The midday sun bathed the forest in warm light, but for the prisoners locked in their wooden cages, it had never felt so bright.
A boy had escaped.
Elena's hands tightened around the splintered bars as she stared at the empty spot where he had been. The rope that once bound his wrists dangled uselessly, swaying with the breeze. The door to his cage stood ajar, proof that it wasn't a dream. He was gone.
He had done it.
He had done the impossible.
A breathless laugh escaped her lips, quiet but real. She barely noticed the murmurs rippling through the other prisoners. Some whispered in awe, others in fear. There were jealous glances, bitter mutterings, and quiet curses, but Elena felt none of it.
She turned to the old man beside her. His usually tired eyes were wide with something unfamiliar—wonder.
"He made it," he murmured, shaking his head. "That boy… he really made it."
Elena nodded, a slow grin spreading across her face. The tightness in her chest loosened, just a little.
The bandits had chased after him, yes, but that didn't matter right now. He was out there, running free, tearing through the undergrowth with nothing but desperation and hope. Maybe he would be caught. Maybe he wouldn't. But at this moment, he was free, and that alone was enough.
For the first time in a long while, Elena felt something light, something dangerously close to joy.
Elena's gaze lingered on the trees, on the gap in the dense foliage where the boy had disappeared. She imagined him running, imagined the frantic pounding of his feet against the earth, the wild thrum of his heartbeat in his ears. He was probably terrified. But he was free.
Her fingers curled around the wooden bars, holding onto that thought, onto that feeling.
But the world did not let her keep it.
Slowly, her eyes drifted downward, toward the cage he had escaped from. The broken rope, the open door. The others still trapped inside, their faces twisted with emotions she wished she didn't understand.
Jealousy. Resentment. Fear.
Reality came creeping back, wrapping around her like cold iron chains.
The old man beside her exhaled, a slow, tired breath. When she turned to him, his lips were pressed into a thin line, his brief moment of warmth already fading. He had felt it too, hadn't he? That fleeting sense of joy, so rare in this place.
And like always, it had been stolen away.
Elena hated this.
These moments—these tiny, fragile moments of hope that never lasted. A second of relief, only for the world to crush it underfoot. It wasn't fair.
Why did it keep happening?
Then—
A scream.
Fury, raw and violent, cut through the air like a whip.
Elena flinched, her breath catching. The warmth drained from her face as a chilling weight settled in her stomach.
The burly bandit.
He stormed through the camp, his heavy boots crushing the earth beneath him, his presence suffocating. His gaze locked onto the now-empty cage, his face twisting into something monstrous.
The moment shattered.
Elena shrank back instinctively, pressing herself against the rough wood of her prison.
"You!" The bandit's voice was a snarl, thick with rage. He grabbed the nearest prisoner, dragging him forward. "What happened?!"
The man trembled in his grasp, eyes darting wildly, searching for an escape that didn't exist. "I—I don't know—"
A fist crashed against the bars, rattling them with a force that sent shockwaves through the cage. Elena's shoulders tensed.
"Don't lie to me!" The bandit's voice thundered through the camp. He scanned the prisoners, his glare like a knife. "Who helped him?"
Silence.
Too thick. Too heavy.
Elena barely breathed. Her pulse pounded in her ears as the bandit's wild eyes swept over them—over her. She forced herself to stay still, to keep her expression blank.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. The burly bandit's gaze burned with barely restrained fury, sweeping over the prisoners, daring someone to speak. His fingers dug into the man's collar, his grip tightening. Elena barely breathed. The prisoner in his grasp trembled like a trapped animal, his face drained of color.
Then—
"You idiot!"
A voice cut through the tension, sharp and scornful.
Another bandit stormed into the scene, his expression twisted in anger. His presence snapped the moment apart, dragging the burly bandit's attention away from the prisoners.
"You were checking the cages, weren't you?" The newcomer sneered, jabbing a finger at him. "You looked in that brat's cage earlier, didn't you?! And yet he still managed to pull this off?"
