Felix’s sword arced through the air, its weight pulling heavily on his arm. His swings were uneven, clumsy, and full of frustration. The makeshift shield leaned against a tree nearby, forgotten as he hacked at an invisible enemy. Sweat ran down his face, and his breath came in short, ragged bursts, but he couldn’t stop.
Kael’s calm words from earlier rang in his head: Strength is useless without strategy. He’d tried to brush them off, to convince himself that Kael didn’t understand what it was like to live here, to see people suffer while you felt powerless to stop it. But the words stuck, gnawing at him like an itch he couldn’t scratch.
His thoughts turned to Elira, her determined face as she defended Kael. The way she looked at the stranger—with respect, maybe even admiration—made his chest tighten. He wasn’t sure if it was jealousy or shame that weighed heavier. He had failed to protect the village. He hadn’t even been there when the bandits attacked.
Felix screamed into the empty clearing, his voice raw, and swung his sword one last time. The blade bit into the earth, sticking there as he fell to his knees. He gritted his teeth, shaking with anger and frustration. He hated feeling this way—weak, useless, a burden.
“I’ll show them,” he muttered, yanking his sword from the dirt. “I’ll show them all.”
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The moonlight filtered through the trees as Felix crept toward the bandit camp. He had followed the path Kael and Elira had pointed out earlier, his footsteps crunching softly on the forest floor. His breath was steady now, his emotions tempered by a singular focus: to prove himself.
When the camp came into view, his first instinct was to stay hidden. He crouched behind a fallen log, scanning the scene. The bandits had set up a crude encampment, with several tents scattered around a central fire pit. A few guards paced lazily, their weapons slung over their shoulders. Beyond them, near the edge of the camp, Felix saw something that made his blood boil.
A makeshift cage, cobbled together from wooden beams and rope, held several prisoners. Their faces were gaunt, their clothes torn and dirty. Among them were men, women, and even a child, curled up in the corner, clutching a frayed blanket. Felix’s hand tightened on his sword.
Near the cage, two bandits leaned against a stack of crates, laughing and talking. Their words carried over the quiet night air.
“Boss’ll be pleased. These lot’ll fetch a good price at the market,” one of them said, kicking a rock toward the fire.
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“Easy coin,” the other replied. “Stupid villagers. Too scared to fight back.”
Felix’s grip on his sword grew white-knuckled. His chest heaved as anger surged through him, drowning out any thought of caution. He stepped into the open, his voice ringing out: “How can you sink so low? Selling people like cattle? You’re nothing but cowards!”
The bandits turned, their faces etched with surprise that quickly morphed into amusement. One of them let out a loud guffaw, slapping his knee. “What’s this? A little hero come to save the day?”
Felix’s eyes blazed with fury as he charged forward, his sword raised high. The nearest bandit barely had time to react as Felix swung, the blade glancing off his shoulder and sending him stumbling back. For a brief moment, Felix felt exhilaration—he could do this.
But the feeling didn’t last.
A second bandit circled behind him while he was still focused on the first. Felix didn’t notice until it was too late. The sharp crack of wood against the back of his skull sent him sprawling to the ground. His sword slipped from his fingers as the world spun and went dark.
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When Felix woke, his head throbbed. The faint light of a dying fire illuminated the crude wooden cage he was now inside. His wrists were bound, and his sword was nowhere in sight. He groaned, sitting up slowly as the events of the night came rushing back.
“Well, that was brave,” a voice drawled from the shadows. “Stupid, but brave.”
Felix squinted, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. A wiry man with sharp features and a lopsided grin sat across from him, his arms resting casually on his knees. His clothes were ragged, but his demeanor was relaxed, almost amused.
“Who are you?” Felix asked, his voice hoarse.
“Berry,” the man replied with a mock bow, though the gesture was limited by the ropes binding his wrists. “Magician extraordinaire. And you, my friend, have just earned the award for Most Reckless Attempt at Heroics.”
Felix glared at him. “I was trying to help.”
“Oh, I know,” Berry said, his grin widening. “And that’s what makes it so delightfully tragic.”
Felix sighed, leaning his head back against the wooden bars. “I couldn’t just stand by and do nothing.”
Berry’s grin softened slightly, his tone losing some of its edge. “Good intentions, kid. But good intentions without a plan? That’s a fast track to a cage. Or worse.”
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The hours dragged on. Felix and Berry talked in hushed tones, though the younger man’s frustration was evident. Berry, despite his sardonic wit, offered small reassurances and even a few jokes to lighten the mood.
Then, without warning, Berry stiffened. The humor drained from his face as his eyes narrowed, his head tilting slightly, as if listening to something only he could hear.
“What is it?” Felix asked, his voice low.
Berry didn’t answer immediately. His gaze darted toward the camp outside the cage, where the bandits were still laughing and talking around the fire. Slowly, the sound of their voices seemed to dull, like a muffled echo.
“The air,” Berry murmured. “It’s… heavy. Cold.”
Felix frowned. “What are you talking about?”
Berry’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Something’s wrong. This isn’t normal.”
Outside, the laughter faded further. The firelight seemed to dim, casting strange, flickering shadows across the camp. A chill crept through the air, and the once-still forest felt alive with an unnatural tension.
“This…” Berry muttered, his voice almost inaudible, “is very bad.”