Levi cut through the smoke and flame like a blade himself—feet hammering sand, chest burning, the scream of his mother still echoing in his ears.
He didn't feel the heat licking at his clothes.
Didn't feel the stitch tearing into his ribs.
All he could see was her—Saina—bound and shaking, face streaked with ash and blood, falling forward as Rafiq's body slumped lifeless into the dust. She didn't scream again. She didn't have to. Her silence was worse. It was hollow, like something inside her had broken too far to reach.
Levi surged forward.
A raider blocked his path, swinging wide with a serrated blade.
Levi ducked, parried, twisted—then drove his dagger up under the man's ribs. The sound the man made was small, surprised, and then nothing at all. Levi ripped the blade free and kept running.
To the left, Kaan slammed into another mercenary, blade clumsy but fast, his face twisted in pain. He knocked the man backward into a tent post, drove his knee into the raider's chest, then pivoted—barely holding himself upright.
He shouted again: "Levi—go!"
Levi did.
He threw himself through the last ring of fire-lit chaos and dropped to his knees beside Saina.
She didn't react.
She was still holding Rafiq's body—his blood running in streams across her forearms, pooling in the dirt beneath her.
"Mom," Levi breathed, grabbing at the ropes around her wrists, sawing through them with trembling hands. "Mom, we have to go. We have to move."
She blinked once.
Didn't see him.
Only Rafiq.
Levi's throat closed. "Please, Mom."
He didn't know what scared him more—the fire, or the way she didn't respond.
Not even when the ropes fell away.
Not even when he grabbed her shoulders.
From behind, another mercenary was shouting orders, herding the surviving captives toward the north end of the ring. Levi turned just in time to see the black-leathered captain step forward again, blade still slick, gaze settling on him.
"Didn't expect to see someone your age swinging steel."
His gaze flicked to Kaan, who was barely on his feet now, bleeding from the ribs and panting.
"Two of you," the captain said, voice dropping lower. "And not marked."
He tilted his head.
"But you fought like dogs. Like trained ones."
He didn't raise his blade.
He didn't have to.
Behind him, another man approached—a mage this time, older, robes torn, one hand stained red to the elbow. His voice was colder than the captain's.
"They're raw," he said. "But there's power in them. Untapped."
The captain grunted. "Slavers'll pay extra for boys like that."
"No," the mage replied, eyes narrowing. "We use them. Break them. Teach them to kill for us instead."
Kaan stumbled forward, blood on his lips. "Over my dead body."
The mage smiled faintly. "That was already part of the plan."
Levi turned back to his mother.
She was staring at Rafiq again, lips moving—prayers, or pleas, or maybe just air. Her hands wouldn't let go of him. Her shoulders trembled, but not from fear.
From grief.
"Mom." Levi's voice cracked. He shook her. "We're gonna distract them. You need to go. Run. You and the baby—go!"
At that, her eyes flickered. Just for a second.
"Please," Levi begged, voice breaking. "Please, I can't lose you."
Her gaze finally lifted. It landed on him, clear and wet and filled with something older than pain.
"I already lost him," she whispered. "I can't lose you too."
Then—
Another shout rang out.
Behind them, more figures closed in.
They were out of time.
The world reeled—tilted on its axis, spinning with smoke and fire and the thunder of footsteps.
Levi hit the ground hard. The breath was punched out of his lungs. For a moment, there was only dust and the dull roar of blood in his ears. He coughed, tasting grit and copper, chest burning as he forced air back into his lungs. His ribs shrieked in protest with every movement, but he pushed himself up with one shaking arm, the other pressed to his side where pain bloomed hot and deep.
Across the chaos, Kaan was down. Slumped on one knee, his hand slick with blood where it clutched his ribs. His blade was gone—lost in the fray or knocked loose when the whip found him. He looked like he could barely stay upright, yet his eyes were still locked on Levi. Still burning.
And behind him, two mercenaries were closing in—slow, steady, blades low and eyes sharp. Ready to finish what they'd started.
No. No. Not like this.
Levi's gaze snapped left, searching desperately for anything—anything—he could use. The wrecked supply tent loomed ahead, half-devoured by flame. The beams were cracked and groaning, fabric hissing as it peeled away in the heat. Just beyond it, half-shielded by broken carts and spilled crates, was a gap—narrow, jagged, but real. A way out. A chance.
He didn't stop to think.
He ran.
A shout came from behind. A blade cut through the smoke, slashing toward him. He ducked, felt it graze his shoulder, tore through the pain. He hit the ground in a roll, came up beneath the sagging frame of the collapsed tent. The heat was unbearable, flames licking just inches from his back.