The burly bandit turned to face him, his fury redirected, but the other man wasn't backing down.
"You screwed up, you big oaf," he spat. "You had one job, and now we've got a mess!"
The burly bandit bristled, his muscles tensing, his jaw tightening as if barely holding back the urge to lash out.
Elena's heart pounded.
The air shifted. The scene had changed, the pressure splitting as the bandits turned on each other.
Other bandits stepped in, trying to smooth things over before the situation exploded.
"Enough," one of them muttered. "We need to focus."
"No point fighting among ourselves," another said.
Bit by bit, the tension broke apart, the argument turning into muttered frustrations rather than outright conflict.
And just like that—
The prisoner in the burly bandit's grasp was forgotten.
His grip loosened, and the man dropped to his knees, gasping, clutching his chest. His face was pale, his breath coming in sharp, ragged gulps. He had nearly died. A second longer, a little more pressure, and his throat might have been crushed.
Elena exhaled, only now realizing she had been holding her breath.
There it was again.
Hope.
Small, fragile, uncertain—but there.
She shouldn't feel it. She knew better than to hold onto it. And yet, as she watched the bandits argue, as she saw the prisoner released without further questioning, she felt it anyway.
Beside her, the old man shifted, his voice a whisper meant only for her.
"They'll reinforce the cages now," he murmured, his tone heavy with inevitability. "No more escapes."
Elena swallowed, her throat dry.
The fleeting joy she had felt twisted into something bitter.
The old man exhaled softly, lowering his voice even further, so much so that Elena didn't hear his next words.
"But first… they'll need to make an example of someone."
The other prisoners felt it too.
Some shrank back, dreading what was to come. Others clenched their fists, simmering in silent rage. A few still held onto their jealousy, their resentment that it hadn't been them who escaped. And others—those who had dared to hope—felt it slip away once more.
The boy had done the impossible.
And now, the bandits would punish them for it.
...
The burly bandit's chest rose and fell with deep, heavy breaths, each one sharper than the last. His fingers twitched, curling into fists at his sides, thick veins bulging across his arms. His face was red with rage, but it wasn't just the boy's escape that fanned the flames inside him. No, it was the way he had been screamed at—insulted in front of the prisoners like some fool who couldn't do his job.
The humiliation burned hotter than the anger he felt toward the boy. That brat had slipped through his fingers, and worse, he had let it happen. He had checked that very cage. He had looked at it, stood there, and yet, somehow, the boy had fooled him.
His teeth ground together as his eyes swept over the prisoners. Silent. Watching. Some trembling, others barely daring to breathe. Their fear did nothing to soothe his fury. In fact, it only made it worse. How many of them were laughing inside? How many were secretly mocking him, even now?
His gaze sharpened, locking onto faces at random. Searching.
Someone had to pay.
...
The burly bandit did nothing.
Despite the fire raging in his eyes, despite the way his fists clenched and unclenched as though itching to strike someone—anyone—he made no move. Maybe he wanted to, but the others didn't let him. No one spoke a word of it, but it was clear. When the reinforcements began, when the bandits finally turned their attention to checking the cages, tightening ropes, and replacing weak planks, they kept him away from the boy's cage. A quiet rejection.
So he did the only thing he could—he left. With heavy steps and a face twisted in silent fury, he stalked away, back to the main camp where the fires burned low and the stolen goods lay in messy piles.
Elena let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
The next hour passed in a strange haze. The bandits were busy, but nothing was loud. There was no screaming, no fighting, just muttering, the occasional barked order, and the dull sounds of labor—wood shifting, metal clanking, rope tightening. It was an illusion of peace, a brittle silence stretched thin.
She sat, knees to her chest, staring at nothing.
The old man beside her, ever so patient, finally broke the quiet.
"You remind me of her," he murmured, almost to himself.
Elena turned her head, pulled from her thoughts. "Her?"
