Ch 13: No Haven Here
The cell was quiet except for Taren’s occasional groans and the faint rustle of leaves on the night breeze. Elda leaned against the rough wooden wall, one leg bent and arms draped loosely over her knee.
She watched the dim torchlight flicker across the uneven walls, her sharp eyes tracing the patterns of shadow and light. The faint scent of herbs lingered in the air, likely from whatever concoction the villagers had used to tend to Taren and Ren’s wounds.
Her gaze drifted to Taren, who lay unconscious on a makeshift cot. Ren was nearby, his face pale but his breathing steady. Vyn and Varis sat a few feet away, their postures tense and uneasy. None of them spoke, the weight of their predicament hanging heavy in the air.
Elda exhaled slowly, closing her eyes. Her mind slipped back to the events that had led them here, replaying each moment in vivid detail.
Flashback
The forest was a blur of shadow and motion, the jagged branches of ancient trees clawing at them as they ran. The beast’s gutteral roars echoed behind them, vibrating through their bones. Elda’s chest burned with every breath, her legs close to giving out. She didn’t dare look back—not at the ruins, not at the direction of the sound.
All she could do was keep moving.
Behind her, Taren’s limp form was slung between Vyn and Varis, their arms hooked under his shoulders. The shield that had once been his lifeline now dangled uselessly at his side, its edges splintered and bloodied. Taren’s head lolled forward, his face ashen, his breaths barely audible over the pounding of her heart.
Ren stumbled along just behind them, his injured arm clutched tightly against his chest. His teeth were gritted against the pain, but his feet faltered every few steps, threatening to drag them all down. Every labored step was a fight to stay upright, his sword dragging a jagged line in the dirt behind him.
Elda’s legs trembled as she broke through the thick undergrowth into a small clearing. She came to a halt, bending at the waist and bracing her hands on her knees as she gasped for air. The rest of the group staggered in behind her, collapsing in a heap near the treeline.
Vyn and Varis eased Taren down against the trunk of a wide tree. The younger man groaned faintly but didn’t stir. Vyn sank to his knees beside him, his hands resting on his thighs, his face pale. He wasn’t smiling now. He hadn’t smiled since they’d left the ruins.
Ren stumbled to a stop a few paces away, dropping to one knee as he struggled to catch his breath. He clutched at the sling holding his arm, his other hand digging into the dirt. His body trembled, a mix of exhaustion and fury barely held in check.
Elda wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, scanning the tree line with narrowed eyes. Her breathing slowed, but the pounding of her heart didn’t. The silence of the forest wrapped around them, applying her gnawing guilt.
“We could’ve done something,” Ren muttered. The accusation hit like a dagger, slicing through the fragile quiet.
Elda’s head snapped toward him, her jaw tightening. “And what exactly would you have us do, Ren?” she snapped.
“Stay there and die? You saw what that thing did to Taren. It would’ve killed us all.”
“You don’t know that,” Ren growled, forcing himself upright. His good hand clenched into a fist, trembling. His gaze burned into hers, a mix of anger and anguish. “We left them—Soren and Ayola. We didn’t even try.”
Elda’s throat tightened, but before she could respond, Varis cut in.
“They knew the risks,” he said flatly. He leaned back against the tree, his arms resting on his knees. His face was shadowed, unreadable, but his tone carried a quiet finality. “Soren and Ayola are capable. If anyone can handle that thing, it’s them. If not…” He let the words hang in the air, his meaning clear.
The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the faint rasp of Taren’s breathing. Ren’s jaw worked, but he said nothing, his frustration radiating off him in waves.
“They’re alive,” Elda said finally, her voice quieter now. She glanced back to the treeline, as if she could will the words into truth. “They have to be.”
Vyn sat a few feet away, his back against the tree beside Taren. His hands were folded in his lap, his head bowed as he stared at the dirt beneath his boots. His usually bright demeanor was gone, replaced by a hollow stillness. He hadn’t spoken much since they’d left the ruins—not even his usual quips to lighten the mood.
He looked up briefly, his brow furrowing. “Well…” he began, his voice quiet and strained. “At least… we’re not dead yet.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and humorless. He didn’t even look at the others as he said it, his eyes shifted back down to the ground almost immediately. It wasn’t the sharp, witty remark they were used to—it was an echo of the man he’d been only hours ago.
Varis shot him a sidelong glance but said nothing. He simply shifted his weight, stretching out his legs with a wince. His eyes scanned the clearing, taking in the towering trees, the faint glimmers of moonlight filtering through the canopy, the oppressive stillness that made the forest feel alive and watching.
