For three days, the children wandered.
No roads. No map. Just the sun, the stars, and a trail of hope stretching toward the capital to the south.
Alaric led them with stubborn resolve, though his feet bled and every breath burned.
They slept under trees, drank from shallow streams, and scavenged for berries and roots. Mira cried often,
asking for her parents. The others took turns carrying her.
"Do you think the duchess will help us?" Lina asked one night, her voice faint.
"She has to," Alaric replied, though he didn't sound sure.
"What if she doesn't?" Torren muttered.
"Then I'll find someone who will," Alaric said. "We didn't survive Hearthvale to give up now."
Through the Wilds
Each day brought a new trial.
Teli twisted her ankle on the second day. Johan grew feverish on the third. Alaric pushed himself harder,
gathering wood, climbing trees to scout for smoke or roads.
Once, they heard wolves howling in the distance.
Another time, they crossed paths with a broken spirit stone—a crystal pulsing faintly with elemental energy.
It spooked the younger ones, so Alaric led them away.
Despite the hardship, there were small moments of comfort: Mira fell asleep holding Alaric's hand; Lina
shared a lullaby her mother used to sing; and Torren, for all his gruffness, carried Mira half a day without
complaint.
"We're going to make it," Alaric said quietly one evening as they huddled under a pine tree.
"You keep saying that," Torren mumbled, but there was no anger in his tone.
"I say it until it's true," Alaric replied.
The Black Talon Trap
It happened on the fourth morning.
The children had found a dirt path—a sign of civilization. They were following it when they heard hoofbeats.
Alaric stepped forward, eyes lighting up. "Someone's coming!"
But it wasn't a traveler.
A covered wagon emerged from the trees, flanked by three riders in dark armor. Their cloaks bore a black
talon insignia.
"Hello there, little lambs," one man said, smiling too wide. "What's a flock like you doing out here?"
Alaric's instincts screamed. "Run!"
But the children were too slow. Bolas whirled through the air, ropes coiled like snakes. Within seconds, the
six other children were bound, sobbing.
"Don't touch them!" Alaric shouted, stepping forward with his broken wooden sword.
The slaver captain dismounted. His eyes were cruel, lips curled in mock amusement. He was a towering
man with jagged scars across his chin and a braided beard adorned with silver rings.
"Well now," he drawled. "Feisty one. Haven't had a good swing since Hollowmere. Name's Karn Vetch. Try to
remember it before you die."
Alaric charged.
Karn caught the wooden blade mid-swing and snapped it in half.
Then the beating began.
Defiance
Blow after blow struck Alaric's ribs, his back, his legs. He fell, rose, fell again.
"I won't let you take them!" he cried, blood running from his nose.
"Should we bag him too?" one slaver asked.
Karn spat. "Nah. Kid's got too much fire. Fire burns value. Let him bleed. He'll be dead by morning."
They loaded the others into the wagon. Mira screamed for her brother, reaching out with tiny fingers.
"Alaric! Alaric!!"
He tried to crawl.
One last kick to the head knocked him onto the dirt.
As darkness overtook him, something stirred.
A faint red flicker pulsed in his chest, unseen by all but one slaver.
"Hey, boss," the man muttered, uneasy. "Did you see that?"
Karn glanced once, then snorted. "Just nerves. Let's move. We've got coin to earn."
A Flicker in the Dark
Alaric's body lay broken, but within the void of his mind, images swirled—
His mother's voice singing by the oven.
His father's hand guiding his grip on a sword.
Mira laughing as fireflies danced above the river.
And then—a throne of shadow. A flame suspended in a sphere of glass. His reflection staring back at him
with glowing eyes.
You are not gone, the flame whispered. You are beginning.
He gasped awake—then fell again into unconsciousness.
The Rescue
"Here!" a soldier's voice called, shattering the haze.
Northern Knight patrol. Two riders dismounted swiftly, one kneeling by Alaric's side.
"He's alive," she said. "Barely."
"Name?"
Alaric groaned. "Mira… They took… Mira…"
"Get him on the horse," the knight ordered. "We ride for the duchess."
A Faint Flame
As they galloped away, Alaric's vision blurred—but in his heart, something flared.
Not just pain.
Not just loss.
But fury. Resolve.
They had taken everything.
And he would get it back.
No matter what.