Chapter 9: Velmoran Spy

Dainith crouched low among the twisted roots of an elderwood tree, her sharp eyes fixed on the two figures near the bridge. She had been tracking Lyria for weeks, sensing the healer's daughter had secrets hidden into her quiet steps. Tonight, she had proof.

The Caldrisian stood too close, his voice hushed but urgent. Though the river's roar masked their words, the way Lyria leaned in, the way her fingers brushed his sleeve—it was enough.

Dainith's grip tightened around the hilt of her knife.

Traitor.

Lyria, always hovering at the river's edge, always questioning the stories they were told. Now she had gone too far.

She turned, slipping through the underbrush, moving like a thief through the dark. Each step carried her closer to the village, to judgment.

The river pulsed behind her, its cold song rising through the night air.

--

Lyria knew something was wrong the moment she entered the village square. The warmth of the lanterns did nothing to soften the cold silence that met her.

Eyes turned toward her—some sharp, some uncertain, but all watching. Conversations had died mid-sentence.

She stopped.

At the far end of the square, Dainith stepped forward, lined by village elders. Among them stood Eira, her expression unreadable.

"You met with him," Dainith said, her voice secure and controlled. "A Caldrisian."

The words landed like stones in a still pond. Murmurs rippled through the crowd.

Lyria lifted her chin. "I sought knowledge. That is not a crime."

Dainith's lip curled. "It is when you take knowledge from the enemy."

Lyria's hands curled into fists at her sides. "He is not my enemy."

A sharper murmur spread.

Eira exhaled softly, stepping forward. "You know the laws of this village, Lyria. No trust across the river."

Lyria's breath hitched. She had expected anger. Not this—this quiet, sorrowful judgment.

She turned, searching the faces around her. Neighbors who had once welcomed her into their homes, mothers who had trusted her with their children's remedies, elders who had spoken her name with pride. Now they would not meet her eyes.

A verdict had already been given, without a single sentence passed.

Exile.

A slow kind of exile.

She swallowed against the weight in her throat.

Dainith tilted her head. "Have you nothing else to say?"

Lyria met her gaze. "Only this: The bridge is not a curse. It is a choice."

Something gleamed in Dainith's expression, was it unease?.

But it did not matter. The damage was done.

Lyria turned, walking away as the whispers of her people chased her into the dark.

--

She had always thought exile would feel like a door slamming shut. Instead, it was the slow, suffocating quiet of people looking away.

She walked through the village, past homes where she had once been welcomed. No one stopped her. No one spoke.

A child peeked at her from behind a wooden post. Lyria had treated his fever just weeks ago. His mother caught his hand, pulling him away.

A thousand tiny cuts, none deep enough to bleed, but all of them together—she felt them.

That night, as she packed a small satchel, she saw a shadow that came close to her doorway.

Eira.

The old healer stepped inside, setting a small bundle of dried herbs on the table. "For sleep," she said softly. "You will need it."

Lyria's fingers trembled as she picked up the bundle. "You do not believe them."

Eira sighed, her gaze unreadable. "Do not mistake their fear for hatred." A pause. "Fear makes people do cruel things."

Lyria swallowed hard. "And what about you?" Her voice cracked. "Do you fear me too?"

Eira was silent for a long moment. Then, gently, she touched Lyria's cheek. "Be careful, child."

Then she was gone.

Lyria did not look back as she walked towards the river.

--

The water was restless tonight, foaming against the rocks. Mist curled along the river's edge, swallowing the bridge in shifting tendrils.

Lyria sat on the damp ground, drawing her knees to her chest. The cold bit through her cloak, but she did not move.

A sound—soft footsteps on wet stone.

She did not need to turn to know it was him.

Joren hesitated beside her. "You shouldn't be out here alone."

She let out a bitter, humorless laugh. "Alone is all I have left."

Silence stretched between them, with an unpredictable sense of the future.

Then, after a moment, Joren knelt, pulling something from his satchel. A brass sphere, with a delicate carved curling along its surface.

"I was working on this," he said. "A mechanical star map."

Lyria blinked. "Why?"

He shrugged. "I thought you might want to see something that isn't falling apart."

She stared at him, the corners of her lips quivering, maybe this would stop her from constantly thinking of Velmora. "Show me."

He twisted a small dial, and the sphere unfolded like clockwork petals, revealing a constellation carved in silver. A tiny light light within, mimicking the night sky.

Their hands brushed as she reached for it. Neither pulled away.

She swallowed. "If we do this… we're walking into something bigger than us."

Joren met her gaze, his voice steady. "Then we walk together."

Beneath them, the river thumped while the bridge glowed faintly in the dark.

--

Back in Caldris, Thalric stood in the shadows of a patrol barracks, arms crossed.

Captain Roen leaned against the stone wall beside him. "You're not the first to ask about Joren's disappearances."

Thalric kept his voice even. "And?"

Roen exhaled through his nose. "If he's crossing to Velmora…" He shook his head. "We have a problem."

Unaware to Joren and Lyria, they had not been alone by the river. Another had watched.

A shadowed figure slipped through the streets of Caldris, silent as the tide.

Joren's name had been spoken in hushed tones.

And now, the hunt had begun.

--

Lyria's voice was barely above a whisper. "If we do this, there's no going back."

Joren tightened his grip on the brass star map. "Then we go forward."

Across the river, a patrol moved through the streets.

Their first move had been made.

The bridge would no longer be a secret.