Ren’s glare softened just slightly as his focus flicked to Vyn. Whatever anger he’d felt melted into a quiet exhaustion. He opened his mouth as if to say something but closed it again, the weight of the moment pressing too heavily on his shoulders.
Elda dragged her hand down her face, forcing herself to focus. The guilt still gnawed at her, but she couldn’t let it consume her. Not here. Not now.
“They’re alive,” she repeated, more firmly this time. She didn’t look at the others, her stare fixed on the shadows shifting between the trees. “We need to move soon. This place isn’t safe.”
“We can’t move Taren,” Varis pointed out, his tone matter-of-fact. “Not like this.”
Elda frowned, her jaw tightening. He was right. Taren was barely holding on as it was. But staying here too long would be just as dangerous.
Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. She wanted to scream, to rage at the unfairness of it all. But she couldn’t afford to lose control. Not now. Not with so many lives depending on her.
“We’ll rest for a bit,” she said finally, her tone steady despite the turmoil churning in her chest. “But not too long. We can’t let that thing catch up to us.”
No one argued. The tension in the clearing remained heavy, unspoken but palpable, as they settled into a fragile silence once more.
The group moved cautiously through the dense forest, their footsteps softened by the spongy earth. The air was thick with the musk of damp leaves and decay.
Elda led the way, her keen eyes darting through the gloom, scanning every shadow and every subtle rustle in the undergrowth. The oppressive silence weighed on them, making every snap of a twig or creak of a branch feel like the herald of unseen danger.
It was Elda who noticed it first—the faint impressions in the soft soil, the broken twigs at shoulder height, the almost imperceptible shifts in the forest’s ambient rhythm. She raised her hand, signaling for the group to halt.
“We’re being followed,” she murmured, her words barely audible, each measured and deliberate.
Ren, clutching his injured arm close to his chest, tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword with his good hand. His speech was strained but steady. “How many?”
“Too many,” Elda replied grimly, her eyes narrowing as they flicked between the trees. “Stay close. Weapons ready, but don’t make any sudden moves.”
The group instinctively tightened their formation. Vyn moved to Ren’s side, his face unusually somber, while Varis stood slightly behind Elda, his eyes darting nervously. The tension was suffocating, each step forward feeling as if it might be their last.
Then he appeared.
A man emerged from the shadows, his movements fluid and deliberate, like a predator stepping into the open. He was tall and lean, his body cloaked in fitted garments of deep green and brown, designed to blend seamlessly with the forest. A faintly painted mask adorned his face, etched with abstract designs that seemed to ripple in the dappled light. His jet-black hair was tied back loosely, strands falling just enough to frame piercing amber eyes that glinted with quiet authority.
“You’re trespassing,” he spoke, calm but edged with warning. It wasn’t a question. It was a fact.
The group froze, their weapons half-raised in a defensive posture, tension crackling in the air.
Elda’s hand tightened instinctively around her blade, her keen eyes darting to the surrounding trees. “We mean no harm,” she began, trying to keep her voice steady.
The man’s amber eyes narrowed, his head tilting slightly. “Drop your weapons,” he said flatly, cutting her off. His tone left no room for argument.
Elda hesitated, her pulse quickening. She didn’t trust this man, nor the figures she could sense shifting in the shadows. But there was no mistaking the odds. She slowly raised her free hand, motioning for the others to lower their weapons. One by one, blades and shields were relinquished, the metallic clinks and dull thuds of steel meeting earth echoing in the stillness.
“That’s better,” the man said, his lips curving into a faint, humorless smile.
Before Elda could utter another word, the forest came alive. Figures emerged from the trees, moving with the silent precision of trained hunters. Their masks mirrored the man’s, abstract and intimidating, their weapons glinting faintly in the dim light. In moments, the group was surrounded—completely encircled.
Ren broke the silence, hoarse and trembling with frustration. “We didn’t ask to be here! We—”
“Enough,” the man snapped, his piercing gaze locking onto Ren. The single word silenced him, the weight of the command more effective than any blade.
Elda’s heart pounded as the masked figures closed in, their movements swift and efficient. Strong hands gripped her arms, disarming her with practiced ease. Blindfolds slipped over their eyes, plunging them into darkness. She stiffened as a blade brushed against her side—a silent warning not to resist.
The man’s voice was quieter now, but it carried the same unyielding authority. “Move.”
