Oliver's sleepless night stretched on, his weary eyes fixed on the ethereal expanse of the tent's pale white ceiling. Time slipped through his grasp, elusive as a specter in the night. Sleep had become an elusive companion, even before the heart-wrenching loss of his mother; it was the trauma that had tipped the scales, exacerbating his insomnia. What once seemed a mere annoyance had now metamorphosed into an insidious affliction, gnawing at his fragile peace.

This night, like so many others, slumber eluded him. The incessant rhythm of his own heartbeat reverberated within his ears, casting a disconcerting pall over his weary mind. Desperate to find respite, he turned his gaze forward, clutching the cloth blanket closer to his neck, a feeble attempt to shut out the world and invite the embrace of sleep.

Yet, even in the darkness behind tightly shut eyelids, the Lost Ones materialized, their haunting visages searing his consciousness. Those men and women, scarcely older than Oliver himself, had deceived their captors, spinning a web of falsehoods to shield him from the clutches of slavery. They possessed the knowledge, the power, to expose the truth of his origins, to disclose the thoughts that swirled within their minds about his true identity. In fact, they could have bargained with his very existence to secure their own liberation.

But they hadn't. Instead, Rasmus goaded the slaver and took a blow meant for Oliver, while Dozia and the others wove a tapestry of lies to lend credence to their ruse. Oliver squeezed his eyes shut, straining against the weight of his memories, his breath reverberating in the hollow chambers of his ears, a lullaby gone awry.

Lena, Rasmus, James, and Dozia—acquaintances of only a fleeting day—had bestowed upon him the gift of kindness and solace. Dozia had offered herself as a sacrifice, a final act of benevolence to grant him the breath of life. In their company, he had glimpsed a flicker of hope, a fragment of belonging in this unfamiliar realm.

The slaver had revealed their nefarious plans for tomorrow: a stop at an auction, where human lives were treated as mere commodities. From there, they would return to the capital, where these lost souls would be reunited with their families. Oliver had confessed his lack of kin, his parents now mere shades of the past. The slaver had suggested the option of an orphanage, a rough and tumble existence even by human standards. Alternatively, he could enlist as an adventurer at the tender age of fifteen, forging a path rife with peril but offering a chance at a respectable livelihood.

The concept of an adventurer began to take shape in Oliver's nascent understanding of this strange new world. It evoked visions of ancient tales, fantastical realms where treasures awaited discovery, monstrous adversaries lay in wait, and valiant defenders rose to safeguard the innocent. Memories of his mother's enchanting voice, weaving tales of epic heroes, swirled within his mind. Oliver's imagination took flight, painting vivid portraits of a future yet unwritten.

In his mind's eye, he donned a resplendent suit of full plate armor, standing atop the lifeless carcass of a fallen dragon. His sword, an extension of his very being, pierced the beast's sinewy throat, etching a victorious smirk upon his countenance. Wealth, camaraderie, and friendship beckoned to him, their allure irresistible.

Here, in this realm beyond his wildest dreams, Oliver could fashion an entirely new life. Liberated from the shackles of his past. Oliver couldn't help but chuckle at the thought, a fleeting glimmer of amusement breaking through the fog of uncertainty that swirled around his future. The path ahead seemed hazy, a riddle he was yet to solve. High school and college were certain destinations on his journey, but what lay beyond that? Would he find true companionship, a vocation that ignited his passion, or perhaps someone who could truly fathom the depths of his being?

Yet, amid the fog, a plan began to take shape in Oliver's mind, like a picture emerging from a Polaroid, gradually fixing its focus. The sacrifice of the Lost Ones had granted him the freedom to carve his own destiny, to walk a path uniquely his own. A smile danced upon his lips, for this was the dawning of a profound encounter with a new world, brimming with untapped potential. He would forge ahead, bound for greatness, and live a life he could be proud of.

However, as his smile waned, a cloud passed over his features, casting a lukewarm shadow upon his countenance. His palm slid across his face, a gesture of self-disgust. How could he revel in the prospect of freedom while disregarding the weight of their sacrifices? To squander this gift with idle dreams of adventure and self-gratification was an affront to those who had laid down their lives for him. Happiness was a luxury he did not deserve, not when his freedom was built upon the pillars of their sacrifice. No, he was unworthy of such aspirations.

