When I regained consciousness, the world was a blur of spinning shadows. Silas hadn't been gentle, but he hadn't abandoned me either. He had dragged me to the top of a ridge overlooking a hidden valley. As my vision cleared, I witnessed a sight that defied human belief.
Below us, our village elders—our own blood—were negotiating with the men in blue uniforms. They weren't selling livestock or gold; they were trading their own people into slavery. The stench of this betrayal was fouler than any house fire. Among the line of shackled souls, my eyes locked onto a figure at the very back.
"Silas..." I whispered, my voice trembling. "Riya... Riya is down there!"
Silas flinched at the sound of her name. For the first time, I saw a spark of pure terror and unbridled rage in his cold eyes. Riya was Silas's only light in this blackened world, his final thread of hope. Unlike the others, she wasn't part of the main chain; her iron lead was held loosely by the village elder himself. Silas saw it instantly. A plan formed in his mind in a heartbeat.
Without a second thought, ignoring his own ten-second rule, Silas charged down the slope with a guttural roar. Boom! One of the traders fell instantly. Silas stormed into the circle of armed soldiers like Death itself. His goal wasn't survival; it was her.
He reached Riya, and though he couldn't break her chains, he tore the lead from the elder's grasp. Since we were on the ridge, Riya was closer to my position. With a desperate heave, Silas shoved her toward me.
"Run, John! Take her and go!" he bellowed one last time.
In that split second, a dozen muskets from the Blue Coats leveled at him. A storm of lead tore through his body. He didn't fall immediately; he sank to his knees, leaning on his empty rifle, staring back at me. His eyes seemed to ask one final question: "Am I the fool now?" Silas had traded his life for Riya's freedom, staying behind under a hail of bullets.
I caught Riya just in time. We tumbled down the backside of the ridge, rocks and thorns tearing at our skin, but we didn't stop. We rolled into the ravine below, scrambled to our feet, and bolted into the thick forest. Behind us, only the echoes of gunfire and the dying embers of Silas's foolish hope remained. That December of 1852 left me alone. I am not Silas. But as I held Riya's hand, I realized I, too, had chosen the path of a fool.