Elda stumbled as she was pulled forward, the muffled sounds of the forest around her growing more distant with every step. She could hear Vyn’s quickened breathing, Varis muttering curses under his breath, and Ren groaning softly as he was jostled along. But there was no time to process, no chance to argue or plead their case. They were prisoners now, and whatever came next was entirely out of their hands.
Flashback End
The memory faded as the sound of approaching footsteps pulled Elda back to the present. She opened her eyes, vigilant as she watched a figure approach the cell.
‘Time for answers’ she thought grimly, rising to her feet.
Footsteps echoed faintly through the holding area, each step growing louder. Elda straightened, her eyes narrowing as the village chief appeared, flanked by two armed guards.
The chief was an imposing figure—tall and broad-shouldered, with silver streaks running through his dark, braided hair. His sun-weathered skin held a bronze hue, and faint tribal markings traced elegant lines along his forearms and neck, intricate and deliberate. He moved with a calm, measured authority, his presence commanding respect without needing to demand it.
Behind him were two men, their contrasting demeanors sharpening the weight of the moment. The first, Ishar, had a lean frame and attentive eyes that flicked over each member of the group as if assessing their every breath. His demeanor was cool, detached, but focused—marking him as a man who valued precision. The second man, Daelin, was shorter but broader in the shoulders, his head shaved clean, revealing scars that cut across his scalp. His tribal markings were more prominent, etched along his arms and curling around his temples, the marks of a seasoned hunter. Daelin’s eyes burned with mistrust, his posture stiff with barely restrained agitation.
Elda tightened her grip on the bars, her jaw clenched. Behind her, Varis and Vyn exchanged uneasy glances, their tension palpable in the enclosed space.
The chief came to a stop a few feet from the cell, his hands clasped behind his back. For a moment, he simply regarded them, his dark eyes unreadable.
“Welcome to Ny’kelos,” he said, his tone courteous but laced with quiet authority. “I am N’Kari, the chief of this village. These are my advisors, Ishar and Daelin.” He gestured to each man in turn. “We are a simple people, but we value strength, honesty, and respect. You have entered our lands unbidden, carrying weapons, bringing chaos. I would know why.”
Elda straightened, her words calm but firm. “We didn’t mean to trespass,” she said. “We’re explorers, sent by the Adventurer’s Guild. We encountered ruins nearby and were attacked by a beast. We barely made it out alive.”
At the mention of ruins, Daelin’s scowl deepened. Ishar raised a brow. The chief remained silent, watching her intently.
“Ruins?” N’Kari echoed, his tone measured. “You speak as if you’ve discovered something we do not know. And yet, we’ve lived here for generations. There are no ruins.”
Elda faltered for a moment but quickly recovered. “We only sought shelter,” she said carefully. “We didn’t disturb anything.”
“And the beast?” Ishar asked, stepping closer. “Describe it.”
Elda hesitated, glancing at Varis and Vyn. When they gave subtle nods, she continued, her tone quieter. “It was massive. Its feathers shimmered like crystals, and its eyes glowed violet. It wasn’t natural.”
Daelin let out a scoff. “A child’s tale,” he scoffed. “You expect us to believe that?”
Elda’s temper flared, but before she could retort, Varis stepped forward. “We’re not lying. Whatever that thing was, it nearly killed us. Look at the injuries we’ve sustained.”
Ishar frowned but said nothing, glancing at the injured members of the group. N’Kari remained quiet, his expression inscrutable.
“You carry weapons,” Daelin said, his tone harsh. “You trespass on our land. For all we know, you’re the ones hunting our people.”
Vyn stiffened. “We’d never—” he began, but Varis quickly placed a hand on his shoulder, silencing him with a subtle shake of his head.
Ishar nodded slowly. “It’s true that you’ve trespassed. But it’s also true that you’re injured and clearly ill-prepared to escape. If we send you out now, you won’t last long.” He turned to the chief. “Perhaps they can be of use.”
“For what?” Varis asked, his tone wary.
“To help us recover our people,” Ishar replied. “If they are not the ones responsible, then they can prove it by aiding us. If they refuse, we will know their true intentions.”
Daelin bristled. “They are strangers. We cannot trust them.”
“We don’t have to trust them,” Ishar countered, his tone even. “We simply need them to act.”
The chief raised a hand, silencing the debate. “Enough.” He turned back to Elda. “Your injured will remain here to heal. The rest of you will assist us in recovering those who have been taken. Refuse, and you will be treated as enemies of this village.”
Elda’s fists clenched at her sides, but she nodded stiffly. “We’ll help you. But you’d better keep your word.”