He gave her a small, tired smile. "My daughter."
Elena blinked. She had heard him say that before, but this time… there was something softer in his voice.
"She was bright," he continued, his gaze distant. "Loved sweets. Every time I came home, she'd ask if I brought her anything. And if I did, she'd smile like the sun." His fingers twitched slightly, as if remembering the feel of placing sweets into a small, eager hand.
Elena swallowed. She didn't know what to say. The way he spoke—it was like he could still see her, even now, like she wasn't just a memory, but something he could reach out and touch.
"What was her name?" she asked, cautiously.
"Lirien," he said, the name carrying a gentle weight.
Elena let the name settle in her mind. She tried to picture the girl he spoke of—someone bright, someone warm, someone who once filled his world with light. Someone who was gone.
The old man's voice pulled her back. "And yours?"
"Elena." She said it firmly, as if the name itself was a piece of her she refused to let go of. Then, after a short pause, she added, "My brother chose it."
The old man studied her for a moment. There was something in the way she said it—the slight lift of her chin, the way her fingers tightened against her arm. She was proud of it. Proud of him.
But then, a shift. Subtle, but there. Her shoulders sank just a little, her gaze lowered, the edges of her expression dulled. Whatever thought had passed through her mind had taken something with it.
The old man noticed. He didn't ask.
Instead, he exhaled softly, leaning back against the iron bars. "Varian," he said at last.
Elena blinked. For a moment, she had been lost in thought, her mind drifting to places she couldn't afford to visit. But then, as the silence stretched, she realized—he was telling her his name.
"Varian," she repeated, testing the sound. A small, genuine smile flickered across her lips. "I like it."
The old man—Varian—huffed softly, though there was no irritation in it.
Elena glanced at him again, taking in the long white beard that swayed slightly in the breeze. A jagged scar ran over his right eye, disappearing into the wrinkled skin of his face. His clothes were tattered, dirt clinging stubbornly to the fabric. That scarred eye… it was dull, unfocused. It couldn't see.
She tilted her head. "Where are you from?"
Varian gave her a sideways glance, and she added, "Your hair isn't green."
Then, before he could answer, she grinned—too quickly, too deliberately. "Or maybe it's because you're just too old."
Varian snorted, a sound caught somewhere between amusement and understanding. He saw it. The way she was trying, forcing herself to joke. It wasn't from the heart.
Elena realized it too and winced. "Ah—sorry, that was rude, wasn't it?"
Varian exhaled, shaking his head. "I've been called worse."
Elena smiled lightly at that, she hesitated for a moment before speaking again. "So... where are you from?"
The old man exhaled softly, his one good eye drifting toward the horizon. "Solfia," he answered.
For a brief moment, Elena's face lit up—not much, but enough to be noticeable. "Solfia?" she echoed, a hint of excitement in her voice. "That's where the Flower Sword is from! The kingdom's strongest!"
The old man's gaze flickered toward her, studying her reaction. She wasn't just interested—she admired this woman. There was genuine pride in her voice, as if speaking of a legend she had clung to for a long time.
The old man gave a slow nod. "The Flower Sword, huh… I suppose she's well known."
Elena's face scrunched up. "Suppose?" she echoed, clearly not liking his answer. "She's the best! The best swords-lady in the whole world! And—and she went to the Court of Saviors! That's the hardest knight school ever!" Her hands clenched into little fists as she spoke, as if trying to make him understand. "They don't let just anyone in! And she finished it! That means she's the strongest!"
The old man chuckled—a rough, quiet sound, but real.
Elena blinked. She hadn't expected that. It felt… different, hearing a laugh, even a small one. It made something in her chest feel lighter, like maybe—for just a second—things weren't so bad.
After a pause, she tilted her head. "What about you?" she asked. "What was your life like before all this?"
Varian didn't answer right away. His gaze drifted somewhere far off, past the cages, past the trees, past everything. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter.
