Chapter 96: The Strike

Chapter 96: The Strike
Weeks passed.

Not in silence, exactly. But in the kind of space that fills itself with small things. I saw Roran sometimes—across the training yard, outside the supply runs, near the northern guard tower as he passed orders to the scouting teams. He didn’t avoid me. I didn’t avoid him. But the space between us remained untouched.

He had left that night with quiet hands and a voice that didn’t ask for anything I couldn’t give. And I had watched him disappear into the snow like something I might never reach for again.

But still, he was everywhere.

And I couldn’t forget the way we moved together. Not just at the fire, but in the days since. The way his eyes always found mine first when reports were given. The way Talon reached for him when we crossed paths. The way my body always noticed him before my mind caught up.

That morning, the air was sharp with cold. The kind that burned clean instead of biting. I’d taken Talon to the nursery den early, before the sun had risen fully. Dessa had offered to let him stay longer, claiming she needed the extra help with new pups. I hadn’t argued. I hadn’t wanted to admit I needed the quiet.

I moved through the stronghold on instinct.

The kitchens were mostly empty at this hour. Just the hum of the oven stones and the scent of rising bread. I slipped through the wide entry, brushing snow from my sleeves, and reached for a basket of dried meat strips near the prep table.

I didn’t realize he was there until I heard the scrape of a mug against wood.

Roran stood beside the hearth, one hand wrapped around a ceramic cup, steam rising from it in slow spirals. His coat was open at the collar, and his hair was still damp from a wash. He looked rested. Alert. But when he turned and saw me, something flickered across his face that had nothing to do with war or watch rotations.

“Lyra.”

It was the first time he’d said my name in days.

“Didn’t think anyone beat the scouts to the kitchen,” I said, trying to sound lighter than I felt.

“They leave crumbs,” he said. “I was hoping for a full piece of bread.”

I crossed to the basket. “There’s not much. Just salt meat and a few apples that should’ve been eaten yesterday.”

He watched me. I didn’t look directly at him. Not yet.

“You’ve been keeping busy,” he said.

“So have you.”

Silence stretched. Not sharp. Just full.

Then, without warning, a deep horn blast rolled through the walls.

Both of us turned at once.

The second note came louder. Urgent. That was no routine signal.

Roran was already moving.

I followed.

We reached the courtyard just as the scouts came through the gate. One of them was bleeding, a red smear trailing down his shoulder. His face was pale with urgency, not pain.

“Rogues,” he barked. “Five miles out. Two groups. Coordinated movement.”

Roran stepped forward. “Direction?”

“East ridge. They're pressing hard toward the perimeter. May not be scouts. Could be an actual strike.”

“Form a flank team,” Roran said without pause. “Pull second guard from the southern wall. Tell the runners to reinforce the eastern post with intercept units. Now.”

The scout ran.

Roran turned to me, eyes narrowing. “You’re not on patrol today.”

“No.”

“You’re still going, aren’t you?”

I didn’t answer.

He didn’t stop me.

We moved fast.

Within minutes, the square filled with movement. Wolves armed with axes and short blades. Arrows passed from hand to hand. The pulse of Iron Hollow shifted from stillness to readiness like a breath before a sprint.

I retrieved my weapons without speaking. Two blades. Balanced and clean. I strapped one high across my back and the other along my hip. I moved like I used to, like I had in the border wars. Not careful. Not frantic. Just ready.

When I stepped into the outer yard, Roran was waiting.

We didn’t speak.

We ran.

The eastern ridge loomed dark ahead. Snow had been churned by boot prints. Smoke rose in thin trails from the trees beyond. The first howl came sharp and low, one of ours, a warning. Then came the clash of steel.

Roran didn’t look back.

I fell in beside him.

We hit the ridge together.

It wasn’t a scouting party.

It was a strike.

Ten, maybe twelve rogues, all heavily cloaked, their bodies moving like wolves who had nothing left to lose. I recognized the rhythm of their charge. Not desperate. Trained. Fast and reckless. The kind that came from too many losses and not enough time to mourn them.

The first one lunged toward Roran.

He met the attack with brutal precision, shoulder catching the rogue’s chest, blade slicing up through fabric and bone. The man crumpled without a sound.

I caught the next one. A female. Fast. Tall. She came at me with a staff and a snarl. I dodged the first swing, ducked under the second, and drove my blade across her ribs in a clean, downward strike. She buckled sideways.

We didn’t pause.

Roran and I moved in tandem.

His steps echoed mine. My blade filled the space his reach didn’t cover. We turned and pivoted, dropped and rose, the rhythm of our movement tighter than training could teach. It wasn’t about speed. It wasn’t about strength.

It was about trust.

We knew how the other would move before it happened.

He stepped forward. I spun behind. He ducked. I struck. I bled. He shielded.

We were a single force, bound by breath and instinct.

The rogues faltered.

Some turned to flee.

But one, larger than the others, with a long scar that split his mouth down the side, charged straight at me. I stepped sideways, but not fast enough. His blade grazed my arm, heat blooming sharp and hot across the muscle. I hissed and fell back.

Roran was there before the man could strike again.

He collided with the rogue in a low, brutal tackle, both of them tumbling across the ground. Roran landed hard. The rogue rolled. I surged forward, grabbed my blade, and lunged.

The rogue caught the blow with his forearm, teeth bared.

I drove my knee into his gut, then brought the hilt of my blade against the side of his temple. He dropped.

When I turned to find Roran, he was gone.

I spun once.

Blood marked the snow.

I saw one of ours dragging another wolf from the brush. A shout. Another warning cry.

But no Roran.

Panic surged, quick and sharp. I scanned the tree line. Nothing.

He had been beside me. Seconds ago.

Now the forest stood still, branches hanging low with fresh snow, the smell of blood heavy in the air.

I moved forward, ignoring the sting in my arm.

“Roran!” I shouted.

No answer.

I turned toward the others, but they were already clearing the bodies, checking pulses, calling for stretchers.

I ran toward the last place I saw him.

My boots slid over the churned snow. I called again.

No sound.

No voice.

Nothing but cold.