Following that, Soleiman and the others descended upon the camp, reconvening with the melee force and gathering their dead and wounded. Those not involved in the gathering were tasked by Soleiman to aid Pallas and Qingxi in cleaning the battlefield, architecting the remains of a false battle to better deceive returning Hashashiyyin previously out on expedition that the attack was carried out solely by the ataphoi.

They worked swiftly and without celebration, removing arrows from the bodies of the fallen and inflicting additional injuries onto already dead corpses to make it seem as though they had been mauled to death instead of shot or impaled. Most were thrown under what remained of the tent, and once everything had been gathered under a layer of ash and blood and dust, they lit the costume Pallas and Qingxi had used aflame, throwing it onto the mountain. Encrowning the fruits of their struggle.

And once that had been done, they lifted the burnt corpses of their friends and family members and placed them upon their backs. Carrying them back up to camp.

The bodies of the fallen were laid out, all twelve of them. And though the battle had been won and the Hashashiyyin would be severely stunted from exploiting the villages under their jurisdiction, there was hardly any room in the air for joy.

A fact made all the clearer to them, seeing Alexandros knelt over the remains of his son, Chloe standing solemnly by his side.

“I’m sorry, Mister Alexandros.”

“I am too, Soteira,” he responded. Still bent over his son. “I’m sorry for not having spent more time with him.”

Pallas gave no response. Instead, she stood by the body’s feet, her head hung and her hands held together.

“But I’m also proud. So very proud of him,” he said. He glanced at Chloe, continuing, “Because now we’re safe, aren’t we?”

“That we are, Sir,” Pallas replied. Knowing full well that the villagers would have to execute the final phases of their plan to near perfection on their own. But she had faith in them. She had faith in Alexandros, and she had faith in Chloe. And she had faith in every single other person, Minervan and Silenter, who had helped her and her fellows over the past two months. “That we are.”

That same sentiment rang true all throughout the camp. For as they buried the corpses of their fallen kinsmen, bound both by blood and by bond, their grief and their mourning slowly overturned. Bit by bit, hymn by hymn, body by body, their regrets and sorrows turned to respect and solace. The loss of their loved ones forever ennobled by the eternally righteous cause of fighting to protect those weaker than them. To beat back sin with mangled fists and bared teeth, even if it may cost them their lives. For some plights cannot be purged but with the spilling of blood.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

And finally, they celebrated. They celebrated their victory against the Hashashiyyin.

By the time evening began to roll in, the four fellows had already loaded themselves into their wagon, having spent much of the time since the burial rites up till then busying themselves with getting everything in order for their departure. Including even obtaining the wagon, which had been painstakingly carted and repaired by the villagers all the way from Kardia and had only just arrived late last night.

“Alright, that’s everything,” Soleiman said, checking off the last of the items on his clipboard as he closed the last drawer. “We’re good to go!”

Pallas sat at the back of the wagon, perched atop the mini-stairs they’d used to climb on board. She stared off into the depths of the forest she’d lived her whole in, her back to the open plain that sprawled out into the rest of the Phian continent.

“Pallas?” Soleiman asked, looking back over to his sister as he began clamouring into the driver’s seat so that he could get the horses going.

A lot had happened since they first passed through the gates of Porthopolis. Since she sat awake that one night, washing her bloodied hands in the silence of the slumbering darkness.

“Pallas?” Rumi called out to her too, sitting just behind Soleiman.

And she wondered if somehow she could’ve done things better. If they could’ve left Porthopolis without a scuffle. If they could’ve had a proper rest in Kardia. If they could’ve saved the lives lost in Mesimeos and in the innumerable other villages ravaged by the Protoataphoi.

But, most of all, she wondered if things would be okay. If, even after all their efforts, they would live to see that day. That day where she would be able to fall into her mother’s embrace again, slumbering through the night with her and Soleiman, breathing in the scent of myrrh.

She felt a hand on her shoulder and she turned back to see as Qingxi had knelt down behind her.

“You okay, Pallas? Soleiman’s calling you.”

“Oh, yeah,” she said. “I’m fine. Sorry.”

Qingxi nodded.

“What did you say, Soleiman?” Pallas finally responded, rising from her seat and shuffling her way towards him as Qingxi sat back up on one of the two benches that topped their drawers.

“We’re ready to go now,” he said. “Are you?”

She sat down on the lip of the wagon, leaning against one of the bows that held together the cloth cover that would shelter them from the rain and the sky for the next few weeks. She rested her head against the fabric, looking out onto the Great Corridor- its unending rolling hills stretching out to the very northern reaches of the continent. Stretching out to encompass their future, holding their tiny fates in its endlessly extending palm.

Pallas sighed, holding her resolve. She just had to keep going, and she would see her mother yet again.

“Yeah,” she said, Qingxi shuffling along the bench to end up behind them and leaning forward to join in on admiring the view.

“I’m ready.”