The campfire crackled, but the warmth had long since faded from the air.
Scarface's scowl deepened as he kicked at a stray log, sending embers scattering. His mood was already foul, but the grumbling behind him only made it worse.
"This is on you, Grohn," one of the bandits muttered, voice low but carrying. "You were supposed to check the cages."
A heavy silence followed.
Then, the sound of a boot scraping against dirt.
Grohn, the burly bandit in question, turned his head slowly. His thick brow furrowed, and his jaw clenched tight enough that the veins in his neck stood out. His fists curled at his sides, calloused knuckles cracking.
"The crap you say?" His voice was rough, guttural.
The other bandit shifted but didn't back down. "You heard me. You were the one on watch. That brat got out under your nose."
A few others muttered in agreement, some shaking their heads. The tension in the air thickened.
Grohn's breath flared from his nostrils. "You think I let 'im go?" His voice was low now, dangerous. "You think I just sat there while he strolled out?"
"You tell us." The man who spoke took a step back, but there was a smirk tugging at his mouth. "Or maybe you were too busy stuffing your face."
Laughter rippled through the group.
It was the wrong move.
Grohn moved fast for a man his size. His hand shot out, grabbing the speaker by the collar and yanking him close. The laughter died in an instant.
"Say it again," Grohn growled, his voice close enough to feel.
Scarface sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "Enough."
Grohn held on for a beat longer—long enough to make the man sweat—before shoving him back. The bandit stumbled but didn't retaliate, just rubbed his throat, scowling.
Scarface leveled them all with a glare. "The boy's gone. Wasting time pointing fingers won't change that."
Another bandit grunted. "Won't stop the boss from wanting someone's head for it."
That settled over them like a heavy weight.
Grohn's hands twitched, his breathing still sharp. He muttered something under his breath before turning and leaving.
Elena stayed still, her fingers tightening around her knees as she watched the scene unfold. The firelight cast long shadows over the bandits, their faces half-lit by the flickering glow, but she could see everything—every twitch of Grohn's hands, every shift in the tension-laden air.
She had seen men like him before. Men who couldn't stand being made fools of. Men who lashed out when things went wrong.
Her grip on her knees tightened further.
Grohn's breathing was heavy, nostrils flaring like an animal scenting blood. When he yanked the other bandit close, she almost flinched, her instincts screaming at her to shrink back, to make herself smaller. But she forced herself to stay still, to watch. To learn.
Beside her, Varian didn't move either.
The old man sat with his back to the bars, his arms folded loosely over his chest, but his eye wasn't idle. It tracked the fight the way a hunter watched the shifting wind—calm, patient, waiting to see which way it would blow.
For a moment, Elena thought he might say something, a warning or a quiet sigh of disapproval, but he didn't. He just watched, his expression unreadable.
Varian sighed, the weight of the night pressing down on him. His fingers drummed idly against his knee before he glanced at Elena.
"Go sleep for now, girl," he murmured. "It's late."
Elena hesitated, her gaze flickering toward the bandits, then back to him. The tension in her shoulders hadn't fully eased, but the worst had passed. With a small nod, she shifted, curling up as best she could against the cold ground.
Her eyes closed, but sleep wouldn't come easily—not yet. The fear was still there, lurking in the back of her mind. But it wasn't as sharp as before. It didn't press down on her chest, stealing her breath the way it had in the morning.
For the first time in a long while, she didn't feel entirely alone.
"Goodnight," she whispered.
Varian huffed softly, the faintest ghost of a smile touching his lips. "Goodnight, girl."
As she drifted off, her expression was lighter, her face no longer locked in quiet dread. And as Varian watched her breathing steady, he allowed himself to relax just a little.
It wasn't much.
But it was enough.
...
The morning came slow, creeping through the dense canopy in fractured beams of gold. The first light caught on the dewdrops clinging to the leaves, painting the forest in a soft, glistening haze.
Two bandits stood atop the thick branches of an ancient tree, high above the camp, their boots planted firmly on the rough bark. One yawned, stretching his arms over his head as the other squinted at the horizon, watching the sun push past the distant hills.
"Another day, huh?" the first muttered, rubbing at his neck. "Feels like we've been stuck in this rotten place forever."
The second let out a dry chuckle, adjusting the bow slung across his back. "You always whining first thing in the morning?"
"Only when I wake up stiff." The first bandit rolled his shoulders, then glanced down at the camp below. Fires smoldered in the dim light, their embers still glowing faintly. A few of their comrades stirred among the scattered tents, shaking off sleep, grumbling as they moved toward the cookfire.
Behind them, half-hidden in the trees, were the iron cages. A few prisoners were already awake, shifting sluggishly, their faces hollowed by exhaustion.
The second bandit exhaled through his nose. "Scarface is still fuming about the brat getting away."
"No surprise there." The first bandit snorted. "Burly bastard had one job—check the cages. And what happens? The kid slips right under his nose."
The other man let out a low chuckle. "Big guy was furious last night. Nearly put his fist through a tree."
A sharp gust of wind rustled the branches around them, and the first bandit shook his head. "Well, better him than me. Scarface'll be looking to vent that temper on someone."
Below them, the camp slowly came to life, another day beginning.
The second bandit was still chuckling, shaking his head at the absurdity of it all. "Yeah, well, I—"
Thwip.
A whisper of wind. A wet crunch.
The second bandit's laughter cut off in an instant. His head jerked back, an arrow embedded deep in his skull, just above the bridge of his nose. His body went slack, teetering for half a heartbeat before plummeting off the branch.
The first bandit didn't move. Didn't scream.
