first man kept watching.
Thinking.
Interpreting.
— No.
He shook his head slowly.
— He's not a prisoner.
The other frowned.
— Then what is he?
The spy answered after a few seconds:
— Property.
He looked once more at Lyra's tent.
— That man belongs to her now.
Silence.
Then he turned away.
— We've seen enough.
— Where to?
— To Edric.
His voice was firm.
— The king will want to know that one of his men…
He cast one last glance at the tent.
— …now serves the dragon's lady.
And the two of them vanished into the darkness of the forest, carrying with them a version of the story that might be far from the truth.