The tunnels groan as he carries me onward, the weight of the earth pressing close around us. Every step he takes sends a dull tremor through his arms, but he never loosens his grip.
The stench thickens: wet stone, iron, rot. The reek of goblins and fresher corpses closer to the entrance.
I bury my face against his chest again.
He glances down at me, voice soft and amused,
"...Hiding again?"
Heat floods my cheeks.
"I-I'm sorry… it's just… the smell…"
"I know."
He adjusts his hold, lifting me slightly higher.
"Just breathe into me. Ignore everything else."
I try. Gods, I try.
His heartbeat taps steadily beneath my ear: strong, calm, impossibly steady for someone who fought through a nest of goblins alone. My breath trembles; his doesn't. Even hurt, even half-drained of magic, he moves like the darkness itself makes room for him.
The last stretch widens.
A faint amber glow flickers at the tunnel's mouth.
He lowers his voice.
"We're almost out."
He turns a corner, and the tunnel spills out into the open night. A ruined goblin war-camp lit by a dying fire and scattered bones. Abandoned now, because he killed them all.
He steps over a broken spear and kneels beside the fire, setting me gently on a bed of old furs. The warmth licks at my face, chasing the chill from my fingers.
I try to sit up. My arms wobble uselessly beneath me. He places a hand on my shoulder and pushes me back down.
"Don't move."
His tone is firm, but not unkind.
"You'll just fall flat again."
He stands, lifts two fingers to his lips, and whistles—sharp, clean, commanding.
For a moment, the ruined camp stays still. Only the crackle of the dying fire stirs the cold air.
Then a shadow cuts across the sky.
Wings sweep down with a whisper, and a sleek falcon lands on a toppled spear shaft beside the fire. Bronze and gold feathers shimmer in the open night, catching the glow like fragments of the sun.
My breath catches.
I've never seen anything like it. Not in the cage. Not even before that. My world had been so small, so dim—and this creature feels like something stolen from a story.
"A… bird?" I murmur, awe spilling out before I can stop it.
He gives a soft, amused snort. "A falcon. His name is Gale."
The falcon turns his head, sharp eyes studying me with a strange, assessing intelligence. I sit utterly still, unable to tear my gaze away.
His voice shifts, firm again.
"Gale. Eyes up. Make sure no stragglers try to surprise us."
Gale answers with a sharp cry and lifts off, wings beating once before he soars into the night. He circles above the torn tents and scattered bones, becoming a watchful star against the darkness.
I follow his silhouette until it blends with the night sky—then a heavier sound reaches us.
A deep thud. Then another.
Hoofsteps.
Not hurried. Not threatening. Confident.
From between the burnt wooden stakes that once formed a barricade, a towering black stallion trots into the war-camp. His coat gleams like liquid shadow under the moonlight, every movement power and grace.
The stallion comes straight to him, lowering his head with a soft rumble of breath.
"There you are," he murmurs, rubbing the powerful neck.
"Good boy, Bramble."
The massive creature presses closer, almost affectionately. I can't look away—he's enormous, beautiful, and utterly terrifying all at once.
The man steps back and pulls open his satchel.
Leather rustles in the cold breeze.
He draws out a waterskin, then a small loaf of rough bread.
Simple. Plain.
But in this dead, broken war-camp, with bodies strewn and firelight low…
It looks like a treasure.
He kneels in front of me and uncaps the waterskin.
The scent of clean water hits me and something inside me nearly breaks.
"Here," he says, holding it out.
I grab it with shaking hands and drink.
Not sip.
Not taste.
I drink—greedy, desperate, swallowing like I've forgotten how to breathe.
The water is cold, almost painfully so as it slides down my dry throat. I cough, choke, then keep drinking anyway. I can't stop. I haven't felt this alive in days—
"Woah, woah."
His hand closes around the waterskin, steady but gentle.
"Slow down unless you want to choke yourself straight back to death."
I drag in a sharp gasp as the last tremor runs through me.
He waits, watching me with those sharp, unreadable eyes.
There's annoyance there… but also something softer hidden beneath it.
Once I've caught my breath, he brings the skin back to my lips.
