The sound reached Misaki's ears before his eyes could confirm its source—the gentle rushing of moving water, different from wind through leaves or distant wildlife. Water. Flowing water.
"Riyeak," he said quietly, stopping mid-step. "Do you hear that?"
The massive shield-bearer tilted his head, his expression shifting from exhaustion to hope. "River. Maybe a hundred meters ahead, sounds like slow current based on the pitch."
They moved forward carefully, Misaki still carrying infant Kyn against his chest, Riyeak cradling Sera in his arms. Through the dense Tra'tze'the forest, glimpses of reflected sunlight appeared between tree trunks—water catching Ulth'rk's rays and throwing them back in dancing patterns.
Then they saw it.
A river perhaps forty feet wide, flowing north-to-south with the lazy current of a waterway carved through gentle terrain rather than steep mountain grades. The water was clear enough to see stones on the bottom, cold and clean from mountain runoff somewhere far upstream. Trees lined both banks, their roots creating natural seating areas and shallow pools perfect for bathing.
"Thank the celestial bodies," Riyeak breathed.
Misaki turned and called back to the column behind them. "WATER! River ahead! Pass the word!"
The effect on the refugees was immediate and profound. People who'd been shuffling forward with dead eyes suddenly found energy. Mothers carrying children quickened their pace. The elderly straightened slightly, sensing relief within reach. The word spread backward through the column like wildfire—water, river, rest—and suddenly eight hundred desperate people were converging on the riverbank with something approaching joy.
Within minutes, the organized column dissolved into controlled chaos. People stripped off travel-soiled clothes without shame or hesitation. Families waded into the shallows together. Children who'd been too exhausted to speak suddenly found energy to splash and play. The river became a lifeline—not just physical refreshment, but psychological salvation.
Misaki set Kyn down carefully on a soft patch of moss near the bank, the infant immediately quieting as cool air touched his overheated skin. He turned to help organize the bathing rotation—ensuring the upstream section remained clean for drinking, designating downstream areas for washing clothes and bodies.
Sera stood at the water's edge, looking small and lost despite being surrounded by hundreds of people. She held Kyn's discarded swaddling cloth in her hands, staring at it like she didn't quite remember what it was for.
Then, very quietly, she started to cry.
Not the loud wailing of a child throwing a tantrum. Not the sharp sobs of immediate pain. This was something deeper—the slow, broken weeping of someone whose emotional reserves had finally run completely dry. Tears streamed down her face silently as her small shoulders shook.
She was seven years old. Seven. And she'd been carrying her infant brother for days through terrain that challenged grown men. Had watched her village burn. Had walked until her feet bled. Had tried to be strong, tried to be brave, tried to be the adult Kyn needed.
And now, standing by this river with the sound of other families laughing and playing around her, the weight of it all crashed down.
"I don't know what to do," she whispered to no one, to everyone, to the river itself. "I'm just... I'm just seven. I'm little. I don't know how to take care of a baby. I don't know how to keep him safe. I don't—"
Her voice broke completely. She sank to her knees on the riverbank, still clutching the swaddling cloth, her face crumpling as silent tears became choked sobs.
Lyria appeared as if summoned by the sound of breaking hearts. The healer knelt beside Sera, not speaking immediately, just being present. Then, with infinite gentleness, she reached out and gathered the small girl into her arms.
"You don't have to know," Lyria said softly. "You're not supposed to know. You're seven years old, Sera. Seven. You should be playing games and learning letters and worrying about nothing more serious than what's for dinner."
"But Kyn—"
"Kyn is safe. Because of you. You carried him when no one else could. You protected him when everything fell apart. You did the impossible." Lyria stroked Sera's hair with practiced tenderness. "But now you can rest. Let the adults carry the weight for a while."
She picked up Kyn from where Misaki had set him down, then gently took Sera's hand. "Come on. Let's get you both properly bathed. The water's perfect—not too cold, not too warm. And afterward, I'll find you some clean clothes that actually fit instead of those adult-sized rags you've been swimming in."