He only stared, breath caught in his throat, watching as his companion's lifeless form disappeared into the underbrush below. The thick foliage swallowed the impact, muffling the sound completely.
Down in the camp, no one stirred.
No heads turned. No shouts of alarm.
The others hadn't noticed.
They were too far. The two of them had been stationed as scouts, positioned well beyond the main group—meant to keep an eye out for trouble before it reached the camp.
Instead, trouble had reached them first.
A cold sweat broke along the first bandit's spine. His pulse pounded against his ribs.
Then—
The unmistakable press of steel against his back.
His breath hitched. The blade's edge was firm, unyielding, resting just between his ribs.
A voice followed, low and deadly. "Don't move."
He obeyed. Not by choice, but because terror had locked his limbs in place.
"Make a sound," the voice continued, calm and deliberate, "and I'll see to it that you regret it."
The bandit swallowed hard, his mind racing. His eyes darted side to side, searching for a way out, but the blade pressed in ever so slightly—a silent warning.
He was trapped.
And whoever was behind him was no fool.
The voice came again, smooth, quiet, but carrying an undeniable weight.
"Now," it murmured, "you're going to tell me everything about that camp." A slight shift of the blade followed, pressing just enough to remind the bandit how easily it could slip between his ribs. "Because if you don't... well, you won't like what happens next."
The bandit's throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. He could feel his heart hammering, each beat a frantic warning.
Still, he managed to force out a strained chuckle. "I— I could always shout," he rasped. "Sure, you'd kill me, but the others would hear. You'd die too."
Silence.
Then— a chuckle. Low. Amused.
"You value your life too much to throw it away for something like this," the voice said, almost teasing. "You wouldn't dare."
The bandit's breath came short and shallow. He hated how quickly the words rang true.
If he screamed, maybe they'd come. Maybe he'd be avenged.
Or maybe they'd be too slow. Maybe he'd already be dead, and his killer would be long gone before anyone even noticed.
If he complied, there was a chance.
If he didn't... there wasn't.
Slowly, his lips parted.
...
The first thing Elena noticed as she stirred awake was the cold. The night's chill still clung to the air, though the first hints of morning light filtered through the trees, casting long, golden streaks across the dirt.
She blinked the sleep from her eyes, adjusting to the dim glow. Around her, the other prisoners remained curled where they had collapsed, their breathing slow, heavy with exhaustion. Some clung to each other for warmth, while others lay still, barely stirring.
Beyond her own cage, the others were much the same. A few figures sat upright, their gazes distant as they silently took in the morning, while most remained motionless, lost in restless slumber.
Then—warmth.
A hand ruffled her hair, fingers brushing against the messy strands of green before pulling away.
Elena turned her head, looking up—
And found Varian smiling down at her. His expression was gentle, lined with the quiet patience she was beginning to recognize as his way.
"Good morning, girl," he said, voice low but warm.
For a moment, she only stared.
Then, before she could stop it, a small smile tugged at her lips.
"Good morning," she replied.
Elena's stomach twisted, a dull ache reminding her that she hadn't eaten much the night before. Hunger was familiar—too familiar.
Her mind drifted, unbidden, to darker places.
Her mother was dead.
Her brother was missing.
She was here, a prisoner in a filthy cage, surrounded by bandits who saw her as nothing more than a thing to be bought, sold, or discarded.
The weight of it pressed down on her, tightening around her chest like unseen chains.
But then—
She shook her head, exhaling slowly.
It didn't matter.
The boy had escaped yesterday.
And the old man was still here, right beside her.
She… she wasn't alone.
And that comforted her greatly.
Elena clenched her fists, grounding herself in the present. The past couldn't be changed, and the future was uncertain—but right now, she was still here. Still breathing.
Varian shifted beside her, adjusting his position against the bars with a quiet grunt. His old bones must have ached from the rough sleep, but he didn't complain. Instead, he glanced at her, eye sharp despite his wearied frame.
"Hungry?" he asked, voice low enough not to wake the others.
She hesitated but nodded.
"Figured." He exhaled through his nose, thoughtful. "Bandits'll be handing out scraps soon. Not much, but better than nothing."
Elena lowered her gaze. Better than nothing. She hated how much truth there was in that.
Movement from the other cages caught her eye—some prisoners were stirring, rubbing sleep from their faces, stretching stiff limbs. A few exchanged quiet murmurs, while others simply sat in silence, resigned to another day in chains.
A breeze swept through the camp, carrying the distant scent of smoke and something cooking. Elena's stomach growled faintly. She ignored it.
"Don't dwell too much, girl," Varian murmured, tapping her shoulder lightly. "Keep your head steady. It helps."
She looked up at him. His face was lined with age, but there was a quiet strength there, a resilience that hadn't been broken.
Elena took a breath and nodded.
"Good," he said. Then, with a faint smirk, he ruffled her hair again. "Now sit tight. Let's see what misery they'll feed us today."
Elena huffed softly as Varian ruffled her hair again, but she didn't pull away. The old man's presence was a small but steady anchor in this wretched place.
Across the cages, the prisoners were fully stirring now. Some stretched, others murmured in hushed voices. A few kept their heads down, avoiding eye contact, resigned to whatever awaited them.
The bandits were moving about the camp, their rough voices and laughter carrying through the air. Some were already gathered around a fire, tearing into whatever poor excuse for food they had managed to put together. The scent of charred meat and stale bread made Elena's stomach clench—not just with hunger but with disgust. She had learned quickly that whatever the bandits ate, the prisoners got the worst scraps.
Varian must have noticed her expression because he gave a dry chuckle. "Don't expect much, but eat what you can. An empty stomach makes for a weak mind."