Rising from the bed, his back stiffening, Oliver gazed at the tent's opening, where the fabric quivered under the caress of the harsh wind. The memory of Dozia's face, her unwavering belief in him, tugged at his thoughts. Despite his cowardice, she had not abandoned him, but had fought for his salvation time and time again. Even as she returned his freedom, her expression had not been one of neutrality or envy, but rather a smile of genuine happiness, as though she was glad to have been able to rescue him once more. The thought of a future—a future where this girl who had saved him multiple times would be a part of his life—brought a flicker of joy within him.

But he couldn't escape the truth. He was disgusted with himself, for he was constructing a future upon the foundation of the Lost Ones' sacrifices. Their blood, shed to grant him freedom, bore a heavy debt upon his soul, a debt he could not ignore, especially to Dozia.

Oliver's legs dangled over the edge of the worn cot, a solemn posture befitting his troubled thoughts. His dark eyes, like twin obsidian pools, fixated on the ever-shifting fabric of the tent, revealing glimpses of the ethereal crescent moons lurking in the night sky.

"Our family may be smaller now, but blood doesn't define what it means to be a family," his mind echoed his grandfather's wisdom. The words reverberated within him, resonating with a truth that transcended mere lineage. It was the unwavering presence of those who had proven time and time again their willingness to stand by his side, to be there when he needed them most. Family, he realized, was a reciprocal bond, a two-way street where sacrifice flowed freely in both directions. It was about being prepared to lay down one's life for the ones you loved, and them for you.

A heavy sigh escaped Oliver's lips as the weight of his realization settled upon his young shoulders. This world he found himself in was not his own; it was an alien landscape that stirred an ache within his heart. The thought of his grieving grandparents, burdened by their own sorrow, tugged at his conscience, tearing at the seams of his resolve. He longed to return to his old life, to spare them the agony of his absence. He knew he was no savior, no imposter clad in a hero's cape. He was simply a boy from another world, grappling with the weight of his circumstances.

The words of his beloved grandfather reverberated through his mind, an echo of profound truth. Family extended far beyond the confines of shared blood; it encompassed those who had proven their unwavering loyalty, their readiness to lay down their lives for one another. It was a bond forged in the crucible of selflessness and sacrifice, the bedrock upon which true kinship was built.

Oliver sat in contemplative silence, the murmurs of the night whispering their secrets around him. The path ahead remained uncertain, strewn with jagged shards of doubt and regret. But amidst the turmoil, a glimmer of clarity emerged. Family, he realized, was not a fixed entity tied to one world alone. It was a cosmic tapestry woven with threads of loyalty, devotion, and unwavering love.

With newfound resolve, Oliver rose from the cot, his gaze fixed on the pale moons that watched over him. He would honor the sacrifices of the Lost Ones, of Dozia and the others, by embracing the essence of family, regardless of the boundaries of blood or the limitations of worlds. For within the tapestry of existence, he would find his place, his purpose, and perhaps, in time, a way to reconcile the worlds that lay within his heart.

Dozia and the Lost Ones had opened their arms to him, risking everything to ensure his survival. Yet, Oliver couldn't escape the weight of his unfulfilled debt. "I'm done sitting," he declared, a surge of adrenaline and determination coursing through his veins. Disgust and guilt still lingered, but for now, he pushed them aside. There were bigger things at stake.

Peeking his head through the opening of the tent, Oliver crouched low, scanning the surroundings with caution. Nothing but a peculiar arrangement of tents met his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he listened to the satisfying crunch of his boots on the grass as he maneuvered his way toward the slaver's main tent. Anxiety escalated with each step, yet the thought of retreating and succumbing to guilt quickly evaporated. The weight of remorse would far outweigh any nerves. So, he pressed forward.

He craned his neck into the folds of the tent, allowing his dark eyes to adjust to the dimness as the slaver, Brad, snored nearby. Oliver silently navigated through the tent, closing his mouth and breathing only through his nose, the moistness of his palms betraying his nerves.