"Small sips this time," he says. "Don't make me perform mouth-to-mouth in a goblin dump."
My face goes hot instantly, and he smirks like he knows exactly what he just did.
I drink slower. He lets me finish.
When I finally pull away, panting, he lifts a brow.
"See? Still alive."
There's a teasing warmth in his voice.
"I'd say that's progress."
Before I can shrink from embarrassment, he reaches into the satchel again and holds out the bread.
My hand trembles toward it—
And he pulls it back.
I blink.
He gives an exaggerated sigh, crosses one leg over the other, and leans back as if we're negotiating in a tavern instead of sitting in a battlefield of corpses.
"Well," he says, tone suddenly lazy and mischievous, "I hope you've got a fat purse. At least a silver coin or two. I don't feed strangers for free."
My heart sinks.
I shrink back instinctively.
"I… I don't have anything," I whisper.
"I… I'm sorry."
He stares at me for a long moment, eyes half-lidded, almost bored.
Then he clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes dramatically.
"Haaa… figures."
He stands, brushing dirt off his gloves with exaggerated flair.
"Alright, alright. Take it."
He hands the bread back down to me.
"I'll take my reward from your family after I deliver you to them."
My throat tightens.
"I… I don't even know if my family is still alive," I admit softly.
He pauses.
For a second, the playful air around him stills.
Then he shrugs, voice light again—almost cheerful.
"Well, we won't know until we check, will we?"
He nods at the food.
"Right now, you need to eat. Otherwise, you'll never be able to pay me back."
Something warm flickers faintly in my chest.
I nod and begin to eat—small bites at first, then faster, unable to help myself.
He smirks at the sight.
"Good. At least you're listening."
While I eat, he rises and dusts his coat off, stretches lazily, like this entire place is beneath his concern.
"Now," he drawls, glancing around the ruined camp,
"let's see what our lil green friends were hoarding here."
He wanders toward the nearest overturned tent, nudging a corpse aside with the toe of his boot. I freeze mid-bite as he kneels, pushes aside bits of broken pottery, and pulls out a small leather pouch.
He opens it, peeks inside.
Silver coins clink.
He grins.
"Oh? Don't mind if I do."
My eyes widen.
"A-Are you… looting them?"
He looks back at me like I just asked whether water was wet.
"Yep."
He tosses the pouch into his satchel without hesitation.
"Waste not, loot not — that's the rule."
"But… but I thought you were a paladin," I murmur, voice tiny.
"Or a warrior-priest. Or… something holy."
He snorts so hard he almost chokes on his own laugh.
"Sorry to disappoint ya, princess. I'm none of those."
"I—I'm not a princess," I whisper immediately, flustered.
"My name is Alira."
He pauses, then taps his chest lightly with a thumb.
"And I'm Kael Vire. Folks around these parts like to call me Spellblade Vire."
My heart nearly stops.
I stare at him, bread forgotten in my hands.
"Spellblade?" I breathe. "And… you know healing magic? How…?"
Kael glances over with a crooked grin, like he's been waiting for that reaction.
"Well, look at you — you actually know a bit about magic, huh?"
I nod, fingers tightening nervously around the frayed edge of my cloak.
"Y-Yes. I was taught that Spellblades can only wield destructive magic… and that holy magic is different. It's a blessing — either you're born with it, or you need unwavering faith to earn it."
Kael laughs — low, amused, shaking his head like her words are a private joke.
"Yeah, that's the story the royals and priests love to sell."
He flips a goblin crate open with his boot.
"Keeps things nice and tidy. Makes people think power's something you're given…"
He reaches inside, pulls out a glittering dagger, spins it between his fingers with casual elegance.
"…not something you take."
He pockets the dagger, shrugs, and keeps looting without missing a beat.
I watch as he rummages through another crate, humming to himself like a man casually browsing a market.
I swallow my last bite of bread, gathering courage.
"There must be… something you did," I say quietly.
"To use both holy magic and destruction… there must be something more to it."
Kael pauses mid-search.
Then he flicks something toward me.
I yelp and catch it with both hands.
