CHAPTER 39: A SCUFFLE PART 1

The three of them froze at the shout.

The voice came from ahead, from a gap in the massive wall where two thick metal gates met. Figures in black were moving toward them, boots pounding in a steady rhythm on packed dirt.

"Halt! Identify yourselves!" the voice repeated, sharper now.

Lyris shifted her footing instinctively. Mira straightened, staff angled diagonally across her body. Ragna let her hand fall to the hilt of her greatsword, fingers curling around the leather grip.

The men in black closed the distance fast.

They weren’t knights. No cloaks, no heraldry, no shields. Their armor hugged tight to their bodies, made of strange plates and fabric. Dark helmets, dark vests, dark gloves. Strange box-like things strapped to their chests and belts. Long, narrow weapons in their hands that didn’t look like any crossbow Lyris had ever seen.

There were six of them. Four with those weapons shouldered, two out front with hands free.

The lead man raised a gloved palm.

"That’s close enough!" he barked. "Weapons down! Hands where we can see them!"

Lyris’ eyes narrowed. She understood the words. The accent was odd, but the meaning was clear.

Behind her, Ragna muttered, "Who the hell are these people?"

Mira’s gaze flicked from their strange gear to the towers above. More men watched from up there, dark shapes behind metal railings.

"Lyris," Mira said quietly, "those things in their hands... aim them at us. Like wands. Or crossbows without strings."

"Yeah," Ragna added. "And there are a lot more of them than us."

The leader repeated his command. "Last warning! Drop your weapons and show your hands!"

Lyris slowly lifted her free hand in a calming gesture, but she didn’t unstring her bow.

"We’re adventurers!" she called back. "From the capital. We came in response to a goblin horde request from Aldo Village!"

The men exchanged glances. One of the rear soldiers murmured something under his breath. The leader’s jaw tightened behind his beard.

"Yeah, that intel’s old," he replied. "There’s no village anymore. This is Atlas-controlled territory now. You’re trespassing on a secure perimeter. So I’ll say it again—drop the weapons."

"Atlas," Mira repeated under her breath. "That’s the word Serin used."

Ragna’s ears twitched. "Doesn’t mean they’re friendly."

Lyris studied the men in black. The way they moved. The way they spread out. They were precise. Efficient. No wasted steps. No bravado.

Professional.

"Lyris," Mira said low, "what do you want to do?"

"If we drop our weapons, we’re at their mercy," Ragna muttered. "And I don’t like being at anyone’s mercy."

Lyris knew that too well.

She took a small breath, keeping her voice steady.

"We don’t mean harm," she called. "We came to see if Aldo survived."

"Good for you," the leader shot back. "But you’re still walking up on a fortified position with steel and magic and no notice. That means we treat you like a threat until proven otherwise. Weapons. Down."

The two men out front shifted their stance. Hands lowered, but ready. The weapons behind them remained trained, barrels pointed directly at the trio’s chests and heads.

Lyris’ shoulders tensed. No commander from any kingdom talked like that. No patrol unit on the frontier moved like that.

"Those aren’t normal soldiers," she said quietly.

Ragna’s hand stayed on her sword.

Mira’s fingers brushed a charm at her waist.

The leader saw the hesitation and snapped, sharper now, "Hands up or we detain you by force!"

Ragna bared her teeth. "Try it."

The air thickened.

Lyris made a decision.

She eased her bow off her shoulder—but instead of dropping it, she held it low, notched an arrow in a smooth, practiced motion, and drew just enough to make a point.

"Stop right there," she warned, voice cutting across the gap. "We’re not your enemies. But we won’t let you chain us up like bandits either."

The men all moved at once.

Four rifles came up, sights locking on center mass.

"Whoa, whoa!" someone swore. "Contact, possible hostile!"

"Hold fire!" the leader snapped immediately, palm up. "No one shoots without my order!"

The barrels stayed raised, but fingers froze on triggers.

The leader’s eyes locked on Lyris.

"Last chance," he growled. "You point that thing any higher and this goes bad fast."

Ragna took one step forward, shoulders rolling.

Ragna took one step forward, shoulders rolling.

"Don’t threaten her," she said.

One of the front soldiers pivoted, eyes narrowing behind his goggles. "Okay, that’s it. Squad, advance. Nonlethal. Take them down."

They moved.

No war cry. No warning. Just speed.

Lyris barely saw the first man close the distance—a blur of black armor and boots pounding the dirt. Her mind screamed crossbow range, but he was already inside it. She tried to draw the arrow fully and he chopped his hand down in a precise strike, slapping the bow aside and stepping into her guard.

Her world jolted as his shoulder hit her chest. She stumbled back, but he caught her arm, twisted, and drove his hip into her center of balance. The ground vanished from under her feet.

She hit the dirt hard, breath blasting from her lungs.

What—?

He flowed with the motion, pinning her bow arm with his knee and locking her wrist in a joint hold she’d never seen before. Pressure lanced through her elbow. If she fought the wrong way, he would break it.

"Stay down!" he barked. "Don’t reach for anything!"

Lyris gritted her teeth. He was strong, but not superhuman. Just precise. Efficient. Like a trained martial artist with battlefield experience.

He shouldn’t be able to keep up with an elf’s reflexes.

But he was.

Ragna barely had time to process Lyris hitting the ground before two more men rushed her from opposite angles.

"Front is mine!" she growled, ripping her greatsword free in a blur of steel.

The man on her right veered away. The one in front didn’t slow.

He ducked just under her opening horizontal swing, the blade whistling through the air above his helmet. He stepped in under her guard, both hands snapping up. One palm slammed into her shoulder, the other caught her wrist, using her own momentum against her.

Her weight shifted. He twisted at the waist, feet sliding in a pattern she recognized from martial training—turn, pivot, pull.

Ragna felt her body lift off the ground.

She crashed down on her back, armor rattling, air driven from her chest. The greatsword rolled from her hand.

The soldier followed her down, knee pinning her forearm, his other leg hooking over her hip to prevent a roll. One hand pressed flat against her throat—not choking, but reminding her how easy it would be.

Her instincts roared. She snapped her head forward, trying to butt his face, but he leaned just out of reach, weight balanced.