Kneeling over the imposing figure of the slaver, Oliver surveyed his surroundings. His eyes darted around, landing on the keys, the sword, and a picture frame. Swiftly, he snatched the keys with his left hand, but hesitated when considering the sword.

No, he shook his head, banishing the notions that this was a video game or one of his beloved fantasy stories. This was reality, and he possessed no training with a sword. Wielding it would be a futile endeavor, a mere burden slowing him down on his journey. And then his gaze fell upon the picture frame. In the darkness, he could barely discern the lone figure within—a girl, perhaps a few years younger than him. A daughter, he pondered.

Exiting the tent, he pushed through the fabric and steadily made his way across the campsite toward the conspicuous wheelbarrow. It sat at a moderate distance from the camp, a few minutes' walk down the slope of a hill. And there it was—the cage. A relieved sigh escaped his lips as he laid eyes on the familiar faces of those he longed to rescue.

However, a sentry stood guard—a man upright, leaning against a tree. As Oliver cautiously rounded the corner, he observed the sentry stirring slightly, his lips parting in snores that occasionally jerked him awake. The man's eyes flickered open briefly before closing again in an endless cycle.

What the hell am I supposed to do?

Yet, they saw him—Oliver. Rasmus leaned against Lena, and the demi-human woman, her fingers gripping the bars, rose from her slumber. Awkwardly positioned near the sentry, Oliver watched as Lena's lips curved into a sly smile, moonlight casting a shimmer on the key ring. "Hey, Dozia," Lena spoke, her voice laced with a mischievous tone. Dozia slowly stirred, joining Lena's side. "Looks like your boy is truly a savior."

Dozia's eyes widened, her hands clapping together with a frenzied energy, her legs bouncing up and down in a display of pure delight, akin to a child on Christmas morning. "I told you, Lena. I told you all that Oliver was..."

"Shush," Rasmus commanded, striding over to their side and peering intently at Oliver. A small nod passed between them, an unspoken understanding. "Alright, he must deal with that sentry. Then we're home free."

"James, how is the shiv coming along?" Dozia inquired.

James rose from his seat, handing the makeshift weapon to Dozia. Prior to Oliver's arrival, their plans revolved around using the shiv to facilitate their escape or, when morning came, to eliminate anyone who opened the door and make a run for the safety of the forest. Both plans were desperate, hail-Mary attempts at survival, with only a slim chance of success. But now, with Oliver by their side, they possessed a genuine pathway to freedom. Dozia deftly maneuvered the shiv in her fingers before launching it through the opening at the top. The blade sailed through the air, firmly planting itself in the earth before Oliver. The Lost Ones animatedly pointed toward it, their gaze locked on Oliver as his fingers intertwined with the weapon.

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"Good..." Dozia muttered under her breath, her eyes fixated on Oliver as he grasped the blade with his solitary hand, his gaze intently studying the weapon. Yet, when he looked back up at them, he simply shrugged his shoulders, an enigmatic response, as he raised the key.

"What's he doing?" Lena questioned, her confusion mirrored by Rasmus, who shook his head in response.

James pointed at Oliver, then motioned toward the sentry, silently mouthing the words "Kill him," but Oliver remained transfixed, a mere spectator to the scene. James let out a frustrated groan, his palm smacking against his face as he observed the boy's inaction.

Lena raised both palms, her right hand rising and striking her open palm like a hammer to a nail. "Stab him!" she silently mouthed. Yet, Oliver only stared at the blade and then back at the guard.

"Oh, no," Dozia uttered, her eyes widening as comprehension dawned upon her.

The Lost Ones fixated their gaze on Dozia, fear creeping into their collective vision. "Oliver, I don't think he has ever killed anyone before," she said, frustration evident in her voice. "Damn it."

Each of the Lost Ones had experienced their own moment, a time and place where they had been forced to take a life. For some of the demi-humans, their ancient traditions reveled in acts of violence. As they coalesced into tribes or groups, these traditions either intensified or stagnated, particularly amidst tribal conflicts and struggles.

