The morning sun shimmered on the dew-soaked grass as Yldrahollow's villagers gathered at the plaza, whispering in disbelief at the transformation that had occurred overnight. Eliakim stood before them—not as the quiet, inquisitive boy they once knew, but as someone stronger, steadier, and cloaked in an aura of quiet command. Beside him floated Skyling, now in her evolved form, radiating a protective brilliance.
The caravan—once the pride of the merchant who had sought to enslave them—now stood repurposed, organized, and divided into its contents. Eliakim had spent the morning cataloging everything: bolts of fine silk, bags of rare spices, crates of preserved food, magical trinkets, enchanted weaponry, and coinage of various foreign realms.
He stood on a crate to address the crowd.
"These belong to the people of Yldrahollow now," he declared. "No more hiding. No more fearing men who wear smiles and carry poison."
The villagers stood in stunned silence for a heartbeat, then a thunderous cheer erupted. Children danced around the crates. Elders nodded with approval. Skilled workers began to gather what suited their trades—fabrics to tailors, tools to blacksmiths, herbs and oils to the apothecaries. Hope rekindled.
After organizing the goods, Eliakim personally directed that each item be given to those with relevant skills. The blacksmith received enchanted tools; the weavers and tailors were provided with silks and thread. Apothecaries received herbs, and bakers were handed dried goods and spices. Even the village school received a chest of parchment and ink.
But as Eliakim and Skyling sorted the last of the merchant's crates, they found a small ironbound box hidden beneath a false floor in the largest wagon.
It pulsed.
Skyling hissed low, feathers bristling.
Eliakim opened it cautiously.
Inside, curled and bound in ropes and enchanted manacles, was a boy roughly Eliakim's age—his mouth gagged, his eyes sunken but burning with untamed fire. As the morning light touched his face, he squinted, blinking back tears.
Without hesitation, Eliakim reached for the treasure on his bracelet—specifically the Collar of Veyrun, represented by the talon-shaped end of the thumb chain. The chain shimmered and slithered forward like a serpent, coiling around the enchanted manacles. As it pulsed with warmth, the bindings cracked and hissed with a sizzle before shattering completely.
The ropes fell to dust.
Eliakim removed the gag.
The boy gasped for air, coughing violently, then looked up at his rescuer. "You... you're him," he rasped.
"Who are you?" Eliakim asked calmly.
"My name is Gideon Ravenscar," the boy said, his voice weak but laced with iron. "I was taken… sold. My village, Derroth Bay, was razed by pirates and slavers. My father fought until his dying breath. My mother hid me beneath floorboards before she was dragged away. They found me days later. I was shackled and sold to the merchant."
He winced at the memory. "He bought me cheap. Said I wasn't worth the food I'd eat. But he worked me like a mule. Loading. Cleaning. Starving. Beatings for mistakes, and sometimes for fun."
Eliakim's eyes narrowed.
He paused, eyes locking with Eliakim's. "I saw you in a dream once. Not your face, exactly—but your presence. There was this golden light, and a boy whose hands were bound by shining chains, standing between me and a great darkness. I think I was waiting for you, even then."
Eliakim hesitated, then nodded slowly.
"I'm with you," Gideon said without pause. "I owe you my life. I will follow where you go."
"You don't need to serve me."
"I don't need to," Gideon said, standing shakily, "but I choose to."
Eliakim looked into his eyes—full of truth, loyalty, and a strange sense of shared destiny.
He gestured for the boy to sit and gave him a waterskin. As Gideon drank, Eliakim sat beside him.
"You've seen too much," Eliakim said.
"I survived," Gideon replied. "And now I see clearly. Whatever force let you find me… I believe in it."
Eliakim was quiet for a moment. Then: "I don't know where this path leads."
"I don't care," Gideon said simply. "So long as we walk it together."
Skyling fluttered approvingly, then gently nudged Gideon with her wing.
As they made their way back through the square, the villagers parted for them like water.
Behind them, the merchant—still bound to a post in the plaza, stripped of his wealth and dignity—sobbed quietly, watching as every item he once owned now served the people he tried to enslave. His eyes met Eliakim's one last time, and in them, he saw no mercy.
Only justice.