Chapter 10: A Growing Connection

The bridge had never felt so empty. This was something new, like a new place, someone was hurt deep inside and he she was...

Lyria sat on its worn stone ledge, her cloak drawn tight around her shoulders, listening to the whisper of the river below. The wind carried the scent of damp earth and pine, a scent she had grown up with, one that should have felt like home. But her home was already gone, no one felt safe around her anymore, to her, it felt like something was slipping through her fingers no matter how hard she tried to hold on.

Tonight, the river was calm, but inside, her thoughts raged like a storm. She couldn't believe how things had turned out bad so fast and she continuously thought of ways to fix everything, but just remembering the way her people looked at her, all hope was lost.

A sound behind her—a measured step, careful but sure. She didn't turn, already knowing who it was.

Joren's voice, low and steady, broke the quiet. "You always get here first."

She let the silence stretch, as if deciding whether to answer. Then, a slow exhale. "You're predictable."

A soft chuckle. He stepped closer, setting something down beside her, wrapped in cloth. The movement was casual, but she could feel the weight of it. Another invention, no doubt—a distraction, an offering, a way to keep his restless hands busy.

Lyria's fingers drifted to the bundle, but she didn't unwrap it. Instead, she spoke, voice quieter now. "Do you ever wonder?"

Joren lowered himself onto the stone, elbows resting on his knees. "About what?"

She hesitated while the river murmured between them.

"If we weren't born on opposite sides..." She traced the patterns in the stone beneath her. "Would we still be here?"

Joren exhaled, long and slow, as if weighing the question. "If we weren't from Caldris and Velmora?" His fingers tapped against his knee, thoughtful. "Maybe we'd have met as scholars. Or travelers." A pause. Then, softer, "Maybe we wouldn't have met at all."

Lyria turned her head toward him, studying his face against the moonlight and for the first time she noticed that Joren was tall and lean when her eyes shifted from his face to his body and back up, with the build of someone who spends hours on inventions. His hands were often stained with soot or greese, a testament to his work but this time, they were clean and that he had sharp blue-gray eyes that seem to always be analyzing his surroundings, a strong jawline, and messy dark brown hair often untidy from lack of grooming but tolerable. "Would that be better?" She asked.

Joren looked at her then, really looked, his blue eyes unreadable. "I don't know."

She held his gaze for a moment too long before turning back to the river.

The wind shifted. A stray strand of hair brushed across her face. Without thinking, Joren reached up, tucking it behind her ear.

Lyria stilled.

His fingers lingered a second too long, before he pulled back, clearing his throat.

"You're avoiding my invention," he said, shifting the conversation.

Lyria smirked slightly, letting the moment pass lightly. She pulled at the cloth, revealing delicate metal blades—slim, finely crafted, made to catch the wind.

She set it on the stone beside them, watching the blades spin. "And this is?"

"A wind turbine. A small one, at least." Joren tilted his head. "I was thinking… if something like this could work on a larger scale, we could generate power without relying on—"

"War?" Lyria finished for him, her voice quiet.

Joren's jaw tightened. "Weapons, at least."

She traced the edge of the metal. "Would it ever work?" she murmured. "A world where we don't have to meet in secret?"

Joren didn't answer right away. He was staring at the water. "If we don't believe it can… who will?"

For the first time in a long while, Lyria allowed herself to hope.

--

Velmora was restless.

The air in the village felt chaotic, conversations spoken in low voices, glances thrown over shoulders. Tension swirled through the streets like smoke.

In the dim glow of a lantern-lit hall, a group of scouts gathered. Dainith stood among them, her arms crossed, her expression sharp. "Caldris is testing us," she said, voice edged with warning. "Their soldiers push closer. We must be ready."

Eira, standing near the doorway, listened in silence. She knew what was coming. She had seen this before.

Her gaze turned toward the empty space where Lyria once stood, years ago.

Did she know?

Did she understand what was coming?

Outside, Lyria moved through the market, the usual warmth of the village replaced with something colder. A merchant who once gifted her dried herbs now measured them carefully, his fingers tight around the scales.

She overheard two elders whispering. "The river will not hold them back forever."

Lyria was curious, what were they talking about. Who was coming?

For the first time, she wondered—not if she belonged in Velmora, but if Velmora would ever take her back.

Thalric was watching.

Joren had always been reckless, but this felt different.

The late-night disappearances, the distracted gaze, the way he returned from his walks lighter, as if he carried a secret.

One evening, Thalric followed. Keeping to the shadows, he watched Joren slip through the streets, moving with purpose.

He didn't see Lyria. But he saw Joren's expression when he returned—something had lifted from his shoulders, something different.

The next morning, Thalric confronted him.

"You're hiding something."

Joren didn't flinch. He reached for a tool on the workbench, his fingers steady, his expression indifferent. "Am I?"

Thalric leaned in, voice low. "You've been reckless before. But this feels different."

Thalric recently had a habit of accusing Joren of everything possible under the sun that Joren was considerably being immune to. 

Joren met his gaze. A test. A moment stretched thin.

But he didn't crack.

Not yet.

--

The fire burned low.

Lyria sat close, drawn to the warmth—not just of the flames, but of the presence beside her.

Joren lay back against a pile of worn blankets, his hands behind his head. "Tell me something true."

Lyria hesitated.

Then, softly: "I was afraid of the river when I was little."

Joren let out a quiet laugh. "Strange, considering how often you sit beside it."

"Fears change," she said. "Or maybe we learn to live with them."

The fire crackled. Their hands rested between them, inches apart.

Joren turned his head toward her. His voice was quieter now. "If we weren't from Caldris and Velmora… would you stay?"

Lyria didn't answer.

Because she didn't know.

--

Captain Roen drummed his fingers against his desk. A spy had delivered a name—Joren.

"He's hiding something," Roen mused. "Find out what."

Meanwhile, Thalric stood outside Joren's door, debating. To warn him? Or to stop him before it was too late?

He turned away.

--

Lyria stood at the edge of the bridge, staring at the dark water.

Joren stepped beside her. Their shoulders brushed.

"The world's getting smaller," she said.

Joren exhaled. "Then we hold onto what's left."

Across the river, torches lit. Watchful eyes searched the darkness.

Their time was running out.

But the night was not silent. On both sides of the river, forces moved in the dark.

Their secret was no longer safe.