Screams echoed through the camp as steel clashed against steel. The morning sun bathed the battlefield in an almost mocking golden light, illuminating the carnage as if it were some grand spectacle. Blood stained the dirt, mixing with the dust kicked up by the chaos.
A guard let loose an arrow, the string humming as the shaft sailed through the air. It found its mark, burying deep into the chest of a fleeing bandit. The man stumbled, gasped, and collapsed, his body trampled moments later by a galloping horse. Nearby, a prisoner—his shackles broken—sprinted toward freedom, laughter and tears mixing on his dirt-streaked face as another guard guided him away from the slaughter.
Hooves thundered across the ground as bandits attempted to escape on horseback, their stolen loot rattling in satchels. Some barely got ten paces before a guard's blade cut them down mid-gallop. Others, more fortunate, urged their steeds toward the trees, desperate to vanish into the wilderness before an arrow could find them.
A burning tent collapsed in on itself, its flames licking hungrily at the fabric. The scent of scorched flesh filled the air as bodies—bandits, guards, and prisoners alike—lay strewn across the battlefield. The lucky ones had died instantly. The less fortunate ones clutched at wounds, moaning, calling for help that would never come.
A guard gritted his teeth, slamming his shield into an approaching bandit's face. Bone crunched as the man reeled back, only for another swing of the guard's sword to cut deep into his gut. The bandit crumpled, groaning as he bled out onto the dirt. The guard barely had time to wipe the sweat from his brow before another attacker lunged at him.
A child's wail cut through the battlefield noise, piercing and raw. A woman, likely a prisoner, dragged a small boy through the chaos, shielding him with her body as she ran. A bandit on horseback bore down on them, sword raised—only to be struck by an arrow to the throat. He tumbled from his horse, dead before he hit the ground.
A carriage, overloaded with stolen goods, barreled toward the edge of the camp, bandits whipping the horses frantically. A squad of guards pursued, their shouts lost in the chaos, but the bandits had the lead. With one final crack of the reins, the carriage disappeared into the trees.
The battlefield was pure madness. A mess of steel and blood, of death and escape. Victory was within reach for the guards, but the cost had been steep. The sun continued to rise, indifferent to the carnage below.
...
The battle had ended. What was once a chaotic storm of steel, blood, and fire had settled into the grim quiet of the aftermath. The sun, still climbing the sky, cast its golden light over the camp, illuminating the wreckage left behind. Bodies, both of bandits and fallen guards, lay scattered across the ground, their lifeless eyes staring at nothing. The stench of blood, burnt wood, and sweat lingered in the air.
The surviving prisoners, the ones who managed to survive through the chaos, were now gathered in one place. Guards, some still panting from exhaustion, stood watch over them, making sure none slipped away into the wilderness. Some prisoners sat on the dirt, too weak to stand, while others huddled together, whispering to one another, trying to process what had just happened.
The wounded were tended to with what little supplies the guards had. Some leaned against makeshift bandages wrapped around their limbs, groaning in pain, while others lay on the ground, barely clinging to life as medics worked to save them.
Not far from the gathered prisoners, a different group sat bound in chains—the surviving bandits. Their wrists and ankles shackled, their faces a mixture of defiance and despair. Some glared at the guards, others simply hung their heads, silent. Ironic, really. Just hours ago, they had been the ones holding the chains, locking their captives away without a second thought. Now, the roles were reversed.
One of the prisoners let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head at the sight. "Poetic, ain't it?" he muttered under his breath.
A guard standing nearby scoffed. "Justice," he corrected.
The morning sun shone down on all of them, prisoners and captors alike, as the weight of everything that had happened began to settle in.
...
A middle-aged man walked through the remnants of the camp, his heavy boots crunching against the dirt and bloodstained ground. His white armor, once pristine, was now tarnished with dust and the remnants of battle. His expression was grim, his gaze sweeping over the battlefield where his fallen comrades lay. The cost of this victory had been far too high.
He let out a slow sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. They had saved the prisoners, yes, but at what price? Good men were dead—friends, brothers-in-arms who had trusted him to lead them into battle and bring them back alive. And yet, despite the weight of loss pressing down on his shoulders, there was at least one thing that made it feel worthwhile.
His eyes drifted toward the prisoners—toward the people who, just yesterday, had no hope of ever seeing the light of day again. He could see the relief in their faces, the silent gratitude in their eyes. Some wept, clutching each other tightly, unable to believe they were truly free.
And then, his thoughts turned to the boy from yesterday.
A tired smile, barely there, tugged at the corner of his lips. He had doubted him at first. Any other guard would have dismissed the boy outright, sending him away without a second thought. After all, how many times had desperate children tried to weave tales for coin or sympathy? But something about the boy's eyes—his sheer desperation, his unshakable resolve—made it impossible to turn him away.
So he had stayed up all night, arguing, convincing, pushing the mayor to send a small force to investigate the nearby forest. It had been a risk, a gamble.
And it turned out the boy had been telling the truth.