But for a boy like Oliver, raised in a world where such deeds were frowned upon and deemed illegal, the idea of taking a human life was inconceivable. Even considering the circumstances surrounding his past, Oliver could never fathom committing such an act.

He slowly released the shiv, securing it in his belt loop. His boots crushed the grass beneath his feet as he ascended the tree with measured steps. "What is he doing?" Rasmus voiced his confusion.

Dozia shook her head slowly, the weight of uncertainty settling upon her. "I don't know..."

"He's going to get us killed," James growled, frustration etched on his face. He raised his hands in exasperation, watching as Oliver noticed him but continued his ascent, unfazed by the warning. "Fool, we were this close to escaping..."

But then, in a sudden twist of events, it happened. Oliver leaped from the branch, causing it to snap in half, and the sentry's eyes widened in disbelief. He looked upward, straight into the path of the descending branch and Oliver. The branch crashed against the front of the sentry's face, while Oliver landed to the side with a groan. "Ow, that hurt..." he muttered, rising and dusting himself off. As he glanced to the side, he saw the sentry lying there, his chest rising and falling. "Good, I didn't actually want to hurt him."

Oliver straightened up, making his way toward the cell. He rummaged through the keys until the sound of the creaking door filled the air. Oliver swung it open wide, and for a moment, they all stood there, staring at him in disbelief. "Holy crap, he actually did it... we're free," Rasmus exclaimed.

He walked out, his boots crunching along the grass, while the fresh air caressed his bruised face. Rasmus placed a hand on Oliver's shoulder. "Thank you, Oliver."

Lena followed, her pawed hand running through Oliver's messy brown hair. "Atta boy, you did great!"

Then came Dozia, her footsteps clanging against the metal as she launched herself at Oliver. A wide smile adorned her face as her arms and legs wrapped around him in a jubilant tackle. Oliver was taken aback, his eyes widening as he gazed at her. A mixture of pride and joy danced across Dozia's features as she narrowed her eyes. "I knew it, I knew you were the savior," she whispered, her voice filled with restrained emotion. Her grip tightened around him. "You're amazing, Oliver!"

"Shush," James interjected, stepping forward to help the younger ones out of the cage. Dozia aided Oliver in regaining his footing. "The slavers are still asleep. We should leave while we can..."

Dozia nodded, her gaze scanning the vastness of the campground, taking in the surroundings. "Alright, then. Based on our previous observations, I'd say it's a couple of hours' walk if we leave right now. We might be able to make it before sunrise."

Lena hesitated, her eyes tracing the expanse of the camp. Her finger pointed outward, her voice a hushed whisper. "Horses... We could take them and—"

"No," James interrupted firmly. "Think about it, Lena. They'll easily track us. We stick to our usual method—walking tightly packed while dealing with any tracks."

Oliver's head turned, his attention drawn to each speaker. But it was Dozia, her hand lightly tapping his shoulder, who spoke. "What?" he asked.

"Do you have something to say?" Her voice rose, capturing the attention of the others. "You're a member of the tribe. If you have a suggestion, speak up."

Oliver scratched his head, feeling their expectant eyes on him. His voice came out raspy but clear. "I don't think taking the horses would be a good idea. My dad taught me that leaving tracks could be a death sentence..."

"See, I told you," James chimed in, a grin spreading across his face. "We should just escape now, cut our losses, and head out."

"Yeah, I agree. But there's more to it. I think we should release the horses into the wilderness and find a way to prevent the slavers from pursuing us if possible."

Lena nodded in agreement, but her eyes widened at his words. Release the horses—trap the slavers in these treacherous woods. It would take them days to find their way out, if they were lucky. These woods were teeming with monsters, feral beasts, and other demi-human tribes that harbored no love for humans. But Oliver remained oblivious to this fact...

Lena observed him, her mind harking back to the times when he silently watched them, like a predator lurking in the shadows. She remembered how he kept his fork and knife close at hand, ready for any danger. Back then, she doubted he would have killed them, and even now, doubts remained. But she was slowly beginning to grasp that there was more to this boy than met the eye.