Elena exhaled through her nose. She wanted to ask him if there was ever a time he didn't speak like a wise old storyteller, but she kept quiet. His words had truth in them.
A loud bark of laughter rang out near the fire, drawing their attention. A burly bandit—one of the meaner ones, the kind that enjoyed kicking prisoners for fun—was gesturing wildly, clearly in the middle of a story. A few others chuckled around him, nodding along.
Elena frowned, her thoughts drifting back to yesterday. The boy had escaped.
Elena's stomach twisted as she watched the burly bandit. He was laughing now, but there was an edge to it—forced, defensive. The other bandits weren't laughing as much as they were jeering, making sharp remarks, nudging each other as if mocking him.
She swallowed hard.
The boy had escaped.
And she had played a part in it.
It hadn't been much—just a distraction, a few well-placed words to keep the brute talking while the boy worked on his escape. But what if he realized it? What if he pieced it together?
Her fingers curled around the bars of the cage as she shrank back slightly. The burly bandit was already in trouble for failing to secure the boy. If he suspected her involvement, even a little, he might take it out on her.
The others were angry at him. She could see it in the way they spoke to him, in the glances they exchanged when they thought he wasn't looking. He was a fool, a failure—he had let a prisoner slip through his fingers. And if there was one thing bandits hated, it was weakness.
Elena's heart pounded.
The burly bandit suddenly slammed his fist against a wooden post near the fire, his laughter vanishing. The men around him flinched back slightly before grinning, amused by his frustration.
Elena tensed.
She needed to stay quiet. Stay small.
She just had to hope he wouldn't turn his anger toward her.
Varian's voice was calm, steady. "Don't worry, child. I'll protect you."
Elena flinched, turning to look at him. He was watching her with that tired but gentle eye, his expression firm, reassuring.
Protect her?
Her fingers tightened around the bars as she glanced back at the burly bandit, then at Varian.
He had said before that he was a guard, right? A soldier of some kind. That meant he was strong, didn't it?
She swallowed.
He wasn't lying, was he?
He could protect her… right?
She wanted to believe it. She needed to believe it.
But doubt clawed at the edges of her thoughts. The bandits were cruel, violent men. And Varian… he was old. He wasn't young like her brother, nor was he like the warriors she'd heard stories about. Could he really stand against them?
Her lips parted, but she didn't speak.
Varian just smiled faintly, as if he could read the uncertainty in her eyes. He patted her head again—lightly, gently.
"Trust me, little one."
Elena hesitated… then, slowly, she nodded.
Shing!
The sharp whisper of something slicing through the air sent a shiver through the camp.
Then—a dull thud. A strangled gasp.
A bandit collapsed, an arrow buried deep in his throat. Blood pooled beneath him as his body spasmed, then stilled.
For a moment, there was silence.
Then, panic erupted.
Shouts filled the air as men scrambled for weapons, eyes darting in every direction. Some ducked behind crates, others ran for cover, tripping over one another in the chaos.
Scarface's voice boomed over the commotion. "SHUT UP!"
His fury cut through the panic like a blade, but it wasn't enough to completely settle them.
Someone shouted, voice tinged with fear. "What about the scouts?! Why didn't they warn us?!"
Silence fell again, but this time it was heavier, more suffocating.
The realization hit them all at once.
The scouts hadn't sounded the alarm.
Because they were already dead.
A second arrow came whistling through the air, striking another bandit in the chest. A third followed right after, burying itself into the neck of the man beside him.
Then, all at once, the sky seemed to darken.
A rain of arrows poured down from the trees, cutting through bandits before they could even think to run. Screams of pain and terror echoed through the camp as men fell left and right, some clutching at their wounds, others not even getting the chance to react before collapsing lifelessly onto the dirt.
Through the chaos, Elena's breath hitched. Her hands clutched the bars of the cage as she tried to make sense of what was happening.
Were they being attacked? By who? Was this… rescue?
Then she saw them—figures in armor moving through the trees, firing arrows with lethal precision. More figures dropping down, blades drawn, cutting down any bandits who tried to resist.
And then—something she never expected.
The cages.
Some of the armored figures were opening the cages.
Her heart pounded in her chest. A mix of fear, hope, and disbelief swirled inside her.
She turned to Varian, her voice barely more than a whisper. "Are they… here for us?"
The old man stared at the scene, his face unreadable for a long moment. Then, slowly, a small, tired smile formed on his lips.
"I think," he said, voice rough with emotion, "our suffering ends today."
A smile tugged at Elena's face, hesitant but real. Was this truly happening? Was she… was she about to be free?
Then, above the shouts and chaos, a commanding voice cut through the air.
"Bandits! Drop your weapons and surrender!"
She flinched at the sheer force of it.
A dozen riders stormed into the camp, dust and dirt kicking up as armored men on horseback arrived in formation. Their polished armor gleamed in the morning sun, banners marking them as soldiers of a proper force.
At the front of them, a middle-aged man wearing a plumed helmet raised his sword high. His voice was loud and absolute, carrying the weight of authority.
"I am Captain Boros, here under the authority of the city of Jarustam! You are surrounded! Surrender now, and you may yet live!"
Some of the bandits hesitated. Their wild eyes darted between the trees—where archers still loomed—and the cavalry standing firm before them.
Elena saw it. That moment of doubt.
And Captain Boros did too.
He pressed forward. "Jarustam is part of the Kingdom of Al-Bark. By resisting, you stand against the throne itself!"
That was the final push.
Some of the bandits dropped their weapons immediately, terror overtaking them. Others turned to flee, hoping to escape into the forest.
But not all.
Scarface snarled, his expression twisting in fury. "Cowards!" He spat on the ground. "They're just city dogs! Kill them!"
