The stifling heat of the tropical island pressed in from all sides, suffocating, unrelenting. The sun hung high in the sky, a cruel overseer to the prisoners locked in their rusting cages. Sweat dripped down Elliot's brow, mixing with the salt of the sea and the grime of captivity. His muscles ached, his stomach growled, but still he remained still, observing. Watching. Listening.

The slavers were a loose, unruly group, too confident in their control. But Elliot could feel the tension building beneath the surface—like the calm before a storm. The prisoners, broken and weary as they were, began to stir in their cages, murmuring in low voices, eyeing each other with looks that spoke of silent promises. They were not all resigned to their fate. Not yet.

The day passed slowly, the hours stretching and warping beneath the heat. The slavers went about their duties, some lounging under the sparse shade of the trees, others sharpening their weapons by the flickering light of a fire. Elliot kept his head down, doing his best to seem like just another helpless prisoner. But beneath the facade, his mind was racing, searching for a way out.

A way to fight back.

Suddenly, the low murmur of voices grew louder, sharp whispers carried by the wind. Elliot's gaze flicked to the prisoners in the nearby cages. There, in the shadows, a figure moved with the quiet grace of a predator—one of the prisoners, a man of lean muscle and dark skin, was speaking to the others. His hands made swift, deliberate gestures as he explained something, and soon, a handful of prisoners nodded, determination hardening their faces.

Elliot's heart quickened, the pulse of the world around him matching the rapid beat of his own. *Is this it?* he thought, barely daring to hope.

He watched as the figure approached his cage. The man's eyes, dark and intense, met Elliot's, and in that moment, there was no need for words. The prisoner had been watching him, studying him, just as Elliot had been watching them.

The man knelt, his voice barely a whisper. "I see fire in your eyes, foreigner. A fire that cannot be quenched. You have power, even if you don't know it yet. We can break free, together."

Elliot's breath caught in his throat. He had no idea who this man was, but he felt it—the same stirring power beneath his skin, the same pulse of something ancient, something vast. He had never felt more alive.

"What do you need me to do?" Elliot asked, his voice low and steady.

The man smiled, a fleeting expression that held no joy, only grim determination. "You've felt it, haven't you? The tension in the air. The slaves are restless, the guards are too careless. Tonight, we strike."

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Elliot nodded. He didn't need more explanation. He could feel the truth in the man's words like a stone sinking to the bottom of his gut. *Tonight.*

The sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the island, painting the jungle with a sickly orange hue. The firelight flickered and danced, casting erratic shadows that made the world seem more monstrous than it already was. The slavers were beginning to drink, to laugh, to relax as night descended. They thought they were safe, that they had nothing to fear.

They were wrong.

As the night grew darker, Elliot could hear the sound of hushed voices and the clinking of chains, the subtle shifting of prisoners moving closer to their cages. He could see it now—the prisoners in the nearby cells were preparing, their eyes full of purpose. A handful of them, those who had whispered and planned earlier, were ready. The rest… they were waiting for the spark.

*This is it,* Elliot thought. His pulse hammered in his ears, every fiber of his being tuned to the rising tension in the air.

The slavers sat around their campfire, their faces illuminated by the flickering flames, their voices raucous and carefree. The guards, distracted, laughed as they passed a bottle of foul-smelling alcohol between them. It was the perfect moment.

With a sudden, explosive movement, the prisoner with the dark eyes—whom Elliot had learned to recognize as Amiyan—ripped a sharp, jagged piece of metal from the bars of her own cage. She shoved it into the lock, and with a click, the door sprang open. A low, violent cheer echoed through the prisoners as they followed suit, each cell coming undone one by one.

Elliot's heart raced as he moved into the shadows, instinctively staying low. His eyes darted across the camp, scanning for threats. His muscles tensed, the strange power within him surging as if awakened by the chaos unfolding around him. The slavers were oblivious, their laughter now replaced by a confused, panicked shout as the prisoners surged forward, their shackles forgotten.

The first slaver fell, his body crumpling to the ground. The jungle came alive with a chorus of roars and cries, a cacophony of freedom and violence. Elliot's breath was ragged in his chest as he surged forward, his claws instinctively scraping against the rough stone of the ground, his body moving with a speed he'd never known.

The power inside him was no longer a distant thing. It was alive, writhing, twisting through his veins, begging to be released. He reached out, his fingers crackling with dark energy, and with a roar, he unleashed a blast of shadow that sent two slavers sprawling to the ground. The air rippled with the force of the strike, and Elliot's heart leaped in his chest as the power surged through him, unstoppable and pure.

But there was no time to celebrate. More slavers were coming, weapons drawn, their faces twisted in rage and fear. But the prisoners, driven by desperation and rage, were no longer just captives. They were warriors.

The jungle roared in response.

Elliot's body moved without thought, without hesitation. He leapt, his limbs carrying him effortlessly across the ground as he collided with the next slaver. The sound of metal on flesh rang in his ears, the clash of their weapons filling the air as the slavers scrambled to defend themselves.

In that moment, something changed. The fear that had held him captive, the uncertainty, the doubts—all of it faded into the background. He was no longer Elliot, the prisoner, the broken man. He was *Rhaegos*, the son of the South, the prince of a dying empire. His soul burned with the heat of a thousand forgotten battles. The name no longer felt foreign; it was as much a part of him as his breath.

Amiyan's voice rang out, low but commanding. "Push forward! There's no turning back now!"

The prisoners surged, and Elliot followed, his heart pounding with a fire he had never known, his body moving as if guided by something beyond himself. The camp erupted into chaos, the flames of the fire now reflecting in the eyes of both captor and captive.

The fight was far from over, but in that moment, Elliot knew one thing for certain: the night was his to claim