Chapter 457: Lyan’s Gut Feeling (1)
A droplet slid from his hood’s edge, splashing onto a fresh scar along the stone. He followed its path absently, then let his gaze climb the tower again—over rooftops, over drifting lanterns, up to the bruised sky. Clouds parted just enough for a glimpse of stars. In their midst one spark shone red, pulsing faintly before hiding behind cloud again. He felt the hair on his arms lift.
(A sign,) Cynthia murmured. (Or a challenge.)
He pressed lips to a silent promise: no more ambushes, no more comrades dead because he trusted the wrong whisper.
Somewhere below, Belle called his name, voice bright, but he stayed still.
A log shifted in the nearest bonfire, sending sparks in a golden fountain. The embers reminded him of blood sprayed through torchlight—another battlefield, another lifetime. For an instant he tasted ashes on his tongue, and the watchtower stone felt slick with something thicker than rain. He blinked; the nightmare faded, yet left its chill.
Trauma is a leash, he told himself. I hold the chain, not the other way around.
Some part of him—small, stubborn—still craved the warmth of the crowd. But the commander in him, the strategist, was louder tonight. Too much still unresolved. Too many questions about that breach, Lord Hallen’s unexplained midnight visit, the spy tied in the cellar. And the red star blinking like an eye.
Lyan straightened, pulled his cloak tighter and reached for his glaive. The handle’s smooth wood reassured him—familiar, steady. Crowds could wait. Joy could wait. There were logs to seal and truths to carve from stone before dawn peeled the darkness back.
He turned away from the watchtower edge.