The Deployment of the Reconnaissance Unit
The sky above Eirindale was cloaked in gray, heavy clouds, as the rhythmic clang of hammers on steel echoed from the blacksmiths' forges. Smoke curled into the air, mingling with tension thick enough to cut. Among the sounds of war preparation, Azfaran stood still, his face set in a grim yet resolute expression. The weight of revelation pressed upon him like an invisible yoke—truth had emerged, and it scorched like fire through silence: Iskhalin had abducted hundreds of villagers, forcing them into slavery in its vast salt mines.
The news had spread like wildfire. Fury rose across the highlands of Eirindale. Cries for justice echoed from valley to cliff, not with the hunger of vengeance, but the ache of betrayal.
Azfaran knew better than to answer fire with fire. He stood in the heart of the military square, temporarily transformed into a strategy hub. Before him knelt eight figures, clad in dark garb, fists over chests—the finest reconnaissance squad Eirindale had ever trained.
"This is not a mission of glory," Azfaran said, his voice low, controlled like a sword drawn with care. "We do not storm Iskhalin. Not yet. First—we learn. Where are the captives held? How many? How are they guarded?"
He paced before them slowly, studying their solemn faces—young, scarred, determined.
"You will infiltrate, observe, and return. Don't seek heroism. Seek truth. And when the time is right—bring them home."
Before dawn's first light could pierce the mist, the reconnaissance unit vanished into the wilds, silent as ghosts, threading their way through ancient woods toward the shadowed dominion Iskhalin had become.
**
The Captive's Eyes
Far to the east, deep in the damp, stinging belly of the earth, a young man named Javvir awoke to the lash of a whip cracking against stone. The salt mines reeked of sweat, rot, and despair. Breathing the air was like swallowing rusted iron.
Eighteen years old, Javvir had once been a farmer's son from the quiet village of Kaelrun on Iskhalin's edge. Six months ago, he had been torn from his sleep by the masked shadows of a new regime. Since then, the world he knew had vanished.
Each day, he and hundreds of others carved salt from frozen walls with bleeding hands. Their rations were a strip of hardened bread and a sip of briny water. No coin. No mercy. Those who fell from exhaustion were cast into the ravine behind the mine—nameless, forgotten.
Yet it wasn't the hunger that broke spirits—it was the soundscape of suffering. Children's sobs mingled with the moans of the elderly, while the cruel hiss of whips kept a cruel rhythm that haunted every breath.
During a ten-minute break, Javvir sat slumped against a damp wall. He stared upward, through a narrow slit in the ceiling, where a sliver of sky shone like a memory. And in his heart lived the faint image of the Iskhalin he once loved—ruled by King Saleem, just and wise. There had been no chains then, no hatred. Even the poorest among them had been treated with dignity.
Now, Iskhalin was but a husk, a shell burnt hollow by the fire of treachery.
"One day," Javvir whispered beneath his breath, "I will leave this place. And the world will know who we are—the forgotten no more."
**
A Small Fire in the Darkness
That night, the mine was quieter than usual. The salt-laden air hung heavy like a silent judge, watching over the bent backs and cracked hands of the forgotten. Javvir sat alone on a flat stone, fingers numb, breath shallow. Around him, shadows moved like ghosts—some wept softly, others lay still, neither dead nor truly alive.
"Boy," came a voice, ragged and deep, from the darkness behind him.
He turned. An old man, hunched and nearly skeletal, emerged from the gloom. His eyes glinted faintly, not with madness, but with the stubborn remnants of wisdom.
"You're the one who still looks up," the old man said, sitting slowly beside him.
"Up?"
"The sky," he nodded to the narrow shaft above, where a sliver of stars could sometimes be seen. "You look at it like it might still be there for you."
Javvir hesitated. "If I don't, I'll forget what it looked like."
The old man chuckled, a sound like gravel rolling over gravel. "Hope is a dangerous thing in a place like this."
"And yet… it keeps breathing," Javvir replied, surprising himself with the conviction in his voice.
The old man was silent for a moment, then reached into the folds of his tattered coat. He pulled out something small and round—a tiny wooden token, etched with what seemed to be a bird in flight.
"This was carved by my daughter," he said quietly. "Before they took her. She told me, 'No cage is strong enough to hold a sky.'"
Javvir looked at the token, then at the man. "What happened to her?"
"They sent her south. I don't know if she's alive."
Javvir lowered his head. "If we ever make it out… I'll help you find her."
The old man stared at him, eyes suddenly sharp. Then he nodded, and something unseen passed between them—an unspoken pact born of despair, but sealed by courage.
"What's your name?" Javvir asked softly.
"Used to be Rhamis," the old man said. "But in this place, names weigh too much."
Somewhere above, a snowflake drifted into the shaft of moonlight, vanishing into the black. But in the hearts of two prisoners below, a spark had ignited—small, trembling, but alive.
Far above, beyond stone and snow, the forest stirred with silent movement—the shadows had begun to move.
The Shadows Move
At the southern border of Iskhalin, the reconnaissance squad moved like wind threading through pine needles—quick, silent, invisible. They split into two smaller teams, navigating the dense spruce forests with caution honed by hardship.
Every step was a measured breath. Enemy patrols roamed regularly, their bloodhounds trained to sniff out human warmth. A single mistake would bleed the mission into disaster.
On the fourth night, calamity nearly struck. Nirrel, the youngest of the scouts, stumbled on a root, sending a metal clasp clattering down the slope. In an instant, two Iskhalin guards emerged, bows drawn and eyes sharp.
Elran, the team leader, moved without hesitation. With a silent hand signal, he nocked an arrow and fired—aiming not at men, but at light. The lantern between the guards shattered in a burst of darkness.
The forest swallowed them whole. Silence returned, thick and unbroken.
On the fifth day, they saw it. From a ridge, they beheld a vast tunnel at the foot of the hills. Watchtowers flanked it like cold sentinels. Barracks circled the base. Craters gaped like wounds into the underworld.
"A mine," Elran murmured. "We're close now."
**
A Forgotten Path
By the sixth night, snow began to fall, blanketing the forest in pale silence. As they moved through a thicket, one scout spotted remnants of an overgrown path—half-hidden under moss and root. Curiosity compelled him forward until it led to a narrow cave, crumbling with age. The scent of salt and unwashed bodies drifted faintly from within.
He summoned Elran and the others. Together, they ventured into the cave, guided only by instinct and silence. What they discovered made their blood run cold—a tunnel, half-forgotten, burrowed into the earth and opening directly into one of the mine's logistic chambers. No guards. No traps. Just the shadows of time.
Through narrow slits in the stone, they glimpsed the captives. Hollow-eyed. Bone-thin. Yet still human. A few whispered to one another. A few prayed. One even hummed a lullaby beneath his breath, as if defying the cruelty with memory.
"This is it," Elran whispered. "If we're to free them... this is the way."
They marked the path with symbols only their kin would know, then vanished once more into the woods, faster now. The storm behind them, the fire ahead.
When the report was placed in Azfaran's hands, he read every word in silence. No breath. No question. Only the weight of decision settling in his bones.
At last, he stood, eyes distant, voice steady.
"Prepare everything," he said. "We will free them. But not in rage—in honor."
That night, the forges of Eirindale roared once more. Sparks flew like stars flung by defiant gods. Soldiers trained harder, their hearts pounding with purpose.
And in the deep mines of Iskhalin, Javvir clutched a sliver of hope. He did not yet know that footsteps approached—that someone was coming for him. That the chains he bore were not the end of his story—but the beginning of a reckoning that would echo through kingdoms.