Sera looked up at Lyria with eyes that held too much trauma for a child's face. "You promise? You promise I don't have to... to carry everything alone?"
"I promise. You have eight hundred people around you now. We carry together. That's what family does." Lyria smiled, and the expression carried such warmth that even through her tears, Sera managed a tiny, fragile smile back.
They waded into the shallows together, Lyria supporting Sera while gently washing Kyn with her free hand. Around them, other families bathed and laughed and found brief moments of normalcy in the middle of their nightmare exodus.
Upstream, away from the bathing areas, Misaki gathered the fighters who'd survived M'lod's defense. Twenty men stood in a loose circle—Riyeak, Deylos, Vellin, Torran, Shy'yao, and fifteen others who'd proven capable under fire.
"The pursuit columns are behind us," Misaki said without preamble. "Maybe a day back, maybe less. We need to decide now—do we keep running, or do we stand and fight?"
"Running has kept us alive so far," one fighter observed cautiously. "Why change tactics?"
"Because running only works if you're faster than your pursuers. We're not. We have elderly, children, wounded. They have professional soldiers moving at optimal pace." Misaki gestured to the forest around them. "But look at this terrain. Dense trees. Limited sight lines. A river that masks sound. This is ambush country."
Deylos studied the landscape with his veteran's eye. "You're suggesting we use the environment against them."
"Exactly. We can't win a straight fight. Can't match them in open terrain or coordinated assault. But here?" Misaki's expression hardened. "Here we control the variables. We know they're coming. We choose the killing ground. We strike first and vanish before they can organize counterattack."
Riyeak crossed his massive arms. "We'd be splitting our forces. Leaving the civilians vulnerable while fighters engage the pursuit."
"The civilians are vulnerable anyway," Torran countered. "At least this way, we thin the pursuit's numbers. Make them cautious. Buy more time for the main group to reach Kel'shara."
Shy'yao had remained silent through the discussion, his ancient eyes moving from speaker to speaker. Finally, he spoke: "How many fighters would you commit to the ambush, Misaki?"
"Twenty. Everyone here. We leave the civilians with Lyria and the other support personnel. They continue north while we delay the soldiers."
"That's suicide," someone protested. "Twenty against two hundred?"
"Not if we're smart." Misaki pulled out his rough map. "The river creates a natural funnel point here, maybe three kilometers downstream. Trees close in on both banks. Pursuit will have to narrow their formation to pass through. That's where we hit them."
Vellin nodded slowly, seeing the tactical picture. "Traps in the funnel. Archers on elevated positions. Earth users to collapse the banks if needed. Hit and fade before they recover."
"And the river noise covers our retreat," Deylos added, warming to the concept. "They won't hear us moving through the forest afterward."
The circle of fighters looked at each other, silent communication passing between men who'd already bled together. One by one, they nodded.
"We fight," Shy'yao said finally, his voice carrying the weight of command. "Not because we want to. Not because it's glorious. But because every soldier we stop here is one less chasing our families toward the border."
Misaki felt the responsibility of the decision settle across his shoulders like a physical weight. Twenty men against two hundred. Impossible odds by any conventional calculation.
But conventional warfare had already failed. Time for something unconventional.
"Rest now," he said quietly. "Eat. Drink. Say your goodbyes to the civilians. Because in three hours, we march downstream."
He looked toward where Sera sat with Lyria and Kyn in the shallows, the little girl finally smiling as cool water washed away days of accumulated fear and exhaustion.
This is why we fight, he thought. So children can be children. So families can laugh. So the powerless have someone standing between them and annihilation.
The river flowed onward, indifferent to human struggles, ancient and eternal. But for these twenty men preparing to face impossible odds, it represented something more—a line drawn in water and blood, a statement that some people were worth dying to protect.
Even if you barely knew them. Even if you'd only been on this planet for six months. Even if every logical calculation said you should run instead of fight.
Sometimes logic was irrelevant. Sometimes you fought because the alternative was becoming someone you couldn't live with.
And Misaki Haruto, former astronaut-engineer from a world called Earth, had already decided what kind of person he would be.