Several bandits roared in agreement, gripping their weapons tighter.
The soldiers did not wait.
The battle began.
...
Grohn's breath was ragged, his chest rising and falling in uneven gasps. His pulse pounded in his ears, nearly drowning out the chaos around him—the shouts, the clashing steel, the dying screams.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
How?
How had everything gone so wrong?
They were bandits. This was their territory. They had numbers. They had hostages. They had a system.
And yet—
And yet the soldiers had come like a hammer crashing down on brittle bones, breaking them apart in an instant. Arrows rained from above, horses thundered through the camp, their riders cutting through his so-called allies with ruthless efficiency.
Some of the bandits had already thrown down their weapons, too scared to resist. Others were trying to run, their selfish cowardice on full display. A few fools still fought, thinking they had a chance. They didn't.
Grohn stood frozen in place, gripping his weapon so tightly his fingers went numb.
This was his fault.
No, it's not. It's not.
But it was.
It was him who checked the cages. It was him who was supposed to make sure that brat stayed locked up. And yet, somehow—somehow—the boy had escaped. Had run off to tell someone. Had brought the guards down on them.
If he had just done his job right, none of this would be happening.
Grohn clenched his teeth, his frustration boiling over into pure rage. His hands trembled—not from fear, but from sheer fury at himself.
He shook his head, He wasn't going to fight. He wasn't that stupid.
But he wasn't going to surrender either.
Because he knew exactly who was to blame for this.
The boy.
The little bastard had been under his watch. Had slipped past him. Had ruined everything.
This was his fault.
And if Grohn was going down, then at the very least, he was taking something with him.
His gaze snapped to the cages. To the prisoners.
To the green-haired girl.
She had distracted him. Had wasted his time with her whimpering, her pitiful attempts to avoid his anger.
She'd known, hadn't she?
She'd been helping the brat escape, in her own way.
His fingers tightened around the handle of his axe.
If he was going down, he was going to make sure she went down with him.
...
Elena's heart pounded in her chest, her breath shallow as she gripped the cold bars of the cage. The camp was a mess of shouting, clashing steel, and bodies hitting the ground. Smoke from overturned fires mixed with the scent of blood and sweat, creating a sickening haze in the air.
It was terrifying.
But… it was also hopeful.
She could see them—real guards, armored and armed, fighting the bandits, cutting them down, forcing them to surrender or flee. And among them, one was making his way toward her cage.
Her hands clenched tighter.
They were being saved.
Her gaze flickered to Varian beside her. The old man was watching the battle with a sharp eye, his posture tense but steady. He looked like he was ready to fight at a moment's notice, despite his age.
"Elena," he said quietly, not looking at her. "Stay close to me."
She nodded, swallowing her nerves.
The guard had finished freeing another cage. He was turning, stepping toward them.
Just a little more.
She held her breath.
Just a little longer.
Then they'd be free.
The moment the guard reached their cage, Elena felt her chest tighten. He was smiling at her—a warm, reassuring smile.
"You're safe now, little one," he said gently. "It's alright, we're here to—"
The words cut off.
The door clicked open.
And then Varian moved.
A rough yank on her wrist sent Elena stumbling forward, her vision blurring as she was suddenly forced down. A loud, wet thunk filled the air.
A head hit the ground.
The head of the guard who had just smiled at her.
Elena's breath caught in her throat.
The burly bandit, Grohn, stood in the now-open doorway, his chest heaving, his axe dripping fresh blood onto the dirt. His face twisted in rage, eyes locking onto her like a predator sighting its prey.
"You little rat," he snarled, his voice shaking with fury. "This is your fault!"
His finger jabbed toward her, his grip tightening around the axe handle, as if the mere sight of her was pushing him further into his rage.
Elena couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.
The other prisoners in the cage recoiled in horror, some pressing themselves against the back bars, others turning their heads away, unable to stomach the sight. A woman covered her mouth to muffle a scream. A man muttered a curse under his breath, panic written all over his face.
No one could do anything.
No one but Varian.
The old man's eye wasn't on Grohn. It was on the sword—the fallen guard's sword, lying just a few feet away, half-buried in the dirt.
He needed to get it.
Fast.
Before Grohn could swing that axe again.
Varian's grip on Elena's wrist tightened. He could feel the trembling in her tiny fingers, the way her whole body had gone rigid with fear.
He couldn't let her break down now.
With his free hand, he ruffled her green hair gently, just like he had that morning. His voice was low, steady—firm in a way that left no room for doubt.
"Stay behind me, girl. I promised I'd protect you."
Elena's breath hitched. She wanted to believe him. She needed to believe him.
But Grohn was already stepping forward.
The burly bandit's breathing was uneven, his face twisted with frustration, panic, and rage. His comrades were losing. The camp was falling apart. The boy had escaped because of him.
And now, this old man—this useless, frail old man—was standing in his way.
Grohn bared his teeth.
"You think you can stop me, old man?" His fingers flexed over the axe handle, tightening with murderous intent. "You're just a washed-up guard—you couldn't even protect yourself, let alone this brat!"
Varian didn't respond. His focus was on the sword.
It was close, but not close enough. He'd have to move fast.
Grohn noticed.
A cruel grin spread across his face.
"You want that sword, huh?" He kicked it slightly, making it shift just out of reach. "Go on, then. Try it."
The other prisoners in the cage barely breathed. Some huddled in the back, their eyes darting between Varian and Grohn. One man muttered, "We're dead… We're all dead…" under his breath.
Elena was gripping Varian's sleeve so tightly her nails were digging into the fabric.
Then, Varian made his move.
