Mercenary of Lastia - BtLH - Ch 16 (Patreon)

Lys exchanged farewells with Arlos, Meya, Jonas, and the children, her pack’s weight a tangible reminder of the journey ahead.

There was a sense of determination and wariness in her steps as she set out towards the main road, each step crunching softly on the dirt path.

As she passed the midway point, an intense pang lanced through her gut.

It wasn’t just a mild warning—the sensation was much more profound, gripping her with a fear that eclipsed the runaway cart incident, Emil’s betrayal, and the Irongian attack combined.

It paralyzed her feet where she stood.

Her stomach twisted violently. She collapsed to her knees, clutching her midsection as nausea churned her insides. A thin film of sweat broke out across her forehead, and she struggled to maintain steady breathing.

She recognized it. It gnawed at her, insisting on immediate attention. It screamed, louder and more insistent than ever, compelling her to turn back. Death. Worse than death.

If she walked up that path and toward Silverpines, she would die. It was an unchangeable fact.

Without second-guessing, she spun on her heel.

The suffocating dread dissipated almost instantly as she retraced her steps, leaving her weak and shaking but oddly relieved. Her legs felt like jelly, barely supporting her as she stumbled back towards the farmstead.

Approaching the farmhouse, she saw Arlo glance up, concern evident in his furrowed brows. “Lys, is something the matter? Did you forget something?”

“I’m not feeling well,” she managed, her voice a fragile. “Could I possibly stay another day?”

Without hesitation, Arlo’s expression softened, and he guided her back to the farmhouse. Inside, Jonas and Meya looked up in surprise as Arlos explained, “Lys will be staying with us another night.”

Jonas’s voice was understanding. “A few days’ rest would be good after such an ordeal.”

Meya nodded eagerly, her voice warm. “Of course, you’re welcome to join me and the girls with the chores and to stay as long as you need.”

Arlo looked between them and then nodded. “Stay as long as you need, until you’re ready to go on your own or until me and the boys head there ourselves.”

“Thank you all. I’m really grateful and sorry for the inconvenience,” Lys said.

Meya came over and hugged her. “No need for apologies, dear. You’re no burden.”

A little while later, Lys and Meya moved rhythmically around the kitchen, washing and drying the morning’s dishes.

Each clink of the plates, the swirl of soap in the warm water, pulled Lys back to days spent beside her mother, their hands busy while her younger siblings played at their feet.

The memory carried a tinge of sadness, but the familiarity of the chore soothed her subtly trembling hands.

Once the kitchen was cleaned up, Lys joined Arlos, Jonas. They were transporting the heavy with sacks of seeds and gleaming steel tools from the shed to the farmstead’s workshop and barn. She hefted one sack with a grunt, the strain in her muscles grounding her, steering her thoughts away from darker paths.

Arlo looked at her with surprise. “You’ve got some muscles on you, lass.”

She smiled. “These aren’t much heavier than my mother’s flour.”

Lunchtime arrived quickly, and Lys carried plates of food to the fence, where Arlos and the others gathered. They ate perched on the worn wood, sharing jokes and bites of bread, sliced ham and gravy.

One of Arlos’s sons, a boy of about twelve named Reg, tried to show off. He stood up on the fence’s narrow beam, his arms outstretched for balance. “Watch this!” he exclaimed, eyes flicking nervously to Lys.

With an exaggerated gesture, he pretended to walk a tightrope, but his foot slipped. He flailed his arms before toppling backward into a muddy puddle.

Everyone burst into laughter as Reg sat up, his face red with embarrassment, but quickly turning into a sheepish grin. Lys’s laughter mingled with theirs, a feeling of lightness warming her chest.

She stepped forward, offering him her hand. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up,” she said, helping him to his feet and leading him to the well to wash away the mud.

The afternoon melted into evening as Lys and the women assembled dinner in the bustling kitchen. The scent of roasting meat and herbs permeated the air, weaving with the sound of chopping and the warmth from the stove, promising a hearty meal.

At the table, Jonas spun tales of southern Lastia and its noble lords battling the Lizardman invasion, his voice painting scenes of valor and intrigue. Lys leaned in, each word pulling her deeper into a world fraught with danger and bravery.

Nightfall brought a close to the tales, and fatigue draped itself over her like a cloak.

She murmured goodnights before curling up on her bedroll. The day’s warmth and the steady cadence of farm life enveloped her, drawing her into a deep, serene slumber.

Sleep was a pleasant blankness.

Dawn’s first light crept through the small farmhouse window, casting a gentle glow on Lys as she rose.

Silently, she packed her belongings, careful to avoid waking the others. Outside, the chill of the morning air nipped at her skin, sharpening her senses as she walked to the property’s edge.

After a moment alone in the quiet morning, Lys paused, closing her eyes. She sought the familiar tug of her guiding premonitions, but found only stillness within.

No whispers of warning, no nudge toward urgency—just the quiet rustling of leaves.

Back against the rough bark of an old tree, she considered the unseen force that had steered her. Hopefully now she’d avoid whatever danger she would have faced on the road now.

Returning to the farmhouse, she found Meya arranging breakfast. Lys joined in, hands shaping dough, slicing fruit, her decision settling softly within her—to stay, at least for today.

The day unfolded with shared tasks and hearty laughter, grounding her in the joy of rural camaraderie.

Night fell, and Lys settled into her bedroll again.

By morning, clarity replaced hesitation.

Resolute, she gathered her things, exchanged heartfelt goodbyes with everyone at breakfast. Meya’s warm embrace and the weight of sweet rolls and cheese in her pack would fortify her on the road.

“Be safe out there, Lys,” Meya murmured.

Lys squeezed her hand. “I will. Thank you for everything.”

With a final wave, Lys turned her back to the farmhouse, stepping into the warming embrace of the morning sun.

The road to Silverpines awaited as she headed up the path to it.

Lys traced the worn handle of Jorg’s axe with her fingers as she made quick work of the miles.

The weapon, along with the cloth holster Arlos had crafted for her bow, hung from her shoulder. Her quiver, nearly full, pressed reassuringly against her back.

Descending the hills, the landscape opened, the dwindling trees exposing the path ahead. Long grass waved at the edges of her vision, the open fields leaving her a bit exposed.

Overhead, gray clouds pressed down, their pallor replacing the blue sky and bright sun of the last few days.

Her cloak fluttered in a sudden gust, and Lys tightened its strings against the chill. Moist air filled her nose, heavy with the threat of rain.

With night drawing close, she found refuge under a canopy of thick trees.

The wind shifted, and the expected raindrops splattered the dense leaves above, their rhythmic dance barely reaching her sheltered nook.

Wrapped in her cloak, she nestled into her bedroll, the cloak’s warmth a silent, steadfast guard against spring’s cool resurgence.