His fingers found the edge of a scorched post—half-burned, splintered, but still holding.
Good enough.
With a ragged breath, he braced his legs, gripped the wood with both hands—and shoved.
The beam groaned like an animal in pain. Then it gave.
Canvas came crashing down in a storm of ash and smoke, collapsing into a wall of fire—but it dragged part of the frame with it, toppling a stack of crates and snapping open a ragged hole through the side of the wreckage. It tore clean through the barriers, revealing the dark dunes behind the camp—vast, wind-scoured, empty.
Freedom.
A path.
Smoke bled into the air. Visibility dropped. And Levi didn't waste a second.
He turned, chest heaving, lungs burning. "KAAN! MOM! The carts—go! Now!"
Kaan blinked through the ash, confused, blood still dripping down his side. He staggered forward, saw the opening—and froze.
Saina wasn't moving.
She was still kneeling in the dust, hunched over Rafiq's body, her hands limp where they had once tried to hold him together. Her lips moved in a rhythm too soft to hear. A prayer. A plea. Or nothing at all.
Levi ran back—half-limping, half-falling—and grabbed Kaan's wrist. "Get up! Get her out!"
"I can't—" Kaan's voice cracked, hoarse from smoke and pain.
"Yes, you can!" Levi snapped, louder now, desperate. "You have to!"
Behind them, the mercenaries regrouped. One of them pointed toward the blaze, shouting for reinforcements. The mage—the one with blood on his hands and a cold, unreadable gaze—watched from behind the chaos, unmoving, eyes fixed on Levi like he was a riddle yet to be solved.
"You're gonna get yourself killed," Kaan muttered—but he stood. Gritted his teeth. Took a breath like it was poison. "You always do this."
"Yeah," Levi breathed, shoving him forward. "And I always survive it."
Kaan stumbled toward Saina, dropped to his knees beside her. "Saina," he said softly. "We have to go. Levi's giving us a shot. You have to move now."
She didn't look up.
Didn't even flinch.
So Kaan reached out, his voice breaking as he pressed a hand to her belly—the faintest curve of new life beneath bloodstained fabric. "If you won't do it for him," he whispered, "then do it for the baby."
Something shifted.
She flinched. Just barely.
Then her breath hitched, and the tears finally came.
She looked up—past Kaan, through the smoke—toward Levi. And for the first time, she saw him.
Not just her son.
But a boy standing between her and death.
Broken. Bleeding. Refusing to run.
Her lips trembled. She nodded—small, fragile.
But enough.
Levi saw it. Saw the recognition in her eyes and the grief that hadn't quite swallowed her yet. He gave her the smallest smile he could manage. It cracked his mouth open like glass. But it was real.
And then he turned.
The mercenaries were moving now—three of them. Two flanking. One wide. Calculated. They were done playing.
The mage still hadn't moved.
Levi's blade lifted, shaking in his hand. His knees ached. His lungs felt like they'd been turned to fire.
But he stood.
Behind him, Kaan's breath hitched as he pulled Saina to her feet. She swayed. Stumbled. But she followed.
They moved toward the carts. Toward the breach in the wall.
The smoke swallowed them.
Levi stepped forward.
"I'm right here," he said, voice cracked and defiant. "Come try me."
And they did.
Because whatever he was—
Whatever magic he didn't understand, whatever boy he used to be—
In that moment, Levi was a wall of blood and grit and love.
And nothing, not even fear, was getting past him.
One of the mercenaries lunged first—straight on, blade low, meant to gut him.
Levi pivoted, just enough. Steel kissed his side, slicing cloth and grazing flesh. He didn't feel it yet—not really. His world was too narrow, too loud, too full of smoke and screaming and the memory of his mother's silence.
He drove his blade forward in a blind thrust and felt it connect. The man gasped, staggered—then fell. One down.
But the other two were already closing.
The one to his left was bigger—older, maybe. His sword came in hard, and Levi barely parried. The shock of the impact rattled up his arm and jarred his teeth. He stumbled, caught himself—dodged right. The second mercenary came from behind. A feint, then a strike.
Levi spun low, sand kicking up around him. He slashed wide—more to make space than hit. They backed up, cautious now. He was small. Fast. Bleeding. But dangerous.
And Levi knew it too.
He could feel it in the way they circled, the way their blades danced slower, waiting for a mistake.
He couldn't give them one.
Behind him, the fire cracked louder. Smoke swallowed everything. The carts, the breach, the line between life and death—it all blurred.
But Levi didn't turn.
He didn't look back.
He held the line.
He struck again—this time toward the big one's knee. The man dodged, came back with a wide sweep, and Levi ducked, rolled, came up behind him and drove his blade into the back of his calf.