N’Kari inclined his head. “At dawn, then. Rest while you can.” He gestured to Ishar and Daelin, and the three of them turned to leave.
The holding area was heavy with tension. The chief stood at the door, his final words hanging in the air like the weight of a blade. Elda exhaled slowly, her hands still gripping the bars as she glanced back at Varis and Vyn.
“We don’t have a choice,” she murmured.
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Varis nodded grimly. “We’ll make it work. But we need to keep our wits about us. These people don’t trust us, and I can’t blame them.”
Vyn slumped against the wall, his voice small. “Do you think they’ll actually let us go?”
Elda didn’t answer. Instead, her focus drifted toward the dim outline of the chief’s retreating figure. ‘If they’re right, and the guild won’t notice we’re missing for weeks… then no. We’ll have to save ourselves.’
The holding area was heavy with tension. The chief stood at the door, his final words hanging in the air like the weight of a blade.
“If you wish to prove your intentions, you will help us. Find those who threaten our people. Stop them. Only then will you be free to leave.”
Elda’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t respond. The chief gave Ishar a curt nod before turning to leave, Daelin close behind. Ishar lingered, his gaze remained on the group as if committing their faces to memory.
Before anyone could speak further, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed from outside. A young villager burst into view, his face flushed and his breathing ragged.
“Makori’s back!” he cried, his tonece high with urgency.
The room froze. Elda’s group exchanged confused glances, but the chief, Ishar, and Daelin reacted instantly, their tension shifting into focus.
“Makori?” Daelin snapped, stepping toward the boy. “What are you talking about?”
“He’s at the south edge of the village!” the boy said, stumbling over his words. “He’s… he’s alive, but he’s not alone.”
That last statement caught Ishar’s attention. “Who’s with him?”
“A man and a woman,” the boy replied, his eyes darting nervously toward the holding area. “They look… rough. Makori says they saved him.”
“Outsiders,” Daelin stated coolly, already reaching for the hilt of his weapon. “They could be with the others.”
The chief raised a hand, silencing him. His voice, low and steady, cut through the growing tension. “If they saved Makori, they cannot be our enemies.”
“Chief,” Daelin began, his voice rising in protest, but the chief’s glare silenced him before he could finish.
“They could still be a threat,” Daelin added, his tone grudging but quieter. “We don’t know their intentions.”
Ishar’s gaze shifted between the chief and Daelin. “Then we bring them in the same way we did the others. Blindfold them, take them through the hidden passage. If they mean harm, they won’t see the way in.”
The chief nodded once. “Do it.”
Without another word, Ishar gestured to two warriors standing nearby. “With me.”
The chief turned back toward the holding area, locking eyes with Elda for a brief moment. “We will return soon. Rest while you can.”
Elda’s lips parted as if to respond, but before she could, the door swung shut, leaving the group alone with their thoughts.
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The moon hung low over the forest as Soren and Ayola waited near the tree line. The soft rustle of leaves and distant chirping of insects were the only sounds to keep them company. Soren leaned against a thick tree trunk, his katana resting at his side, while Ayola crouched nearby, tracing idle patterns in the dirt with the tip of her finger.
Makori had disappeared through the underbrush minutes ago, promising to return once he’d spoken to his people. But the wait was stretching longer than either of them had anticipated.
“This is taking too long,” Soren muttered, his piercing eyes scanning the dark treeline. “You think the kid ditched us?”
His white hair companion glanced up, smirking faintly. “If he did, I can’t say I’d blame him. We don’t exactly scream ‘trustworthy.’” She gestured to their disheveled appearances—the dirt, the torn clothing, the bloodied edges of Soren’s sleeves.
Before Soren could respond, a faint crunch of leaves caught his attention. His hand moved instinctively to the hilt of his katana, his body tensing. Ayola stood in a fluid motion, her own stance ready.
Makori emerged first, holding up his hands as if to signal peace. “They’re coming,” he said, his voice steady but low. “Don’t… don’t freak out.”
Behind him, two armed figures stepped into view. They moved silently, their dark clothing blending almost seamlessly with the night. Both carried spears, though they remained in a neutral stance.
Soren’s grip on his katana relaxed slightly, but his gaze remained sharp. “Friends of yours, kid?”
“They’re here to bring you in,” Makori replied. “Blindfolded. It’s the only way they’ll let you into the village.”
Ayola raised an eyebrow, folding her arms. “Blindfolds, huh? Not exactly a warm welcome.”