It's… hideous. A twisted little charm of bone and string, mismatched beads, and something that might be dried goblin spit.
I stare at it in horror.
"W-What… is this…?"
Kael doesn't even look up.
"Protection charm."
"Does it… work?" I ask,
"Not even a little."
I blink.
He smirks.
"But believing you're safer helps. So keep it."
I stare at the ugly charm, unsure if I should thank him or throw it into the fire.
Kael dusts off his hands and strolls toward me, stopping just close enough that his shadow falls over mine.
"Alright," he says, folding his arms.
"Enough about me. Your turn. Tell me about yourself, Alira of…?"
I swallow, fingers tightening around the ugly charm he gave me.
"Alira of… Fallowbrook," I whisper.
"It's a small village near the river bend. Not important. I'm just… a simple village girl."
Kael lifts a brow.
"Fallowbrook, huh? Bit far from goblin territory."
I look down.
"Yes… I know."
He nods slowly, filing the information away.
Then he gestures loosely with his chin.
"Alright. Keep going. What happened?"
I draw a shaky breath and tell him—quietly, haltingly—about the night of the raid.
How the torches lit the sky.
How the screaming woke me.
How the goblins tore through doors and windows like rabid dogs.
How they grabbed me before I could even scream for help.
His expression shifts—just a little.
When I finish, he exhales, gaze sweeping over the silent corpses around us.
"If you were taken that night, you're part of the first wave."
He kicks a broken shield aside.
"Odds are, your village fought back after that. Might've even wiped these little bastards out. Wouldn't be the first time a militia pulled through."
My voice trembles.
"If… if they survived, why didn't anyone come for us?"
He looks at me—not with smugness or teasing, but something steadier. Softer.
"They probably didn't know where you were taken."
His voice is calm, quiet.
"The first wave hits confusion the hardest. By the time anyone realized who was missing, these things were long gone."
He scans the path leading out of the camp.
"I'm pretty damn sure they're looking for you people."
My chest tightens with a tiny spark of hope.
"I… I hope so."
Kael dusts his gloves off, head tilting in a lazy shrug.
"Hope's a good start. But we'll find out soon enough."
A shadow glides overhead.
Gale swoops down, wings slicing the air, and lands neatly on Kael's shoulder.
Kael tilts his head back to glance at the falcon.
"Looks like our babysitter's back. Time to move."
He turns to me, smirk tugging at his lips again.
"Think those legs of yours can stand yet?"
I nod quickly—too quickly.
I push myself to my feet, take one step—
My legs buckle.
Kael pinches the bridge of his nose.
"Figures."
Before I can protest, he slides an arm under my knees and scoops me up like I weigh nothing.
I gasp, cheeks burning.
"I-I can—I'll try again—I swear—"
"Relax."
He grins, adjusting his hold effortlessly.
"You'll walk when you can walk. For now, just try not to faint on me, alright?"
He lifts me onto Bramble's saddle, settles me in place, and swings up behind me.
He adjusts my cloak so it won't snag in the wind—careful, precise.
"Alright, Gale," he calls, tapping Bramble's flank.
"Lead the way."
Gale shoots upward with a sharp cry.
Before we move, Kael glances back at the ruined camp—
the bodies, the blood, the stench, the scattered bones.
He murmurs,
"Time to move. But first…"
A small orb of flame coils softly into existence above his palm, glowing like a captured star. He flicks it behind him—casual, effortless, as if brushing dust from his shoulder.
It arcs through the night air, lands in the center of the war-camp—
—and erupts.
Flames burst outward in a rush of orange and gold, racing over torn tents and broken bodies, burning away the last traces of what she endured. Heat rolls over them, gentle at her back, pushing away the cold that had lived beneath her skin for days.
Alira watches the blaze spread, devouring the remnants of her nightmares one by one.
The firelight softens her face, warming the places that had been frozen by fear.
The world, for the first time since she was dragged from her home, feels open again—
like she can breathe.
Something inside her loosens.
Something she thought the darkness had stolen forever.
Her voice is small when it comes, fragile but true, breaking softly around the edges:
"…Thank you."