As he scanned the area, his gaze settled on one of his men. The guard stood near the gathered prisoners, his hand gently holding that of a small green-haired girl. She looked lost—her nose bloodied, her face streaked with dirt and tears. Her small frame trembled, her fingers tightening desperately around the guard's hand as if afraid that letting go would mean losing everything.
She was crying. Not the soft, uncertain weeping of a frightened child, but deep, heart-wrenching sobs of grief—of loss.
The middle-aged man felt a sharp tug at his heart.
This—this was what he had wanted to prevent.
But war, battle… it was never clean. No matter how much they tried to shield the innocent, death always found a way. It didn't discriminate. It didn't care.
He exhaled, rubbing his temple.
They had saved many today. But not all.
The captain took a deep breath, steeling himself, then walked toward the gathered prisoners. They turned to him, their faces weary yet hopeful. He raised his voice so all could hear.
"It was because of a young boy that we came here today."
Murmurs spread through the crowd, but it wasn't surprise—it was confirmation. The prisoners had already pieced it together. The boy who had escaped yesterday, the one who vanished into the woods, he had to be the reason.
Soft smiles, nods of understanding, relief. They owed their lives to a child.
"Is he alright?" someone finally asked.
The captain nodded. "He's in the city of Jarustam, being taken care of as we speak."
A wave of tension eased from the prisoners. Knowing that their savior had made it, that he was safe, brought them comfort.
The captain continued, "Once we reach the city, you will all be taken care of as well."
One of the older prisoners, a man with a weary but knowing gaze, nodded. "I've heard good things about the mayor there. Not like the usual nobles who only care about themselves. This one… he's different. Kind to everyone, no matter their status."
The guards standing nearby straightened at those words, their chests swelling with pride. One of them smirked. "You're right about that. Most nobles aren't worth much, but Mayor Rannold? He's the kind of man who reminds you why we wear this armor."
There were nods of agreement.
The captain allowed himself the smallest of smiles. In a world where power often crushed the weak, it was good to know that some still believed in those who tried to do right.
The captain clapped his hands together sharply, his voice booming over the murmurs of the freed prisoners.
"Load up the carriages! Get the wounded stable and make sure no one is left behind!"
The guards snapped to attention, moving swiftly to escort the prisoners onto the transport they had brought. Some helped the injured climb aboard, while others kept a wary eye on the bound bandits, who sat slumped in chains, their faces dark with dread.
Once the last of the prisoners were secured, the captain turned on his heel and strode toward the captured bandits. His expression was stone-cold as he looked them over. Some avoided his gaze, others glared defiantly, but all knew the weight of what was coming.
"You will be investigated," the captain announced, his voice carrying the weight of finality. "If you comply—if you drop hints about your suppliers, your allies, your operations—we may show some leniency in your sentencing."
A few of the bandits twitched at that word—leniency.
Because everyone knew what that meant in the Kingdom of Al-Bark.
Bandits were not treated kindly by the legal system. No one would shed a tear for them, no one would argue for mercy. The punishment for banditry was brutal—execution by hanging, their bodies left on trees along the roads as a warning to others. The alternative was just as grim: dismemberment. Losing opposite limbs—a right hand and a left leg—marked them as criminals forever, ensuring they could never raise a blade again.
And that was what "leniency" meant. Losing two limbs instead of their lives.
A heavy silence hung over them. Some bandits stared at the ground, their jaws clenched. Others swallowed hard, their previous bravado shattered.
The captain exhaled slowly, eyeing them one last time before turning away. "Make your choice wisely," he muttered, walking back toward his men as the guards began preparing for departure.
...
Elena didn't sit in the carriages with the others. Instead, she remained standing beside the guard who still held her small hand. His grip was firm but not harsh, his gloved fingers wrapped gently around hers. It was strange—she didn't know him, and he didn't know her, but the warmth of his touch was the only thing anchoring her to this moment.
Her tears had dried up. She had cried enough, screamed enough. But Varian was gone, and no amount of grief would bring him back.
So she held on.
Even if it was fleeting, even if she knew the guard would stop caring for her once they reached Jarustam, for now, she let herself believe in his promise.
It was all she had left.
It was all that Varian had left for her.
...
The captain raised his voice, his tone firm and resolute. "It's time to move!"
With that command, the guards began organizing the march back to the city. A handful stayed behind to salvage anything useful from the ruined camp—supplies, weapons, even the carriages that could still be of use. Others busied themselves with burying the dead, both comrades and enemies alike.
The procession of prisoners and guards slowly made its way through the dense forest, the towering trees stretching endlessly toward the horizon. The sounds of nature, once overshadowed by battle, crept back into the world—the rustling of leaves, the distant cries of birds, the soft crunch of hooves and boots against the earth.
Elena sat in silence, watching as the camp grew smaller in the distance. She saw the figures of the guards moving among the dead, burying them one by one. But she didn't see Varian.
Would they bury him properly? Would they at least show him respect?
She would never know.
With a quiet breath, she turned her gaze forward. The horizon stretched endlessly before her, and somewhere beyond those trees lay the city of Jarustam.
What awaited her there?
She didn't know that either.
But for now, she held onto the only thing she had left—Varian's final words, and the promise of the guard beside her.
—End of Chapter.