A howl split the night.
The third moved then, slamming a shoulder into Levi's ribs. He hit the sand hard, skidding—blade torn from his hand.
He reached for it, scrambling, fingers scraping grit.
A foot kicked him in the gut.
He choked on a cry and rolled.
The blade was inches away.
Too far.
The mercenary stepped forward, sword raised. "Stupid little bastard," he snarled, face twisted with rage. "Should've run when you had the chance."
But Levi didn't look at him.
His eyes were fixed beyond the man—through the smoke.
And there, in the shadows of the broken carts, he saw them.
Saina.
Kaan.
Gone.
The breach had worked.
The smoke had swallowed them, and the sand had kept their secret.
He'd done it.
He smiled through the blood in his mouth.
The mercenary didn't understand.
Didn't see the victory already carved into Levi's grin.
He brought the sword down—
And Levi's hand shot up, not for the blade—but for the sand.
He flung it hard, straight into the man's face.
The mercenary shouted, stumbling back, blinded.
Levi lunged.
Fingers closed around the hilt of the man's dagger snatching it.
He twisted up, ignored the agony in his ribs, and buried the blade in the man's side.
They fell together—hard—grunting, rolling. Levi didn't let go. Didn't loosen his grip. He drove it again. And again. And again and again. Not stopping until his own shirt was drenched it blood that wasn't his.
Until the fire around them dimmed behind the smoke.
Until all Levi could hear was his own heartbeat.
Then—
Silence.
He crawled off the body, coughing, collapsing to his knees.
His hands were slick. His chest felt like it was caving in. His vision swam.
But he'd done it.
He'd done it.
The smoke hid them. The breach held. Kaan and Saina were gone, swallowed by the dunes and ash. Levi had bought them time.
Alone.
He collapsed beside the body, chest heaving, arms trembling, blood slick across his hands and face. He tried to lift himself again, but his muscles screamed—useless, deadweight. His blade was still clutched in one hand, but he couldn't feel his fingers anymore.
Still… he smiled.
He'd won something.
Then—
Bootsteps.
Measured. Sharp.
Levi's head lifted with effort, sweat stinging his eyes.
The mage.
He stepped out of the swirling smoke like he'd been carved from it—robed in crimson-black, his hand still stained to the elbow with dried blood. Calm. Unharmed. Watching Levi like he was more artifact than boy.
"You're barely standing," the mage murmured, voice cold as shade. "And still you smile."
Levi didn't answer. He couldn't. His body refused. His throat was raw from smoke and screaming. His vision pulsed at the edges, black creeping in.
Another voice followed—harsher, angry.
The mercenary captain.
He limped from the eastern flank, flanked by two more raiders, his face twisted in fury. One arm hung limp, a wound on his shoulder hastily wrapped. He looked down at the three bodies Levi had left in the sand and spat.
"Three men," he snarled. "Three trained men."
He turned to the mage. "He's just a desert brat."
"He's more than that," the mage said softly. "You just don't see it."
"I see a little monster that cost me blood," the captain snapped. "And I want him chained."
Levi tried to rise again.
His knee buckled.
He fell.
The mage stepped forward, slow and deliberate, crouching in front of him like one might crouch beside a wounded wolf. "You're done fighting," he said gently. "A boy can only carry the world for so long."
Levi glared up at him, defiant even now. "Go to hell."
The mage's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. "We're already there, Levi."
He said his name like it was his own to use.
Levi lunged.
Or tried to.
But his limbs betrayed him. His strength had burned out in the fight—spent in flame and blood and hope. His hand dropped from the dagger hilt. His arms gave way.
He collapsed to the sand, coughing. Gasping.
The mercenary captain stepped forward and slammed a boot into Levi's back.
Levi arched with a ragged cry.
"String him up," the captain barked to his men. "I want him alive, but he walks in chains."
Two raiders moved forward, grabbing Levi's arms, wrenching them behind his back with no gentleness. Rope dug into burned skin. He tried to fight, but his body sagged uselessly.
"Don't kill him," the mage said calmly. "He's worth more whole."
The captain looked down at Levi again—eyes hard. "You should've run when you had the chance."
Levi said nothing.
He just stared at the fire, at the trail he'd opened through the wreckage, and held onto that image—Kaan's arm around Saina, her eyes finally focused, her feet moving toward the dunes.
They were gone.
They were free.
Even if he wasn't.
Even if he never would be again.
He let his head drop forward as the ropes cinched tight and the mercenaries dragged him through the ash.
He didn't scream.
Not once.
But the fire behind his eyes—
It never went out.
They dragged him through the ruins of his home like a trophy.
