The sun bled into the horizon, painting the barren road in shades of crimson. As night fell over Ironvale, shadows lengthened, hiding the city’s darker secrets—secrets about to be torn open under the light of justice. Dean, Luther, and Krave moved swiftly under the dimming light, riding a caravan to Ironvale. Danny and Cudgel stood watch over the seven captured slavers, ensuring no one escaped their bindings.

As night fully claimed the sky, the caravan neared Ironvale’s gates. Torches flickered atop the city walls, casting a warm glow over the guards. The caravan entered without fanfare, blending seamlessly into the late-night bustle of traders. Ironvale remained a city of trade and shadows, where secrets were often traded with coins. But tonight, darker deeds were about to come to light.

Dean, Luther, and Krave made their way to the grand hall, where Bailiff Dorran Farrow, accompanied by Countess Elara Crain, awaited them. Dorran, an aged man with silver hair thinning atop his wrinkled head, sat hunched in his high-backed chair, his once-strong frame now showing the weight of decades spent maintaining order in the city. His stern face had softened with age, but his sharp eyes still gleamed with a cunning and vigilance that had kept Ironvale from falling into utter chaos over the years. A ring of iron keys jangled at his waist as he shifted in his seat, a relic of his old duties when he was more physically active in the city’s affairs.

Countess Elara Crain stood beside him, tall and regal, her noble bearing contrasting sharply with the Bailiff’s rugged appearance. Draped in rich blue velvet embroidered with silver, she held herself with a calm authority that surpassed her years. Her auburn hair was tied into a neat bun, a few strands of grey interwoven. Her reputation in Ironvale was one of both grace and unyielding resolve. The citizens respected her as much for her compassion as they did for her political influence.

Elara stepped forward with a calm but commanding presence. “Bailiff, I have told you what we uncovered. These slavers have operated under the very noses of our officials, their hands dirtied by gold and blood. We have a list of officers and guards involved in these vile acts—men who must be brought down from their posts and executed, according to Remington’s law,” she declared, her voice as sharp as the silver threads in her robe."

Dorran nodded, his leathery face showing little surprise. “Aye, Countess. This city’s rot has been festering for years. I had my suspicions, but I never thought the corruption ran this deep.” He turned his tired eyes to Dean. “How many do we have in custody?”

Dean stepped forward, his voice steady. “We’ve got seven in custody—six of them guards, one a Soulweaver. We’ve also rescued twenty-three kidnapped people... but it’s only about half of those who disappeared. They’re in rough shape, but they’re alive, and they’re willing to testify.”

The Bailiff’s eyes darkened. “Twenty-three... What of the others?”

Elara’s voice quieted, the steely edge softening as she continued. “Despite our best efforts, many remain unaccounted for... some lost forever in the Great Golden Desert.” Her eyes momentarily flicked downward, betraying her sorrow.

Dean continued, “They were using a caravanserai right here in the city. One of their main staging grounds. That place needs to be torn apart, and everyone involved—punished.”

Elara’s eyes flashed with cold determination. “We will drag every name, every accomplice, into the light. No one will be spared. The guards and officers who allowed this to happen must pay for their crimes, starting with those stationed at the city gates and the Eastern outpost. They must be made an example of. Their deaths need to be public—so no one dares betray Ironvale like this again.”

Dorran leaned forward, his fingers drumming against the armrest of his chair. “You’re right, Countess. These scum need to be dealt with swiftly, and I’ll make sure not one of them escapes justice. Give me the list, and we’ll set things in motion tonight.”

And so, the purge of Ironvale began.

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Dorran wasted no time. As soon as the first names were handed over, his men moved swiftly under the cover of darkness, their swords drawn not for war, but for justice. Ironvale had begun its cleansing.

For five days, the Bailiff’s men and the forces loyal to Countess Elara worked tirelessly to cleanse the city of corruption. Their first strike came at the Eastern outpost, a bastion of smuggling and deception. Under the cover of darkness, Dorran’s men stormed the outpost, arresting the officer in charge and his guards. By morning, the outpost had been replaced with soldiers loyal to the Bailiff, and the corrupt officers were imprisoned and awaiting judgement.