Instead of lunging forward, he kicked the cage door with all his strength.
The metal bars swung violently, slamming into Grohn's side.
The bandit staggered, his balance shifting just for an instant—just long enough.
Varian dove.
His fingers wrapped around the sword hilt.
Grohn's eyes went wide.
"You—!"
Varian turned, swinging the blade just in time—forcing the burly bandit to stumble back. The axe barely missed Varian's shoulder, cutting into the dirt instead.
Now, it was different.
Now, Varian was armed.
And the look in his eye said everything.
He was no helpless old man.
He was a guard. A warrior.
And he wasn't going to let Grohn lay another finger on the girl.
Elena's mind was a storm of emotions, too many to hold at once.
The world had become a blur of metal clashing, voices shouting, and fear clawing at her chest.
She was just a kid.
She wasn't supposed to see things like this.
Varian had a sword now. That was good, right? That meant he could fight. That meant he could win.
But… what if he didn't?
Her breath felt trapped in her throat as she watched the two men circle each other.
Grohn was big, stronger than anyone she'd ever seen. His axe looked heavy, too heavy for someone like her to even lift. When he swung it, the whoosh of air it cut through was loud enough to send shivers down her spine.
Varian was smaller. Older. His breath was heavier than Grohn's, and his movements weren't as quick as she thought they'd be. But… but he didn't look scared.
She clung to that.
The other prisoners weren't sure what to do.
Some whispered among themselves, daring to hope.
"The old man's holding his own…"
"Maybe… maybe we have a chance."
Others weren't convinced.
"He's just delaying it… The bandit's too strong…"
"Why don't we run?!"
But none of them moved. Whether out of fear or respect, they stayed frozen, watching as the two men fought in the dirt just outside the cage.
Varian's sword clashed against Grohn's axe, sending sparks flying.
It was a strange fight.
Grohn fought like a brute—wide swings, powerful, meant to end things in a single blow. But his movements were reckless, leaving openings Varian could take advantage of.
Varian fought like a soldier—precise, controlled, blocking just enough to avoid the worst of each attack. But his age slowed him, made it hard to counter properly, made his breathing heavier with each exchange.
Neither man was winning.
Neither was losing.
And Elena…
Elena just wanted it to end.
Her fingers curled into fists. She didn't realize she was shaking.
She wasn't a fighter.
She couldn't help.
All she could do was watch—watch and hope that the old man's promise wasn't a lie.
Grohn staggered back as Varian's foot struck his chest, the force sending him stumbling out of the cage. He cursed, barely keeping his balance as his boots slid across the dirt.
Varian wasted no time. He stepped out of the cage, sword raised, leaving the prisoners behind.
"Elena!" he barked, eyes still locked on Grohn. "Stay put—"
But the prisoners didn't stay put.
The moment the path was clear, they ran.
Panic overtook reason.
Their chains clattered as they pushed past each other, some tripping, some shoving, all desperate to escape.
Varian's gaze flicked to them just for a second. "You cowards! Protect the girl! Free the others!"
But no one listened.
No one even looked back.
Fear had swallowed them whole, and they only had one instinct left—run.
Elena pressed herself against the cage's bars, watching them disappear into the trees, her heart sinking.
They were free.
And she… she was still here.
Alone.
Her head turned back to Varian, who now stood alone against Grohn.
The old man squared his shoulders, tightening his grip on his sword, his expression unreadable.
Grohn, breathing hard, wiped sweat from his brow and grinned.
"Looks like your little friends ain't so brave," he sneered.
Varian didn't flinch.
"I don't need them," he said. "I just need to kill you."
And with that, the fight continued.
Elena clenched her fists, her small fingers trembling against the cold metal bars.
She hated this.
She hated just sitting here, doing nothing, watching helplessly.
It was just like before.
Her chest tightened. Her breath hitched.
No.
Not again.
She wasn't going to let this happen again.
She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing herself to think. Harder. Faster. Anything. What could she do? She was just a kid. She had no weapon. No strength.
But she had a voice.
Her eyes snapped open.
Burley and Varian clashed before her, steel against steel, sweat flying, grunts of effort filling the air. The old man was holding his own, but just barely.
She looked at Burley, watching the way his teeth clenched, the way frustration built with every swing he missed.
A smile tugged at her lips.
She raised her chin, inhaled sharply, and yelled,
"You're pathetic!"
Burley froze for half a second, his focus flickering to her.
Elena grinned wider. "All that tough talk, and an old man is making you sweat!"
Burley's grip tightened on his axe.
Varian seized the moment, his sword slicing dangerously close.
Burley barely dodged, staggering back, his composure slipping.
Elena saw it. She saw the way his face twisted, the anger flaring behind his eyes.
Good.
She laughed mockingly, her voice ringing through the chaos. "No wonder the others left you behind! You're weak!"
Burley let out a furious growl, his attacks becoming sloppier, wilder.
And Varian, ever-experienced, took full advantage.
Varian smirked, hearing Elena's sharp words cut through the chaos like a blade.
Smart girl.
For a kid, she had quick thinking. Knew how to push buttons. That was good—it made his job easier. But he couldn't let himself get distracted.
He focused.
Burley—no, Grohn—was getting reckless, swinging his axe with more anger than skill. It made his movements sloppy, his defense weak.
Varian watched. Waited. Then—
His blade found its mark.
The sword sliced into Grohn's shoulder, tearing through muscle. Blood ran deep, staining his already filthy clothes.
Grohn grunted, stumbling back. His axe dipped slightly, his breathing ragged.
Varian didn't press forward. Instead, he lowered his blade slightly, watching the bandit carefully. "We can stop here," he said, voice firm. "Go our separate ways. It doesn't have to get worse than this."