"I was a guardsman," he said. "Worked in Solfia for a long time."
Elena's eyes widened. "Like the knights?"
He shook his head. "Not quite. Knights serve nobles. I protected towns, roads, people who couldn't afford a knight's help."
Elena blinked, then grinned. "And you won fights?"
Varian gave a slow nod. "Most of the time."
Elena gasped, eyes shining. "That's so cool!"
She kicked her legs a little, excitement bubbling up. "My brother was a guard too! In Al-Bark. His name's Lance."
Varian listened as she continued, her voice picking up speed.
"He sometimes met with nobles and stuff, but he never told me about those boring meetings. He only talked about the fun parts—like when he chased a thief through the market, or when he helped a lost merchant find his way back to the capital."
She was bright when she talked about him. Lively. Her small hands gestured as she spoke, as if painting her brother's adventures in the air.
A good man, Varian thought. A brother she was proud of. A brother who—
Her voice slowed.
Not all at once, but bit by bit.
Like the spark inside her was dimming.
She still smiled, but it wasn't as strong.
Her hands lowered, fingers curling into her lap.
"…He was the best," she murmured.
Varian didn't ask.
A silence settled between them. Not a comfortable one, but the kind that weighed on the chest, thick with unspoken thoughts. Elena fidgeted with her fingers, her eyes flickering to the ground, then up at the sky peeking through the branches. Varian stroked his beard absentmindedly, staring ahead, yet not really looking at anything.
Neither of them knew what to say next.
Then, a shout cut through the air.
"Listen up!"
The voice came from above, near the wooden platforms that connected the massive trees. A tall bandit, his stance rigid with authority, stood at the center. The other bandits nearby quieted as he took a step forward, his boots thudding against the worn planks.
His voice was calm, but there was a sharpness to it, an edge that made the prisoners stiffen.
"There will be no more mistakes," he said. "No more foolishness. Any further escape attempts will be met with severe consequences."
His eyes swept over the prisoners, daring any of them to challenge him. No one did.
"As punishment for the last incident, there will be no lunch."
...
Silence lingered after the bandit's departure, thick and uneasy. The prisoners shifted, some slumping further against the bars, others staring blankly into the distance. A few muttered under their breath—curses, prayers, quiet words of comfort—but most conserved their energy, knowing the long hours ahead would only drain them further. Hunger gnawed at them all, turning even the smallest movement into an exhausting effort.
Elena pressed her back against the cage wall, arms wrapped around her knees. Her stomach twisted with emptiness, but worse than that was the humiliation. The bandits' laughter still rang in her ears, their sneers seared into her mind. She hated them. She hated this place. She hated how weak she felt.
Varian sat beside her, silent as ever. His one good eye watched the bridge where the bandit had stood moments ago, his expression unreadable. But there was something in the way his fingers tapped absently against his knee—thoughtful, measured.
Elena exhaled sharply through her nose. "I hate them," she muttered under her breath.
Varian didn't respond right away. When he finally spoke, his voice was low. "That's good."
She turned to him, frowning. "What?"
He glanced at her. "Hate keeps you sharp. Makes sure you don't forget what they are. But don't let it take over. Hate without reason leads to mistakes."
Elena didn't really understand. She wanted to say that she had every reason to hate them, that she would never forget what they were. But there was something in his voice—something tired—that made her hesitate.
Varian shifted, adjusting his seat against the bars. His fingers stilled. "They want you broken. Don't give them that satisfaction."
She swallowed, her throat dry. The hunger, the exhaustion, the humiliation—she couldn't ignore any of it. But she could endure it. She had to.
The old man's gaze drifted toward the bridges, where the bandits still moved, reinforcing the cages, tightening the ropes. His jaw tensed slightly, just for a moment, before he leaned back again, closing his eyes as if settling in for a long wait.
Elena wasn't sure what he was thinking, but somehow, for the first time since she'd been thrown in this cage, she didn't feel completely alone.
—End of Chapter.