“It’s protocol,” one of the warriors said, his voice low and gruff. “You’re outsiders. No one sees the way into the village.”
Soren glanced at Ayola, his lips twitching into a faint smirk. “Well, that’s comforting.”
Ayola sighed, her tone light but resigned. “Guess we’re playing nice for now.”
The warriors stepped forward, offering strips of thick cloth. Soren hesitated for a moment before nodding, allowing one of them to tie the blindfold over his eyes. Ayola followed suit, though not without a muttered comment. “If this ends with us walking off a cliff, I’m blaming you, kid.”
Makori’s voice came from somewhere ahead. “You’re fine. Just follow me.”
The journey through the forest was slow and deliberate, the terrain uneven beneath their feet. Without sight, every step felt heavier, more uncertain. The warriors guiding them offered quiet instructions when necessary—“Step over this,” “Watch your footing here”—but otherwise remained silent.
Soren’s mind raced as he counted his steps, noting the faint changes in the air and the distant sounds around them. He wasn’t about to forget this route, even if the villagers thought the blindfolds would keep him clueless.
Ayola’s voice broke the silence, light and conversational. “So, how many people actually live in this hidden village of yours?”
The warrior guiding her didn’t respond, but Makori, walking ahead, hesitated before answering. “Enough.”
“That’s vague,” Ayola quipped. “Guess we’ll see for ourselves soon.”
Soren smirked despite himself, though he kept his focus on his footing. “Careful, Ayola. You’re gonna scare them off with all your charm.”
She chuckled softly. “Don’t worry. I’m saving my best for later.”
The air shifted as they neared the village, the earthy scent of the forest giving way to the faint tang of smoke and fresh-cut wood. Voices, low and murmuring, reached their ears, growing louder with every step.
“Stop here,” one of the warriors instructed.
Soren and Ayola halted, the blindfolds removed with a swift tug. Blinking against the sudden light of torches, they took in their surroundings.
The village was nestled deep within the forest, its structures a blend of wood and stone, reinforced with thick vines. Torches lined the narrow paths, casting shimmering light across wary faces. Villagers paused their tasks to stare, some clutching weapons, others standing protectively in front of children.
Makori stood between Soren and Ayola, looking nervous but resolute. “They’re the ones who saved me,” he said loudly, his voice carrying over the murmurs.
The chief was the first to step forward, his imposing figure silhouetted by the torchlight. Ishar and Daelin flanked him, their expressions contrasting—one calm and watchful, the other tense and mistrustful.
The chief’s gaze swept over Soren and Ayola, taking in their battered appearances. “You saved Makori,” he said, his tone measured. “For that, you have my gratitude.”
Soren inclined his head slightly, his voice even. “The kid’s tougher than he looks. He did most of the work.”
Makori glanced up at him, his lips twitching into a faint smile.
The chief’s expression didn’t change. “We are cautious by necessity. Outsiders rarely come to this place, and those who do often bring trouble. Who are you, and why were you in the forest?”
Soren’s voice carried steadily as he recounted their encounter in the forest. His tone was clipped, matter-of-fact, though it carried an edge of weariness that matched his disheveled appearance. Ayola stood slightly behind him, her arms crossed, her perceptive eyes scanning the gathered villagers and their wary stares.
“We were passing through the woods, looking for a place to rest,” Soren said. “Ran into a couple of thugs trying to drag your kid off. We handled it. That’s all.”
Makori, standing off to the side, shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny of the villagers. “They saved me,” he reiterated, though his voice wavered slightly.
The chief studied Soren for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. Ishar stood beside him, calm and calculating, while Daelin remained stiff, his fingers brushing the hilt of his weapon as if expecting trouble.
“You fought off mercenaries,” the chief said finally. “For a boy you didn’t know.”
Soren met his gaze evenly. “Didn’t know he was yours at the time. Just didn’t like the odds.”
“Convenient,” Daelin muttered, his tone dripping with suspicion. “Strangers passing through just happen to stumble across Makori in the middle of the forest. And now you’re here, at our gate.”
Soren didn’t rise to the bait, but his jaw tightened slightly. “Convenient for the kid, maybe.”
Ayola’s voice cut through the tension, smooth but firm. “If we wanted to cause trouble, we wouldn’t have brought him back, blindfolds and all. But if you’d rather toss us out, I’m sure those mercenaries would love another crack at him.”
The villagers murmured among themselves, their unease palpable. The chief raised a hand, silencing them.
“You said you were passing through,” the chief said. “But Makori mentioned something else. He said you fought a beast.”