Grohn stood still for a moment, gripping his wound, chest rising and falling.
Then, he shook his head. A slow, deliberate motion.
"No." His voice was low, steady.
His eyes, filled with pain and fury, locked onto Varian's.
"This ends with one of us dead. Or both."
Varian exhaled, his smirk fading. He could see it now—the way Grohn held himself, the way he had already made peace with this fight.
It wasn't just about survival anymore.
It was about pride. About rage.
And Elena's words had only cemented that.
Varian sighed, his grip tightening on the sword. He could already feel the weight of it growing heavier in his tired arms. He didn't have much left in him.
"Elena, run," he said, not taking his eyes off Grohn.
"No!"
Her voice was sharp, determined.
"I won't leave you alone!"
Varian glanced at her. She was afraid—he could see it in the way her small hands trembled at her sides, in the way her lips pressed together tightly. But she wasn't running. She was standing her ground.
A part of him wanted to be proud. The other part knew this wasn't the time for it.
He forced a smile. "It's gonna be alright. Don't worry."
Grohn laughed.
"Alright? You really think so, old man?" He lifted his axe, his movements slower than before. The wound on his shoulder was affecting him now, making his swings less controlled. But it wasn't just him—Varian could feel his own body slowing down. His breath came shorter, his arms ached, and his legs felt heavy.
"I'll make sure it won't be alright," Grohn growled. Then, with all the strength he could muster, he swung again.
Varian raised his sword to meet the strike.
The clash rang out loud, metal grinding against metal.
He held firm, but his arms shook under the force. He was running out of time.
Elena's eyes darted around frantically, searching for something—anything—that could help. Her fingers clenched at the sight of a few small rocks scattered around the place.
It wasn't much, but it was all she had.
She grabbed one, aimed, and hurled it at Grohn.
The rock struck his side, making him flinch. It wasn't enough to hurt him, but it was enough to annoy him.
"Damn brat!" he snarled, briefly turning his head toward her.
Varian took the opening, stepping in and swinging his sword.
But he missed.
Not because Grohn was quick. Not because he was skilled.
Because Varian was slow.
Painfully slow.
His breath was ragged, his body sluggish, his strikes lacking the speed they once had. Even with Grohn injured and distracted, even with Elena creating chances for him, he couldn't capitalize on them. He was too slow.
Grohn stepped back, panting heavily, his injured arm hanging at his side, the axe still gripped tightly in his other hand. His eyes flicked back to Varian, realizing something.
"You're getting tired, old man."
Varian almost laughed at himself.
He was supposed to be a trained soldier. A veteran. A man who had fought for years, protected others, stood against real threats.
And here he was, struggling against a wounded, distracted, stupid bandit.
Elena watched in horror as the fight dragged on.
Blood splattered the dirt.
Varian and Grohn clashed again, neither willing to back down. The old man's blade met the bandit's axe in a brutal exchange, steel screeching against steel. Every strike was slower, heavier, and sloppier than the last.
Grohn's injured shoulder made his swings weaker, his movements uneven. But Varian—Varian was just getting worse. His breaths were loud and labored, his grip unsteady. His old body wasn't meant for this anymore.
Elena's small fingers curled into fists.
This was bad.
Really bad.
She could see it—Varian was losing. Maybe Grohn wasn't winning either, but that didn't matter. If this went on any longer, Varian was going to die.
The thought made her stomach twist.
No, no, no. Not again.
She couldn't just stand here. She had to do something.
But what?
She was just a kid.
What could she do?
Another sharp clash brought her back to reality.
Varian staggered, his legs barely holding him up. Grohn took the chance to strike, swinging wildly. Varian barely dodged, but the axe still grazed his side. Blood sprayed across the dirt, staining the ground red.
"Varian!" Elena screamed.
The old man gritted his teeth, ignoring the pain, and retaliated. His sword bit into Grohn's thigh, slicing deep. The bandit howled in pain, stumbling back. His leg trembled, barely able to hold his weight.
But he didn't fall.
Neither did Varian.
Both men were barely standing, blood leaking from fresh wounds.
Elena felt like she couldn't breathe.
She had to think—fast. But her mind was screaming, her heart pounding too hard to focus. She was terrified. She didn't want to watch this anymore. She didn't want Varian to die.
She needed to do something.
Anything.
She looked around frantically, searching for a guard—any guard—but none were free. Every single one was locked in combat with a bandit or desperately working to free more prisoners.
What could she do?
There were no more stones around. No weapons. And even if she had one, what good would it do?
She was just a kid.
Burley was a big man with an axe. Even wounded, even distracted, one swing would be all it took to end her.
But then what?
Just stand here? Just watch Varian die?
She shook her head.
No.
No, she wouldn't watch him die.
She wouldn't—
The world froze.
Varian dropped to his knees, his body giving out.
Burley seized the moment, raising his axe high, his bloody hands tightening around the handle.
Elena's breath caught in her throat.
The axe came down.
Varian barely managed to lift his sword, the metal clashing in a desperate parry. But the impact sent him sprawling, his shoulder taking the brunt of it.
He hit the ground.
His sword slipped from his fingers.
And Burley loomed over him.
Seeing this, something broke inside the little girl.
...
A vast, endless space stretched before her, bathed in a soft, eerie purple glow. At its center, a massive chain wrapped tightly around something—a swirling, chaotic torrent of darkness, writhing, twisting, screaming to be free. The chain trembled, struggling to contain the force within, but it held firm.
Until now.
The moment Varian fell, something inside her snapped.
A single, deafening crack echoed through the space.
Then another.
And another.
The chain shattered.