Next, Ironvale’s gates were sealed shut, and no one was permitted to enter or leave the city.

The caravanserai was stormed next. The five men stationed there were taken without warning and dragged through the streets in chains. Each of them was tortured, their bodies broken beneath the weight of iron tools, until they revealed every secret they held about the slaver ring. Only then, they were left to rot in their cells. Their confessions marked the final blow in dismantling the trade routes that had long enslaved Ironvale’s citizens.

Lorn Greaves, the officer who handled the Eastern Gate, was arrested alongside his entire crew. They were lashed and marched through the streets in chains, the public looking on in a mix of curiosity and growing anger as the depth of the betrayal became clearer. Lorn and his men were tortured for days, their crimes extracted from their own lips, as well as the testimony of the slavers.

By the seventh day, the stage was set.

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The citizens of Ironvale gathered in the city square beneath the morning sun, casting harsh shadows over the platform where the guilty stood. Seventeen men—officers and guards alike—were bound and shackled, forced to kneel before the executioner’s block. Each face bore the weight of their sins, their lips cracked and dry from days spent in the dungeons.

Bailiff Dorran stood before the crowd, his voice booming over the gathered masses. “These men betrayed you! They sold your brothers, your sisters, your children to slavers! For gold, they allowed our people to be kidnapped and dragged into the desert like cattle. They have defiled the honour of Ironvale, and today, they pay for their crimes!”

The crowd erupted in furious shouts, cursing the kneeling men with vile words, some hurling stones and rotten fruit at them.

Dean, Luther, and Krave stood off to the side, their faces grim as the executioner raised his axe.

One by one, the heads of the traitors rolled into the dust, the cries of the crowd growing louder with each death. Lorn Greaves was the last to fall, his eyes wide with terror as the executioner’s blade descended.

As the final body fell limp to the ground, the public cheered their voices in a chorus of relief and rage. They had witnessed justice, swift and brutal. The weight of the past few months, of the disappearances and fear, lifted ever so slightly from their shoulders.

Standing at the edge of the platform, Countess Elara watched in silence. Her face was impassive, but her eyes betrayed her sorrow for those they could not save. The cleansing of Ironvale was far from over, but this was the first step toward healing the city.

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As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting Ironvale in hues of purple and gold, Dean contacted Danny and Cudgel through his communication stone, his voice carrying the weight of relief and finality.

“It’s done,” Dean said. “The traitors have been dealt with. It’s safe to bring the survivors back now.”

On the other end, Danny gave a nod to Cudgel. “Let’s get them home.”

The two made their way to the inn where Silas, Rowan, Layla, and the twenty-three rescued survivors had been hiding. When they entered, the mood inside was tense, the air thick with the uncertainty that had hung over the room for days. The rescued men and women sat huddled together, their faces a mixture of exhaustion and hope, waiting for news of their fate.

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Danny smiled, a rare, soft expression crossing his usually stoic face. “It’s over. You’re all free to go back to Ironvale. Everything’s been taken care of.”

Silence reigned in the room for a moment as the survivors processed his words. Then, slowly, tears welled up in their eyes. Relief washed over them like a wave, and soon, the room was filled with soft sobs and murmurs of thanks.

“We’re… free?” one woman whispered, her voice trembling.

Cudgel smiled and nodded. “Yeah, it’s over. You’re safe now.”

Some of the survivors cried openly, while others clasped hands and hugged each other tightly. Their joy was palpable, the weight of their captivity finally lifting from their shoulders.

Outside, as the survivors were gathered, Danny and Cudgel arranged for another caravan from Asyut to bring them back. The slavers, bound by thick ropes, were tied to the last caravan—forced to walk behind it, their faces grim as they stumbled through the sand. Some of them cried out as they were dragged by the moving caravan when they couldn’t keep up, their bruised and bloodied bodies a sharp contrast to the joyous faces of the freed captives.