At the mention of the beast, the murmurs grew louder. Even Ishar’s calm expression tightened slightly, though he said nothing. Daelin’s hand twitched against his weapon.
Soren hesitated briefly, his eyes narrowing. “That’s right.”
“Describe it,” Ishar said, his tone quieter but no less commanding.
Soren’s voice remained steady, but his words carried weight. “Massive. Bigger than anything I’ve seen before. Feathers like crystal, glowing violet eyes. It moved like it was hunting us.”
Ayola nodded, adding, “It wasn’t just big. It felt wrong. Like it wasn’t supposed to exist.”
The chief exchanged a glance with Ishar, who inclined his head slightly. Daelin, on the other hand, let out a sharp scoff. “The same beast,” he muttered under his breath. “It’s the same damn story.”
Soren’s eyes snapped to him. “What story?”
Daelin stepped forward, his tone rising. “You’re not the first group of outsiders to come through here, spouting tales of a monster. The others said the same thing—crystalline feathers, violet glow. Convenient, isn’t it?”
Realization flashed across Ayola’s face, and she glanced at Soren. “The others,” she said slowly. “Where are they?”
The chief’s gaze darkened slightly. “They’re here.”
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The torchlight shimmered against the walls of the holding area as Soren and Ayola were led down the narrow hallway. The footsteps of Ishar and Daelin echoed softly against the stone. Soren’s sharp eyes flicked toward Ayola, who was walking just behind him, her expression unreadable.
“They may not be allies,” the chief murmured to Ishar as they followed behind. “But they may hold answers. Let’s see what happens.”
Daelin frowned, his grip tightening on the hilt of his blade. “You’re just going to let them see each other? They could be working together.”
“Doubtful,” Ishar said calmly, though his watchful eyes didn’t leave Soren. “But if they are, it will show.”
The chief raised a hand, signaling them to stop outside the holding room. “Leave them here,” he said firmly. “We’ll observe.”
Ishar nodded and gestured for the guards to unlock the door.
The door creaked open, and Soren stepped inside first. His sharp eyes scanned the dimly lit room, quickly landing on Elda, who stood near the center with her arms crossed. Her eyes locked onto him, and the tension in the air thickened immediately.
Elda’s group—Varis, Vyn, and the unconscious Taren and Ren—turned their attention to the newcomers. Varis’s expression was neutral, though his eyes narrowed slightly. Vyn’s usual cheer is gone, replaced by unease.
“Well, if it isn’t our fearless leader,” Soren said, his tone cold and mocking. He took a few steps forward, his posture rigid with controlled anger.
Elda straightened, her jaw tightening. “Soren,” she said evenly. “You made it.”
“Made it?” he echoed, his voice rising slightly. “You left us to die.”
The accusation hung in the air like a blade ready to drop. Vyn shifted uncomfortably, but Varis’s expression remained carefully neutral, his focus darting between Elda and Soren.
“We didn’t have a choice,” Elda shot back, stepping closer to the bars. “You think I wanted to leave you? Taren was barely alive, and Ren wasn’t far behind. I made the call to save who I could.”
“And what about us?” Soren snapped, his voice filled with venom. “What about the people you didn’t save?”
Elda flinched, but her expression quickly hardened. “It was the only choice.”
“Only choice?” Soren’s hands gripped the bars tighter. His knuckles turned white. “You abandoned us. Don’t act like you were some kind of hero—”
Before Ayola could stop him, Soren shoved the cell door. It didn’t budge, but his anger surged past his better judgment. “Open it,” he growled at the guard standing nearby. “Open the damn door.”
The guard hesitated, glancing at Ayola. She sighed, stepping forward. “This is a bad idea.”
“Stay out of this,” Soren snapped, his voice low and dangerous.
“No,” Ayola replied, her tone flat but sharp. “Because if I don’t, you’re going to do something stupid.”
He ignored her, his gaze locked on Elda, his anger searing through the space between them. For a moment, the silence was deafening, save for the shallow breaths of the injured in the corner. Then, in one sudden, violent motion, Soren slammed his fist into the bars—hard enough to rattle them, but not enough to break them.
The sound was enough to make Vyn jump. Elda didn’t flinch.
“I trusted you,” Soren hissed, his voice trembling with barely-contained rage. “We trusted you.”
Elda’s jaw tightened, the tension in her body visible as her fists curled at her sides. “I made the only call I could, Soren,” she said, her voice measured but sharp. “I’m sorry if that wasn’t good enough for you.”