"Okay, so basically, we sabotage the slavers' efforts," Rasmus interjected, nodding in agreement. "Then we rendezvous in the forest and make our way back to our safe place."

"Yeah, let's not forget that it's a relatively small group of slavers we're dealing with. Nothing compared to the tribes in the North," Dozia chimed in. But suddenly, her eyes widened, and she brought her fingers to her temples, massaging them thoughtfully. "They knew... When our sentries would be vulnerable, what to do to isolate us. Do you guys think...?"

James shook his head. "It's possible there's a traitor among us, but right now, we have bigger concerns than a potential traitor," he turned to Oliver. "Oliver, toss me the shiv. I'll free the horses and startle them into the forest. Rasmus and Lena will take care of the younger ones, and Dozia, I..."

Dozia's arm snaked around Oliver's shoulder, pulling him close. "Oliver and I will handle the slavers. Just focus on releasing the horses, and we'll take care of the rest."

"Alright, fine. What's the plan?" Oliver asked, his voice filled with uncertainty.

"What's the plan?" she repeated, still wearing that sly smirk as she raised her right hand. Oliver's eyes widened as he caught sight of the faint glow of an ember. "Magic still flows within my blood. I say we give them a taste of their own fire."

They each set off to accomplish their tasks. Dozia and Oliver moved stealthily, their bodies slipping through the wind and the tall weeds. Their eyes fixed on their sole objective. Dozia advanced toward the first tent while Oliver kept watch behind her.

She took a deep breath, cupping both of her hands together. Her eyes closed slowly as the wind danced between her fingers. "Oh, great spirits of fire," she whispered. "I, Dozia, humble servant of the flames, beseech you to bless me with your fierce spark to vanquish my enemies..."

Oliver watched, a mixture of conflict and confusion swirling within him. And then, it began to make sense. Faint embers flickered to life, crackling within her cupped hands. Dozia didn't shy away or recoil from the heat; instead, she embraced it. The flames didn't burn her hand but radiated a few inches above her palm.

"Woah..." Oliver muttered, captivated by the brilliant glow that illuminated her features—a display that drew him in.

"There," she said, her voice tinged with sweat and determination. She raised her right palm toward him, the faint flames casting a deep orange-reddish glow.

Then it happened. The sound of snapping rope echoed through the air, accompanied by the startled neighs of the horses. Their hooves pounded heavily against the ground as they bolted straight into the welcoming embrace of the forest. "Now!" Dozia snapped, her arm arcing through the air, unleashing a brilliant wave of fire that cascaded like a furious tide.

Dry clumps of weeds, vast fields of grass, and the slavers' tents all became engulfed in the roaring inferno. "Now, run!" she screamed. Oliver's heart hammered in his chest as he stood there, momentarily frozen, barely registering her urgent words. It took the firm grip of her fingers on the collar of his shirt, almost choking him, to jolt him into action. Together, they sprinted away, fleeing from the searing heat behind them.

"Come on, hurry!" Dozia screamed back, her voice laced with urgency.

Oliver felt the sting of the scorching heat on his back. They had set the tents ablaze, freed the horses, and sabotaged the slavers' camp. They had condemned them to the terrors of the forest, but did they truly deserve it?

"I say we give them a fire of our own," Dozia's words echoed in his mind.

Shaking his head lightly, he recalled those words. Revenge, a punishment for those who had destroyed their home. They were slavers, after all. Why did he even feel a twinge of remorse for them? He knew he shouldn't take pleasure in the suffering of others, but right now, he felt... empty.

Dozia and Oliver plunged headlong into the dense forest, their desperate escape fueled by a surge of adrenaline. Oliver's foot caught on a concealed branch, sending him stumbling, but Dozia's fingers swiftly latched onto his wrist, yanking him forward. Her head whipped around, fixing him with an intense gaze. "Come on, we're almost out!" she urged, her voice filled with a mix of determination and an enigmatic fervor.

His heart skipped a beat, not stirred by love or admiration, but by a puzzling sensation he struggled to define. Dozia wore a smile that spoke of something beyond the realm of understanding, her eyes ablaze with a fevered exhilaration. What was it? Adrenaline, perhaps? There was an undeniable surge coursing through him, a pulsating energy deep within his heart. It wasn't fear or guilt but something altogether different, a tempest raging within his chest. Yet, he suppressed it, refusing to let it consume him. Not now, not when he needed to maintain his composure.