Darkness exploded outward like a flood bursting through a broken dam. It surged through the purple space, devouring everything in its path. The glow vanished. The world within her mind was consumed, lost beneath a storm of pure, unrelenting rage.
And then—
She screamed.
...
Elena's scream ripped through the air, raw and furious.
Burley—no, Grohn—took an instinctive step back, his bloodied face contorting in shock.
Elena didn't stop.
She launched herself at him, small hands clawing wildly. She didn't think. She didn't hesitate. She bit down—hard.
Grohn screamed this time.
The moment her teeth sank into his flesh, pain exploded through his hand. He kicked out, slamming her small frame to the side. She hit the ground with a sharp grunt of pain.
But she didn't cry.
Didn't cower.
Instead, she turned her head and spat something out.
A piece of flesh landed in the dirt.
Grohn's eyes widened in horror.
His finger.
She had bitten off his damn finger.
A choked noise left his throat, part rage, part disbelief. His grip on his axe slipped, the weapon falling from his trembling hands.
Varian barely clung to consciousness, his body sinking deeper into the cold embrace of exhaustion and blood loss. His vision blurred, the world around him fading in and out. He could feel the dirt beneath him, warm with his own blood, could hear the ringing in his ears, the distant echoes of battle, but none of it mattered.
Not when he saw her.
Not when he saw what Elena had just done.
She bit off his damn finger.
Varian's breath was shallow, his chest rising and falling in uneven, labored motions. His grip on life felt as fragile as sand slipping through his fingers. He knew—he knew—this was it for him. He wouldn't be getting up this time. He wouldn't be swinging his sword again. He barely had enough strength left to keep his eye open, to witness the chaos unfolding before him.
And Elena.
She stood there, breathing heavily, small shoulders rising and falling with each frantic breath. But it wasn't fear in her eyes. It wasn't shock, or horror, or guilt. It was something else. Something raw, something primal.
Grohn's agonized scream tore through the battlefield.
"Y-You monster! You beast!"
He clutched his mutilated hand, eyes wide with pain and disbelief. Blood poured from the wound, staining his already filth-covered clothes. He stumbled back, face twisted in a grotesque mix of fury and terror, then suddenly shook his head, as if trying to rid himself of what he'd just seen.
No.
No, not just a monster. Not just a beast.
His eyes locked onto Elena, and his expression turned from rage to something colder, something more vile.
"A Green Savage..."
The words left his lips like venom, filled with disgust and hatred.
Varian's heart clenched.
No.
Not that word.
Even through the haze of his dying mind, even as his body weakened with every breath, a deep, burning rage flickered inside him at those words.
How dare he?
Elena wasn't a monster. She wasn't some savage. She was just a child—a child who had been forced to fight, forced to endure, forced to watch everyone she cared about be taken from her.
And yet…
Varian stared at her small frame, at the way her hands clenched into fists, at the way her green hair swayed as she breathed heavily, eyes locked onto Grohn like a predator sizing up prey.
There was nothing childlike about her now.
Grohn wasn't supposed to feel fear.
Not from a child.
Not from some little girl.
And yet, his hands trembled. His breath came in ragged gasps. His heart pounded violently in his chest, a rhythm of panic he couldn't control.
It was her eyes.
Something about them was wrong.
He had seen rage before, had seen men lose themselves in battle, had seen bandits and soldiers alike snap and go wild with bloodlust. But this?
This was different.
This was feral.
"Step back," he hissed, voice shaking despite himself. "Step back and leave me alone!"
His fingers fumbled for his axe, desperation clawing at him. He had to grab it, had to kill her before—
Too late.
Elena lunged.
Her small body crashed into him like a wild animal, and before he could react, her teeth sank into his ear.
Pain.
Burning, ripping, searing pain.
"AARRRGGHHH!"
Grohn howled, thrashing violently, trying to rip her off. He slammed his fists into her back, into her sides, but she held on, jaws clamped like a vice.
"GET OFF ME, YOU LITTLE—!"
He swung his arm wildly and punched her in the gut.
Hard.
The force knocked the air from her lungs, and with a choked gasp, she finally let go, collapsing onto the dirt. She coughed, blood trickling from her nose, her breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps.
But Grohn wasn't looking at her anymore.
He was clutching his ear.
Or… what was left of it.
It wasn't completely gone, but it was barely hanging on. A torn, shredded piece of flesh, dripping blood down the side of his face, clinging to him by a thin, fragile thread of skin.
The sight made his stomach churn.
His screams filled the air, raw and agonized. He stumbled back, dizzy from the pain, from the sheer insanity of what had just happened.
She had bitten his ear off.
She had ripped into him like some kind of—
His bloodshot eyes snapped back to her.
She was still on the ground, still gasping for breath, but she wasn't crying. She wasn't begging.
She was staring at him.
That same, unblinking, predatory stare.
Grohn's entire body trembled.
This wasn't normal. This wasn't human.
The girl wasn't just fighting back—she was hunting him.
The way she glared at him, unblinking, unyielding… The way her bloodied mouth curled into something between a snarl and a grin… The way she moved, tensed like a predator about to lunge…
She wasn't going to stop.
She wasn't going to let up.
She was going to tear into him.
Grohn clutched his mangled ear, his breath sharp and uneven. "S-Stay back!" he hissed, stumbling as he tried to put more distance between them. His legs felt weak. His mind was spinning.
The Green Savage.
That's what she was.
Not a child. Not a girl.
A beast. A real savage.
Even Varian, lying helplessly on the ground, blood seeping from his wounds, felt a chill creep down his spine.
This was going too far.
But what could he do? He couldn't move. He couldn't even lift a finger.