The rope bit into his wrists, raw and coarse, tearing through blood-slicked skin. His knees dragged through the ash, catching on rubble and splinters. He didn't lift his head. Didn't speak. The fire behind his eyes had gone quiet, but it still burned—smoldering like coals in the dark.
The camp was nearly gone.
Bodies lay strewn where fires still crackled, limbs twisted in the dust. Women and children were herded like animals—coughing, crying, bleeding—into makeshift lines along the southern ridge. Survivors forced to their knees, bound and beaten, their homes turned to smoke behind them. The old were already dead. The young? Taken. Those who screamed were silenced. Those who fought were slaughtered.
Levi saw none of it clearly.
Only flashes.
A boy's shoe, still laced.
The silver hair of the healer who raised Kaan, now dark with blood.
A burned charm—sesi, maybe—half-crushed near the fire pit.
His head hung lower.
They stopped at the center of camp—what used to be the story ring, where children once sat under starlight and listened to tales of gods and sand spirits.
Now it was an execution ground.
The mercenary captain stood beside him, arm still limp, face tight with restrained rage. Blood clung to his armor like rust.
"Three of my men," he said again, louder this time. "Dead. Because of this."
Levi didn't respond.
The captain's lip curled. "What are you?"
Levi just breathed.
"Answer me!"
A sharp crack followed—his cheek exploded with pain as a gauntleted fist collided with it. His head whipped sideways, vision flaring white.
Still, he didn't speak.
"Enough," said the mage.
He hadn't raised his voice, but the effect was instant. The mercenaries stepped back. Even the captain, jaw tight, obeyed.
The mage moved closer.
He studied Levi the way one might study a bloodstained artifact in the ruins of a dead temple—curious, careful, disturbingly calm.
"You feel it, don't you?" he murmured. "Even now. The heat. The hum. Like something beneath your skin wants out."
Levi's breath hitched.
The mage's eyes narrowed, as if confirming a theory.
"You don't even know what you are yet."
"I'm nothing," Levi rasped.
The mage leaned closer. "No. You're not."
He lifted his hand—and for a breathless moment, Levi felt it. The air around him shifted. Bent. A pull, like the mark on his arm had stirred again, faint and low, pulsing in time with something far deeper than blood.
"Whatever lives in you," the mage whispered, "it's old. And angry. I could burn this camp to cinders and it still wouldn't match the fire buried in your veins."
Levi's eyes locked with his. "Then burn with me."
The mage smiled.
A small, eerie smile.
"Oh, I plan to use that fire. Burn or bend—it doesn't matter. It will serve."
The mercenary captain stepped forward, impatient. "So what do we do with him?"
The mage straightened.
"Take him to the cages. Not with the others. Chain him separately. If he dies, we lose something valuable. If he lives—" his voice dropped—"he might be the investment that buys us a future."
The captain nodded, though his scowl didn't fade.
As Levi was hauled to his feet—his legs barely cooperating—he heard the mage's last words, spoken only to the firelight and smoke:
"Boys like you don't stay human forever."
Then everything blurred.
His ribs throbbed. His knees gave. The world spun.
But through it all, Levi clung to one thought like a lifeline.
They got away.
Kaan. His mother. The baby.
They got away.
Let them take him. Let them chain him. Let them try to break him.
He'd already given everything he had to give.
And somehow… he wasn't empty yet.
They passed rows of prisoners—women slumped in dust, children held by trembling hands. None of them spoke. None of them looked at him.
But one boy did.
Just before Levi was dragged beyond the outer tents, a boy—no older than seven—met his gaze. Face streaked with tears. Hands bound. Not crying anymore. Just watching.
Levi held the boy's eyes.
Just long enough to nod.
Then he was gone.
The cages sat behind the ruins, tucked into the base of a broken stone wall. Three of them, lashed with old chain and rusted nails. The smallest was empty. They shoved Levi inside like he weighed nothing.
The door slammed.
Chains locked.
He collapsed against the wood.
Everything ached. His ribs, his arms, his throat. But he stayed upright—barely.
Outside the bars, the mage didn't leave.
He simply turned to one of the nearby mercenaries.
"Bring water," he said.
Then added, with a smile that chilled:
"No food yet. Let him feel the hunger first."
Then he turned back to Levi, voice like a thread of silk through flame.
"We'll find them, you know. Eventually. The woman. The boy. If they live."
"They will," Levi croaked.
The mage tilted his head, studying him like a riddle unraveling.
"Hope," he said softly, "is such a fragile thing."
He took a step back.
"But if it keeps you alive long enough to be useful…"
He let the sentence hang, unfinished, as he walked into the dark.