Then, in an instant, the smile on Dozia's face transformed into an expression of fear and confusion. "Duck!" she commanded, throwing herself atop Oliver, propelling him forcefully to the ground. Like a gust of wind, danger whistled above them, the lethal swoosh of steel cleaving through the air like an executioner's blade. Dozia rose from her crouch, her eyes scouring the horizon until they locked onto a figure.

"So, the imposter descendant was correct... you truly are a traitor," she declared, her voice tinged with a mix of astonishment and accusation. The slaver's eyes widened, his gaze catching the glimmer of his sword against the pale moonlight and the fiery glow of his burning campsite. Then, without a word spoken, it happened. Dozia's hands ignited once more, a blaze flickering like a whip, crackling with ember-filled fury.

But this time, it seemed weaker. The flames lacked the same intensity, the same potency. And it wasn't enough. Brad, the slaver, tightened his grip on his weapon, dragging it along the earth as a gust of wind surged forth. Oliver was sent sprawling backward, caught in the forceful impact, while Dozia stood her ground, determined and undeterred.

Oliver struggled to regain his footing, but the battle had already reached its bitter end. His eyes widened as he witnessed Dozia flick her hand, the fiery remnants of her weapon latching onto Brad's left arm, tightening its grip like a vice.

A bloodcurdling howl escaped Brad's lips as the flames sank into his flesh, causing him to lose his grip on his sword, which clattered to the ground, forgotten. However, Brad did something unexpected. He charged forward, his remaining arm winding up for a punch that crashed into Dozia's gut.

Her eyes bulged, spittle flying from her lips, and she slammed into the ground, leaving Oliver frozen in place. The flame whip shattered in the chaos. Brad lunged for Dozia, his fingers wrapping around her throat.

Oliver watched, his body paralyzed, his heart pounding in his chest. Someone was dying right before his eyes, and fear held him captive, rendering him powerless to intervene. In the distance, the flames danced, casting an eerie glow, reminiscent of a past life. The moon's pale face mirrored the sun's warm radiance, much like the memories of his mother's death.

Hadn't he sat and watched her burn in that car, just as Dozia had prepared to sacrifice herself for his safety?

Every fiber of his being screamed for him to flee, to run as far and fast as his legs could carry him, to seek refuge with the Lost Ones. Survival beckoned him, but the mere thought disgusted him. Never again, he had whispered to himself long ago.

Rising from his crouch, he fixed his gaze on the harrowing scene unfolding before him. Something within him stirred, an ancient power dormant but now awakened. His eyes glowed with a lighter shade of hazel, and the brand beneath his bandages shimmered with the same fiery hue.

Yes, never again.

"Get off of her!" he screamed, tears streaming down his face. His body moved with a rhythm unfamiliar to him. "I said... get off of her!" His voice resonated with a fierce scream, and he charged forward, his left hand flailing about, guided by a force he couldn't comprehend.

He could feel it, an invisible grip tightening around something, the ground trembling beneath him. The slaver crumbled under the invisible assault, rocks and debris hurtling toward his head. A sickening crack reverberated through the air as it collided with Brad’s skull.

His body went limp, collapsing to the ground, while Dozia rose, taking a gasping breath of fresh air. She swiftly turned toward Oliver, approaching him.

"Oliver, you..." she began, but his gaze was fixated on the broken remains of Brad. The slaver's face had been grotesquely torn asunder, jagged angles of flesh and exposed bone creating a macabre visage. Oliver's hands flew to his mouth, muffling a sob that erupted from his throat.

"I didn't mean to... I didn't... you were..."

Dozia's hands found his neck, her touch extending to his chest, her heartbeat a faint rhythm against his back. "It's alright. You did nothing wrong," she reassured him. His knees gave way, and bile rose in his throat, expelled onto the unforgiving earth.

She took hold of his arm, dragging him away, because, in the end, that was all they could do.