Soren’s lips curled back, his teeth clenched. “Good enough?” His hands gripped the bars tightly, his knuckles white as his anger spilled over. “You didn’t even try!”
Without thinking, his hand shot through the bars. The movement was so sudden that Elda didn’t have time to react. His backhand struck her cheek with a crack, the force sending her stumbling a step back.
The room froze.
Elda steadied herself quickly, one hand flying to her face as she absorbed the blow. Her palm pressed briefly against her cheek, and when it fell away, a red mark bloomed across her skin. Her piercing gaze snapped back to Soren, cold and unflinching, though her breathing had quickened.
Vyn audibly gasped, his wide eyes darting between them. “Soren…” he whispered, the disbelief in his voice hanging in the air.
Varis stood slowly, his broad shoulders tense, his eyes dark and unreadable as they locked on Soren.
Ayola moved first, her sharp steps cutting through the suffocating silence. She grabbed Soren by the shoulder, yanking him back hard enough to force him to stumble a step away from the bars. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she spat, her voice low but cutting.
Soren didn’t fight her grip, but his body remained taut, his breath uneven. His hand trembled at his side as if the weight of what he’d done was just starting to sink in. His eyes flicked to Elda briefly, the anger in them dimming into something that looked like regret—but it was fleeting.
Elda stayed rooted where she stood, her posture rigid. Slowly, she lifted her chin, straightening as though to reclaim the authority that had been momentarily stripped from her. “Get him out of here,” she said, her voice low and even, but with a simmering edge of fury.
Ayola didn’t wait for clarification. “We’re leaving,” she snapped at Soren, tightening her grip on his arm and pulling him toward the door.
He didn’t resist, but as they reached the threshold, he stopped and turned back toward Elda. His voice was quieter now, laced with venom but trembling on the edges. “You’re not the leader you think you are, Elda.”
Elda didn’t reply, her eyes fixed on him like shards of ice. Ayola gave him another sharp tug, forcing him to step out into the hallway.
The door creaked shut behind them, leaving the remaining group in a charged silence. Varis let out a sharp exhale, breaking the stillness. “That could’ve gone worse,” he said flatly, though his gaze lingered on Elda.
Vyn shook his head, his voice small. “I think it already did.”
Elda didn’t respond. Her breathing was steady now, but she raised her hand again, her fingertips brushing against the mark on her cheek. The room stayed quiet, the tension thick as smoke, until Elda turned her back to the door and returned to her spot by the wall.
Her body language said enough: the conversation was over.
The room was heavy with tension. Elda stood in the center, her hand still hovering near her cheek, though her expression betrayed no pain. The chief’s guards lingered near the door, their expressions unreadable.
“They’re going to get us all killed,” Varis muttered under his breath.
“No,” Elda replied, her voice steady despite the storm brewing beneath. “We’re going to get ourselves out of this.”
The door opened abruptly, cutting off the heavy silence. A young guard stepped inside, his gaze flicking nervously between the groups. Behind him, a smaller figure stepped forward—Makori, his expression tense but determined.
“They’re ready for you,” the guard announced, his voice steady. He glanced at Soren and Ayola. “Makori will show you to your quarters. The rest of you will remain here.”
Makori hesitated, his gaze shifted from Elda to Soren and Ayola. “Come on,” he said quietly. “Follow me.”
Ayola looked back at Elda, her expression unreadable. “We’ll see you in the morning.”
Soren, however, paused near the door, his sharp gaze cutting through the lingering tension. “Try not to leave anyone else behind,” he muttered, his voice low but laced with venom. Without waiting for a response, he followed Makori out into the night.
The door creaked shut behind them, leaving the holding area in stillness once more.
Elda stood motionless, her jaw tight and her hand still hovering near her cheek. Varis broke the silence with a heavy sigh, his voice quiet. “That could’ve gone better.”
“No,” Elda replied, her voice cold but steady. “It went exactly as it needed to.”
She didn’t turn to face them, her focus fixed on the faint waver of torch light spilling through the cracks of the door. The tension in the room lingered like smoke, the air thick with unspoken words as the quiet settled once more.
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Makori led the way through the winding paths of the village, his small figure moving with a quiet confidence that belied his young age. Soren and Ayola followed closely, the dim torchlight casting wavering shadows on the wooden structures around them. The village blended rustic with practicality—sturdy, weathered wood-and-stone structures nestled into the forest as though they’d grown there. Vines and moss crept along the walls, and faint glimmers of firelight spilled through shuttered windows.