The sight of the slavers, beaten and humiliated, offered the survivors some small sense of justice. Their cries for mercy went unanswered as the caravan moved steadily toward Ironvale.

As the group neared Ironvale, the survivors marvelled at the sight of the city they never thought they’d see again. But the joy of the return was not shared by all. Among the crowd of families eagerly awaiting their loved ones, some searched in vain—husbands and wives, mothers and fathers who found only empty spaces where their loved ones should have been.

Tears of joy quickly turned to heartbreak, and a cold fury spread among those who had lost their kin. The sight of the slavers tied and stumbling behind the caravan ignited that fury into action.

“Where is my wife?!” A man’s voice rang out, his eyes wild with grief as he spotted the slavers. “You took her from me!”

The mob surged forward, eyes filled with wrath. Cries of anguish and rage echoed through the streets as the families, seeing no justice in the survival of the slavers, descended upon them.

“You murdered those people!” another voice screamed as a woman threw the first stone, striking one of the slavers square in the face. Blood poured from the wound, but the crowd didn’t stop there. Hands reached for whatever they could find—rocks, broken bottles, fists—and the public began beating the slavers without mercy.

Despite their protests, pleading for the law of Remington to protect them, their cries fell on deaf ears. “You said we’ll be judged by the Remington law!” one of the slavers shouted, his voice desperate as blows rained down on him.

But the guards looked on, their expressions hard, letting the crowd vent their anger. They made no move to stop the brutal scene unfolding before them. It was as if, at this moment, the people needed this—needed to see the slavers suffer for what they had done, for what they had taken.

Out of the seven slavers, three guards were beaten to death within minutes, their lifeless bodies left in the dust as the mob continued its assault. The remaining four, severely injured, writhing in agony, barely conscious, as fists and feet continued to pummel them. Some tried to crawl away, only to be dragged back by furious hands, the crowd too consumed by grief to let them escape.

Cudgel watched the scene unfold, his face impassive. Danny stood beside him, arms crossed, not intervening. The guards, too, made no effort to stop the violence. This was a reckoning that the law would not deliver fast enough.

Silas, Rowan and Layla had no love for these slavers either, so they watched on, expressionless. In fact, strangely, their desperate cries didn’t sound so bad in their ears.

By the time the crowd finally dispersed, leaving the slavers broken and bloodied, the sun had fully set, casting the streets in shadow. The survivors, now reunited with their families, embraced tightly, their eyes hollowed by grief but shining with the resolve of having seen some form of justice delivered.

Ironvale had been quieted for now, but the scars of the day would linger long after the bodies were cleared from the streets.

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At night, as the chaos in Ironvale settled, Silas, Rowan and Layla were invited to Countess Elara’s mansion to celebrate. After ensuring the survivors were reunited with their families, the group finally allowed themselves a moment of respite. The tension that had gripped them for days slowly gave way to a rare sense of relief and celebration.

The brutal image of the slavers, beaten and broken, lingered in their minds even as they left the chaotic streets behind. But as they neared Countess Elara's mansion, the tension slowly gave way to a quiet sense of relief. They had survived, and so had the survivors. Tonight, they could allow themselves the luxury of letting go—if only for a moment.

After a while, the grand hall was filled with laughter and the clinking of glasses as the group gathered around a large table adorned with a feast fit for royalty. Plates of roasted meats, sweet fruits, and fresh bread filled the table while pitchers of mead and wine were passed around freely.

Goldie, who had been content sitting by Rowan’s side, suddenly perked up, sniffing the air. His round blue eyes fixated on a pitcher of mead and gave a soft “Wow!” while patting Rowan’s leg. The sweet, delicious smell clearly intrigued him.

Rowan, already tipsy from the wine, chuckled and tried to shoo Goldie away. “Oi, no mead for ya, buddy, you're still too young... hiccup...” he slurred, waving his hand lazily.

Goldie let out another insistent “Wow!” and swiped at Rowan’s pants, tearing the fabric in protest.

“W-what’re you doin’” Rowan blurted, trying to push the cub away. “Layla’s the only one who g-gets to tear at my clothes!”

