Chapter 482: Dance of the Decoys (1)
Mist clung to the winding forest path like a living thing, thick ribbons twisting around moss-slick trunks before spilling into the ruts left by wagon wheels. A chill crept under every collar, and the damp air smelled of pine needles, wet loam, and the faint, coppery memory of battles already fought upstream. Hooves thudded softly in the sodden ground, sending up little splashes that patterned the fetlocks of the horses with flecks of gray mud. Even the banners—broad squares of midnight blue stitched with the silver hawk of Astellia—barely whispered. They hung heavy and damp, snapping only when a stray breeze stole through the pines.
Lyan rode at the head of the vanguard, long cloak draped over one shoulder and pinned with a plain steel clasp that glimmered whenever a shaft of weak dawn light threaded the branches. The cold gnawed at his cheeks, turning scar and stubble to a deeper shade, but he scarcely felt it. His storm-gray eyes swept left, then right, drinking in every tilt of branch, every change in birdsong. Ahead, gravel cracked under Belle’s scout party—a sound too subtle for anyone but a commander listening for danger. Lyan’s fingers flexed on the reins, gloved leather creaking like an old hinge. He kept his other hand near the haft of his glaive, thumb brushing the etched runes as though they were worry beads.
Inside his skull the spirits woke at the same quiet tempo the world around him breathed.
(They watch, always watching,) Lilith purred, voice the soft slide of silk on bare skin. (Waiting for a flaw, a lowered helm, a loosened cinch.)
(Poor fools,) Griselda crackled, sparks flicking off every consonant. (Let them lean closer. The moment they taste our fear will be the moment steel tastes their throats.)
Cynthia, quieter, only murmured steadiness, as if laying a cool palm on Lyan’s racing thoughts. He inhaled through the nose, tasting the damp woodsmoke of distant cooking fires—Varzadian or maybe their own rearmost camp. Hard to tell in this soup of fog. He let the exhale pour out slowly, a gray ribbon that vanished faster than it formed.
Beside him Wilhelmina guided her bay gelding with light, invisible cues, the animal matching Lyan’s stallion pace for pace. Her cloak hood was up, but a twist of her pink braid had slipped free and now rested against the deep green wool like a fragile blossom saved from winter. She rode tall despite the slick road, blue eyes sharp as honed glass. "Enemy scouts will be watching," she said, voice pitched low; the mist swallowed words quickly if one didn’t aim them. "We must look cautious, but not desperate."
"They should read fatigue, not frailty," Lyan replied. "A force pushed hard, yet still ready to snap." He felt his gaze slide briefly down the line of her cloak’s edge—caught himself, forced the look back to the dark tree line. His stomach tightened. He couldn’t afford distraction, not when every shadow might spit arrows.
Belle was already a flash of emerald deeper among the firs, cloak edges lifting and folding like wings. She moved from trunk to trunk, sometimes crouching to brush fingertips over disturbed needles. When she straightened, her posture spoke volumes long before she whispered a report: clear for now, one rabbit path, boot scuffs old, no fresh prints. Then she melted forward again, shape thinning in the vapor until even Lyan’s trained eyes lost her.