Inside the barracks, the atmosphere shifted instantly. The villagers erupted into a chaotic murmur. Seeing Talulah unleash her intense flames led them to one immediate conclusion: she was Infected.
For a moment, hope flickered. A few stepped forward, ready to follow her, but a voice from the back of the crowd cut through the air like a knife:
"Don't trust them! So what if she's Infected? This is probably just another sick game thought up by that animal! Remember, we ended up here because we trusted an Infected person in the first place!"
The words acted like a bucket of ice water. The villagers who had been willing to move hesitated and retreated. Their suspicion was deep-rooted; they had been lured into this hell by the "Patrols" using an Infected collaborator as bait. To them, compassion was now a trap.
Talulah took a deep breath, slowly exhaling to steady her nerves. She didn't feel the typical resentment of someone whose good intentions were being spat upon. She knew these people had been "bitten by the snake" too many times. But time was their greatest enemy; she didn't know how much longer Jeanne could hold the gate.
"Everyone, please be quiet and listen!" Talulah shouted, commanding their attention. "I know nothing I say will make you believe us right now. But we learned of your suffering directly from the mouths of those Patrols. We came here specifically to get you out! This isn't a conspiracy!"
A few hearts wavered. Her voice carried a raw sincerity that was hard to fake.
"My friend is outside right now, fighting the guards," Talulah continued. "I will lead you out while she covers our retreat. Whether you think this is a plot or not, you are trapped here regardless. Give us your trust one last time. I will lead you to freedom."
The room fell silent as they weighed her words. Ironically, they weren't afraid of dying; they were afraid of being made fools once more—of being tricked, humiliated, and then tossed back into the dark like trash.
An old man, perhaps seventy years old—a rare age for someone on the harsh tundra—stepped forward, tears streaming down his face. "Child, your words are kind. But even if you take us out, where do we go? The Patrols are everywhere. Our villages are ash. We have no way to survive out there!"
As he spoke, the women and children around him began to sob. For months, they had suppressed their grief because crying brought only more torture from the guards. Now, the dam had broken.
"You see? We are broken, filled with nothing but despair," the old man whispered. "We aren't afraid to die; we're just afraid to believe. Go back and help your friend. Don't waste your life on us."
Talulah felt a massive headache coming on. Their group was too small—three girls taking on a mine did sound absurdly reckless or highly suspicious.
Suddenly, heavy footsteps echoed from the entrance. The villagers held their breath, terrified.
In the golden glow of the setting sun, a figure appeared at the doorway.
She wore gleaming silver armor over violet cloth, her sunset-gold hair catching the light. In her left hand, she held a white banner embroidered with a golden lily (Fleur-de-lis). In her right hand, she dragged a bloated, unconscious "bear" of a man who had been beaten beyond recognition.
"Everyone," Jeanne's clear, melodic voice rang out. "I believe this man can testify for us. He is proof that we have no connection to this mine—we are simply travelers who heard of your plight and decided to lend a hand."
Jeanne tossed the "bear" onto the floor in front of the villagers. They crowded around, gasping as they recognized him. It was the mine owner—the very man who had presided over their torment.
Cheers erupted, followed by a flood of cathartic tears. People embraced each other, finally letting go of months of suppressed terror. A few brave souls stepped forward to kick the unconscious merchant. They knew now this wasn't an act; even the most sadistic man wouldn't allow himself to be beaten to a pulp just to play a prank.
After they had vented some of their rage, Jeanne stepped in to stop them. "Wait. He cannot die yet."
"Benefactor, please! Give him to us!" a villager begged. "We need our revenge!"
"I'm sorry, but I cannot give him to you yet," Jeanne replied firmly. "But trust me: he will receive the punishment he deserves. However..." Jeanne glanced at the bruised merchant. "You can collect some 'interest' for now. As long as you leave him breathing and don't cripple him, you can do as you wish. Now, follow me outside!"
Jeanne dragged the owner to the plaza and tied him to a wooden stake.
The villagers looked around the plaza and saw 100 stakes. They knew this place well; the guards used to tie them here for "whipping competitions" to see whose worker would die last. Now, all but six stakes were occupied—by the surviving guards and thugs.
"Keep them breathing," Jeanne reminded them. That was all the permission they needed. The victims surged toward their tormentors to let them taste the pain they had inflicted.
As the chaos unfolded, Alina pulled Jeanne aside. "Jeanne... this public execution style... isn't it too extreme? I'm worried this will leave them with nothing but hatred."
"Alina, they've been suppressed for too long," Jeanne said, her eyes fixed on the firelight. "If they don't vent this rage, it will rot their souls. You can't reason with this kind of trauma. They need to reclaim their dignity, and this is the first step."
Talulah watched the villagers swarm the owner, then turned to Jeanne. "Then why save the final six stakes? Why not let the villagers finish them all?"