Layla, sitting beside him, was tipsy as well, and her eyes narrowed. “Oh, leally?” She slapped Rowan lightly on the shoulder, mumbling, “Y-you only get that aftel... aftel marriage, you idiot…”

Rowan rubbed his shoulder, his face flushed from both the alcohol and embarrassment. “I didn't… didn’t mean it like that! hiccup”

Salma, watching the whole scene with an amused grin, leaned in. “Well, if you’re offering, Rowan, I wouldn’t mind doing that to you either,” she teased with a playful wink. “But it’s gonna cost you.”

Layla’s eyes flared. “You dale do anything with her, Lowan, and I'll—I'll thmack you till yer face turns purple!" Layla declared, gripping his ear tight.

“Owiee!” Rowan yelped, trying to wriggle out of her grip. “I don’t dale, Lady Layla, pleathe spale meeee!”

As the bickering continued, Trickster slithered unnoticed to the table, using his tail to sneak a pitcher of mead off the edge. He lifted it triumphantly and drank with a sly hiss, glancing disdainfully at Goldie as if to say, This is how it’s done, fool.

Trickster then lifted the pitcher to Goldie’s mouth with a flick of his tail. Grateful, Goldie made a grab for the mead, but Trickster yanked it just out of reach, hissing softly as if mocking his clumsy attempt.

Frustrated, Goldie tried to climb up Rowan’s lap, but Rowan, distracted by Layla’s wrath, didn’t pay him any heed. Trickster hissed softly from the other side of the table, flicking a grape into Rowan's drink with a sly flick of his tail. The rest of the group watched the scene unfold in varying states of drunken amusement.

Luther, in particular, was enjoying Rowan’s misfortune far too much. He clapped loudly, his booming laughter filling the room. “Ah, Rowan! You’re in trouble now!” he called out, raising his mug in a toast to the chaos.

Rowan yelped as Layla tugged his ear harder, the rest of the table breaking into laughter at his exaggerated protests. Goldie barked in anger, knocking over a chair as Trickster smugly slithered away with the pitcher of mead.

Amid the laughter, Silas chuckled softly, but something tugged at him beneath the surface. As he watched Rowan and Layla, their playful banter stirred an unfamiliar ache in his chest. Their laughter reminded him of something he didn’t have… something that felt distant.

Regina.

Even in his tipsy state, Regina’s image surfaced in the haze of his thoughts. He could almost see her—the way she looked at him with those cold yet enigmatic eyes, and her voice carried warmth and warning. He missed her. Silas raised his mug, staring into the swirling liquid. He didn’t understand it entirely, but something about her pulled at him even though they lived in different worlds.

Rowan’s voice broke through his thoughts, pulling Silas back into the moment. “T-Thilas, help me!”

Silas smiled, shaking his head. “You’re on your own.”

The room erupted into laughter once more, but Silas’s thoughts drifted. As Rowan and Layla bickered drunkenly beside him, Silas glanced at them, their playfulness making his chest ache. Was this what he wanted with Regina? To be close to her, to laugh, argue, then make up? To have something real. He envied Rowan and Layla’s connection. They had something tangible, something real, even if it was messy and chaotic.

Would he ever have that with Regina?

His mind wandered back to her words before they parted ways in Amberheart—how she warned him to stay away from her. He frowned, taking another swig of his drink. But even then, even after all of her warnings, he couldn’t stay away. He didn’t want to.

Silas let out a soft, frustrated sigh, his vision blurring slightly as the alcohol tugged him further into his thoughts. Maybe it was the drink making him sentimental, but the desire to see her again—to break through whatever walls she had built around herself—was stronger than ever.

Rowan yelped as Goldie swiped at him again, prompting amused snickers around the table.

Silas chuckled along, but deep down, his thoughts remained with Regina. Wherever she was, he would find her. That much he knew. And this time, he wasn’t going to let her push him away.

He sighed, pushing his thoughts of Regina aside for now. He then smiled softly—tonight wasn’t about her. Tonight, he could laugh with his friends, and forget about anything else.