Chapter 77 — Between Words

  Garrick seized Hennel by the collar and dragged him away without ceremony.

  “Hey—! Let me go, you old geezer!”

  Smack.

  “Fix that mouth of yours first, brat,” Garrick said, not even breaking stride. “And stop charging like it’s the only move your empty head remembers.”

  Their voices faded toward the edge of the field, Hennel’s protests dissolving into pained yelps and Garrick’s flat, relentless corrections.

  That left Ayra alone with Ivaline.

  Or rather—left Ayra watching her.

  Ivaline had already stepped away from the training circle. She planted her feet, rolled her shoulders once, and raised her copper sword.

  She swung.

  Nothing resisted it.

  Again.

  Her movements were clean. Precise. Too deliberate to be mere practice. Each strike followed an invisible opponent—feinting where a counter should have come, parrying blows that never landed, stopping a blade’s width short of where a throat would have been.

  It wasn’t exercise.

  It was remembrance.

  Ayra hugged her arms lightly, fingers pressing into her sleeves.

  She remembered this girl.

  A year ago.

  Thin—too thin.

  Clothes hanging loose.

  An orphan clutching a scrap of bread while grown adults shouted and reached for her.

  Ayra had watched from behind a cart, heart pounding, too scared to help. Too scared to even keep looking.

  But now—

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  This girl stood straight. Balanced. Alone in a way that didn’t look lonely.

  Ayra had heard the stories.

  Protecting Tomas’s bakery.

  Standing up to a thug twice her size.

  Being noticed. Being taken in by the Brave.

  Fragments. Rumors. Nothing that explained how someone became this.

  Still—she admired her.

  Ivaline was younger. Smaller. And yet somehow already standing in a place Ayra couldn’t imagine reaching. Not physically. Mentally.

  Ayra wanted to say something.

  Anything.

  But the words tangled in her throat, just like always.

  Only Hennel ever pulled her forward—boastful, reckless Hennel, dragging her into conversations and decisions without asking if she was ready. Her only friend. Her shield.

  Ivaline finished another silent exchange with the air.

  Then—

  You should talk with them,

  the Chronicle’s voice said gently.

  Learn them. Know them. Small details matter when things go wrong.

  “…..”

  Ivaline slowed.

  Her sword lowered. Her breathing shifted—out of combat rhythm, into something softer. Grounded.

  She turned and walked toward Ayra.

  Ayra startled like a spooked animal.

  “L—Let’s talk,” Ivaline said.

  “Eh—!? Um— S-SURE!”

  The Chronicle metaphorically buried his face in his hands.

  But something unexpected happened.

  Ayra talked.

  At first, haltingly—words bumping into each other, apologies folded into every sentence. Then faster. Then like something had cracked open.

  She talked about growing up with Hennel. About how he always ran ahead and how she always followed. About parents who worked until they vanished into exhaustion. About choosing adventuring because it was terrifying—and because it promised movement instead of waiting.

  She talked about being afraid.

  And about wanting to be useful anyway.

  Then she talked about Ivaline.

  About watching her from afar.

  About admiration that felt heavy in her chest.

  About wishing she could be brave like her—and hating herself for not knowing how to say any of this out loud.

  Ivaline listened.

  She didn’t interrupt.

  Didn’t correct.

  Didn’t look away.

  She stood there, sword resting against her shoulder, eyes steady.

  At some point, Ayra felt it.

  A pressure—not hostile, but sharp.

  Her voice faltered. She glanced over her shoulder.

  At the edge of the field—half-swallowed by tall grass—someone moved.

  A man.

  Watching.

  Her breath caught.

  The man raised two fingers to his lips. Then pointed—not at them, but toward a different patch of cover.

  A warning.

  Silent. Controlled.

  Ayra blinked.

  When she looked again—

  He was gone.

  Her heart raced. Confusion lingered. Fear tried to bloom.

  But Ivaline hadn’t reacted.

  Some things didn’t need explanation.

  Not yet.

  Elsewhere—

  “OW—! I SAID STOP HITTING ME!”

  “Then stop earning it!” Garrick barked, knuckles rapping against Hennel’s skull again. “You fight like you’re arguing with the world!”

  “I’M JUST TRYING TO BE STRONG!”

  “Strength without thought is just noise!”

  The sun dipped lower.

  Shadows stretched across the field.

  Hennel’s protests grew hoarse. Garrick’s voice never did.

  By the time the light turned gold, the lesson still wasn’t finished.

  Some habits took longer to break.

  And some children took longer to understand why someone bothered to stay—

  long enough to try.