Chapter 62: Okay, Returning to Island

The rhythmic beat of helicopter blades echoed across the valley terrace, stirring the morning grass and sending cool mist swirling over the cliffside. The UH-60 Black Hawk sat with its turbines whining, ready for departure back to the island base across the strait.

John stood by the open cabin door with Captain Hayes and Sergeant Ritcher. A fresh combat uniform had replaced his wrinkled gear, but the quiet tension from the previous night lingered in the air.

Lyra stood before him, flanked by two tribal elders. Dressed in clean leather armor with a strip of ceremonial purple cloth tied around her bicep, she looked every bit the clan chieftain. Her eyes held a relaxed, knowing warmth as she stepped close to John, completely ignoring military protocol to place a hand against the center of his chest rig.

"The Ironclaw will keep the place secure while you are away, Commander," Lyra said, her voice easily cutting through the engine noise. Her bushy tail gave a slow, deliberate sweep behind her. "Take care of your business across the sea. But remember that your bed in the high lodge remains warm."

Before John could formulate a neutral, diplomatic response, Elenore stepped up beside him.

"Thank you for the hospitality," Elenore said, her voice smooth and formal, though her sharp eyes fixed on Lyra with a cold glare. "The Commander has important matters to attend to across the sea. Matters far more important than idling in warm lodges. And as his guard, I will make sure he stays focused on our real objectives."

Lyra didn’t flinch. Her amber eyes met Elenore’s in a steady gaze, a faint smirk forming at the corner of her lips. Her ears twitched slightly against the rotor wash, her tail swaying behind her in pure confidence.

"Guard? Since when did you become a guard? I was told you were just a visitor..." Lyra pointed.

Lyra was right, John didn’t consider Elenore to be his guard, but for the peace of mind of both parties, he chose not to correct her right now.

"She’s acting as our regional guide and liaison," John quickly intervened, stepping forward to physically cut through the heavy stare between the two women.

Elenore lifted her chin a fraction higher, casting a subtle, triumphant glance toward the chieftain. Her pointed ears gave a slight, satisfied flick. "As you can see, Chieftain. My presence is required by Commander John."

Lyra’s smirk didn’t waver. Instead, she leaned in slightly closer to John, letting her hand linger against the nylon strap of his vest before slowly pulling away.

"Then guide him well, Lady Elenore," Lyra murmured, her eyes locking onto Elenore with cool amusement. "Try not to let him wander too far from your sight. He has a habit of finding warm places to rest."

Elenore’s jaw tightened, a faint twitch running along the corner of her brow, but she clamped her mouth shut before she could snap back in front of the troops.

John cleared his throat loudly, giving Hayes and Ritcher the signal to move. "Alright, that’s enough back-and-forth on the landing zone. We’re burning fuel. Lyra, keep the scouts alert. If anything moves out of the old wyvern roost, radio the relay outpost immediately."

"We will hold the valley," Lyra replied smoothly, placing a fist over her chest in a formal warrior’s salute. Her gaze softened as it met John’s. "Return safely, Commander."

"Mount up," John ordered, turning toward the rumbling cabin.

Elenore gave Lyra a single, stiff nod before striding up the runner and climbing into the Black Hawk. She took a seat on the inward-facing bench, pulling the harness down with sharp, deliberate snaps. Her arms crossed over her chest, her back straight as a spear, deliberately staring out the open door at the misty cliffs rather than acknowledging the wolf chieftain watching from below.

John, Hayes, and Ritcher climbed in right after.

"Clear right, Sir," Ritcher called out as the crew chief hauled the heavy door shut, locking it in place and muting the roaring downwash into a dull, vibrating drone.

The turbines whined with rising pitch. The Black Hawk lifted smoothly off the grass, pivoted into the wind, and pitched its nose downward as it heads towards the sea.

The Black Hawk skimmed low over the grey, choppy waters of the strait, the mainland coastline shrinking into a pale green line behind them. Inside the cabin, nobody spoke. The steady roar of the twin turboshafts filled the silence while Elenore kept her gaze fixed squarely on the opposite bulkhead, refusing to look at John.

One hour later.

The cabin door slid open, letting in the cool, salty ocean air and the sharp stench of jet fuel.

"Base operations, Sir," Ritcher announced, unhooking his harness and grabbing the first pair of hard-shell equipment cases. Hayes stepped out right behind him, keying his radio to alert the tactical staff.

John climbed down to the tarmac, rolling his stiff shoulders. Elenore hopped down with effortless grace, adjusting her bow over her shoulder and falling into step right behind his left flank, eyes sweeping the airfield with practiced vigilance.

"Hayes, have the intel shop pull up the drone footage runs over the Cragspine sector," John said as they approached the reinforced concrete command center. "I want the battle damage assessment on the big screen before we start."

"Already queued up in Briefing Room Bravo, Commander," Hayes answered.

John turned around to face Elenore at the threshold of the building. "Elenore, this debrief is going to be classified operational data and standard military admin. It’ll be boring, and it’s internal protocol. Why don’t you head over to the mess hall or check out the supply depot? Keep yourself occupied for a couple of hours until we’re done."

Elenore paused, her eyebrows furrowing. "Occupied? Commander, I am here to shadow you. I am your guard."

John let out a dry breath and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Elenore, you’re not my guard. You’re an allied liaison and our guide for the mainland terrain. You don’t have military clearance, and you don’t need to stand around watching drone telemetry."

The words hit her harder than he intended.

Elenore’s posture went rigid, and her long ears drooped, pinning flat against her hair. The confident, sharp edge in her expression melted into a wounded, quiet shock. Her fingers tightened around the leather strap of her bow, her knuckles whitening. She looked down at the concrete floor, biting her bottom lip as a raw, hurt look settled in her eyes.

"Not... your guard," she echoed, her voice barely louder than a whisper, lacking all of its earlier haughty confidence. "I see."

She sounded genuinely crushed, her pride thoroughly bruised after already having to endure the confrontation with Lyra that morning.

John stopped, catching the look on her face, and inwardly cursed himself. Navigating high-tech combat doctrine was simple; managing the fragile, proud emotions of an elf was proving to be far more dangerous than wyverns.

He exhaled a long, defeated sigh, running a hand through his hair.

"Look... that came out wrong," John conceded, waving a hand toward the heavy steel blast doors of the briefing room. "Fine. Come inside. Just stay by the back wall and observe okay?"

Her eyes lit up. "Okay!"