And Elena—
Elena was fighting for her life.
If she didn't let loose, if she didn't become the Green Savage, Grohn might still have the strength to kill her.
So if this was what it took…
Then so be it.
Grohn's body stiffened as Elena lunged.
His instinct screamed at him to move back—so he did.
But that was what she wanted.
His foot barely touched the ground when he realized—she wasn't attacking him. She was reaching for something.
His axe.
His damn axe.
Her small hands barely wrapped around the handle, her arms trembling under the weight, but she held it. She held it.
Grohn almost laughed. Almost mocked her.
But then his fingers brushed against his ear—
Or rather, what remained of it.
Pain shot through his skull. He felt the wetness of his own blood soaking his hand. The memory of her teeth, tearing into him, surfaced like a nightmare.
That wasn't a child.
That wasn't a human.
That was a beast.
And for the first time in his miserable, wretched life—
Grohn, the bloodied, brutal bandit, contemplated running away from a child.
A small, little girl.
That same girl threw the axe his way.
The axe barely made it halfway before hitting the ground with a heavy thud.
But it didn't matter.
Grohn—Burley—had already made up his mind. He turned and ran, not caring how weak or cowardly it looked. He wasn't going to die here, not to some rabid little—
His world spun.
No, that wasn't right.
His head spun.
His vision blurred, and the last thing he saw was his own body still running, still trying to escape—before it collapsed onto the bloodied dirt.
A clean cut. A swift execution.
A guard passing by had ended him in an instant.
The soldier barely spared the corpse a glance before turning toward the other two figures on the ground—one barely alive, the other something else entirely.
His boots pounded against the dirt as he rushed forward, but then—
He stopped.
Elena.
Something was wrong with her.
Her tiny frame trembled with uneven breaths, her bloodstained mouth slightly open, her unfocused eyes locked onto him like a predator watching its next prey.
It wasn't normal.
She wasn't normal.
The guard had seen countless criminals, desperate survivors, even blood-crazed warriors. But this?
This was something else.
An unleashed beast.
One that might pounce on him the moment he stepped any closer.
The guard took a slow, steady breath.
He had faced many things in his years of service—monsters, war criminals, bandits. But this… this was just a child.
A child, yet his hands itched toward his weapon, instincts screaming at him to stay back.
No.
He shook his head.
She wasn't an enemy. She was just a little girl who had seen too much, done too much.
So, he softened his stance, raised his hands slightly in a gesture of peace, and took a cautious step forward.
"Hey," he said gently. "It's over now. You're safe."
His words never reached her.
Elena didn't hear him.
She didn't see him.
Her world was nothing but red.
The bloodstained dirt beneath her. The metallic taste in her mouth. The scent of death thick in the air. The pounding in her skull, an unbearable pressure pushing her forward.
Kill.
Her body moved before she could think, her feet shifting, her fingers curling as she took a step toward him.
The guard tensed.
And then—
"Elena."
The voice barely cut through the haze, but it was there. Faint. Weak.
Yet, to her, it was everything.
"Elena," Varian called again, his voice strained but steady. "It's alright."
Her breath hitched.
"Everything's going to be alright."
The pounding in her skull faded. The red haze flickered.
"You're safe now."
Her body froze.
And for the first time, she saw again.
The battlefield. The fallen bodies. The stunned guard in front of her.
And behind her, lying in the dirt, bloodied and barely breathing—Varian.
Her heart clenched.
Her lips trembled.
And just like that, the Green Savage was gone.
Elena was just Elena again.
...
Elena ran.
Her legs burned, her lungs ached, but she ran.
She dropped to her knees beside Varian, hands shaking as she reached for him. Blood. There was so much blood.
"N-No, no, no," she stammered, clutching at his torn clothes, feeling the warmth slipping away from his body. "You're not dying! You're not!"
Varian smiled weakly.
"Elena…" His voice was barely a whisper, yet it cut through her sobs.
She shook her head violently, gripping his hand. "Stop talking like that! You're going to be fine! W-We'll find a healer, you just have to—"
Her voice broke.
He lifted a trembling hand, resting it on her messy green hair. "You're strong, Elena."
She shook her head again, tears spilling down her cheeks. "I'm not! I-I need you! You can't die!"
He chuckled softly, wincing as he did. "You'll be fine without me."
She clenched his hand tighter, her nails digging into his skin as if she could physically hold him here, keep him from slipping away. "No, I won't! You're the only one who—who—" Her breath hitched, a sob wracking her body.
"You protected me! This is wrong, you shouldn't die for me... Please don't!"
Varian's gaze softened.
He wished he had more time. More time to tell her how proud he was. More time to make sure she was safe, to keep watching over her. But he didn't.
So he turned his fading eye to the guard standing over them, watching in silent sorrow.
"Take care of her," he murmured, barely above a whisper. "That's… my last wish."
The guard swallowed thickly, his throat tight. He gave a firm nod. "I will."
Varian sighed, relief washing over his tired face.
His grip on Elena's hand weakened.
And she felt it.
"No!" She clutched his arm tighter, pressing her forehead against his chest. "Please! Please don't leave me!"
His fingers brushed against her cheek one last time, wiping away a tear. "I'm sorry, kid."
Elena sobbed, her entire body shaking as she held onto him.
But there was nothing left to hold onto.
The warmth faded.
His chest no longer rose and fell.
His hand slipped from her cheek.
And Varian was gone.
Elena didn't move. She couldn't.
She sat there, holding onto his lifeless body, her small frame trembling as her mind refused to accept it.
He was supposed to be there.
He was supposed to stay.
But he was gone.
And she was alone.
—End of Chapter.