Despite the late hour, there were signs of life. A pair of villagers whispered to each other near a small communal fire, their expressions weary but alert. Further down the path, a woman hurried inside a building, carrying a bundle of herbs. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and smoke, mingled with the faint tang of something medicinal.
Makori glanced back at his companions, gesturing to the surroundings. “It’s not much,” he said quietly. “But it’s home.”
Soren’s gaze swept over the village, his sharp eyes noting the defensive placements—narrow pathways, high vantage points, and makeshift barriers made of sharpened stakes. “Not bad,” he muttered. “Looks like you’ve been preparing for trouble.”
Makori nodded solemnly. “We have to. Ever since…” He trailed off, his voice catching. His fingers curled slightly at his sides before he continued. “Ever since they started taking people.”
Ayola exchanged a glance with Soren but said nothing, her expression softening. The boy’s quiet determination reminded her of something—or someone—but she pushed the thought aside.
They reached a modest hut near the edge of the village, its wooden frame slightly tilted from years of weathering. Makori stopped at the door, turning to face them. “You can stay here,” he said. “It’s not much, but it’s safe.”
Ayola stepped inside first, her eyes scanning the small space. A simple cot, a table with a half-burned candle, and a narrow window overlooking the village were the only furnishings. She set her pack down, her shoulders sagging slightly as the weight of exhaustion settled in.
Soren lingered by the doorway, his eyes on Makori. “You sure about this, kid?” he asked, his tone gruff but not unkind. “Doesn’t look like you’ve got room to spare.”
Makori shrugged, his face serious. “You saved me. This is the least we can do.”
Ayola leaned against the table, arms crossed. “Speaking of which—why were you out there alone in the first place?”
The boy hesitated, his gaze dropping to the ground. “I was trying to find food,” he admitted. “For the village. For the people who can’t fight.” He glanced up at Soren, his voice quieter now. “I didn’t think they’d come after me.”
“They?” Soren asked sharply, his brow furrowing.
“The ones taking people,” Makori replied, his tone trembling slightly. “I thought I was fast enough to get away. I was wrong.”
Ayola’s gaze softened as she stepped closer to him. “You were brave,” she said gently. “But don’t try something like that again. You’re no use to anyone if you get yourself killed.”
Makori nodded solemnly. “I won’t. I promise.”
He hesitated for a moment, then added, “Thank you. For saving me.”
Soren’s expression softened slightly, though he didn’t respond. He simply nodded, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.
The room fell into silence as Ayola collapsed onto the cot, her exhaustion finally catching up to her. Soren leaned against the wall, his eyes fixed on the narrow window. The faint sounds of the village drifted through the night—murmured voices, the crackle of fire, the distant hoot of an owl. For the first time in what felt like days, the tension began to ease.
“Get some rest,” Soren muttered, his tone low. “We’ll need it.”
Ayola didn’t reply, already half-asleep. Soren stayed by the window a moment longer before finally settling into the corner, his back against the wall. The wavering candlelight dimmed as the flame sputtered out, leaving them in quiet darkness.
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The chief’s quarters were tucked away at the highest point of the village, a small wooden structure perched on a natural outcrop of stone. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of aged wood and burning incense. A faint orange glow from the hearth cast shadows across the room, illuminating shelves lined with rolled parchment and wooden carvings.
The chief sat at a low table, his weathered hands resting on his knees as he stared at the object before him—a painting, faded with time, depicting a towering beast with shimmering crystalline feathers. Its violet eyes seemed to glow even in the dim light, exuding a haunting, otherworldly presence.
Ishar stood nearby, his arms crossed. His sharp eyes shifted from the painting to the chief. “You believe them,” he stated calmly but edged with skepticism.
The chief’s gaze didn’t waver. “I believe the beast is real. The stories have always warned of its return.”
“Stories,” Ishar repeated, his tone almost dismissive. “Legends meant to scare children. And yet here we are.”
The chief’s eyes narrowed slightly as he leaned forward, tracing a finger along the edge of the painting. “Not all legends are lies. This beast is no mere myth. It was trapped long ago, bound by the ruins. If it has escaped…” He trailed off, his expression darkening.
“What then?” Ishar asked, his tone sharper now. “If it’s real—and if it’s free—what do we do?”
The chief looked up, his gaze heavy with determination. “We prepare. And we pray that our visitors can be trusted.”
Ishar’s jaw tightened. “And if they can’t?”
The chief leaned back, his hands clasping together. “Then we make sure they don’t live long enough to betray us.”