Lyra’s POV
On the morning following our heated exchange in the underground arena, the atmosphere in the Warlord’s chambers seemed thick with anticipation.
As I stood before the ornate mirror in the corner of the room, I examined my reflection. As the sun rose, a royal servant had come bearing a package of dark clothing ordered by the King. The old, dirty leathers I had worn in the sparring ring were replaced by a pristine black tunic with a high collar and dark pants. The cloth was fine and unmarked by the crest of the Vanguard, yet cut in a manner that would make swift, violent movement easier.
I ran my fingers through my long, fiery red hair and stared into the green of my reflection.
The calculations of my military tactics filled my head as I contemplated the single, desperate plan
