"Rory, are you sure we should do this?" a voice whispered, thin with fear.
Rory's jaw tightened, his face sharp and pale in the moonlight. He didn't look like a boy anymore—he looked like a storm. "It's been days now, and they still haven't found the bandits," he hissed. His voice, though quiet, carried the weight of command. "And the training is useless." He flicked a glance toward the clearing where wooden dummies and discarded slingshots rested in the dirt. His lip curled. "We're wasting time while our parents are out there."
The others—five children, older than him but still young enough to cling to their fear—hesitated. Their shadows wavered like smoke in the starlight.
"Besides," Rory added, softer now, as if reasoning with them, "we're just borrowing some of them. We'll bring them back afterward."
The words were enough. The six of them moved together, creeping toward the weaponry tent. The canvas loomed before them, dark against the glittering stars. The air smelled of leather and oiled steel. Every sound—the crunch of grass, the whisper of fabric—seemed louder than it should have been.
The tent flap gave way under Rory's hand. The inside was a treasure trove: racks of swords glimmered faintly in the lantern glow, spearheads stood like silent sentinels, and shields leaned in orderly stacks. The space smelled of iron and sweat, a place meant for soldiers, not children.
"Wow," breathed Alex, a lanky boy whose awe was written plain on his face. His eyes reflected the shine of the blades.
Beside him, Elara determined girl with her dark hair bound tight—reached for a longsword. Her small hands strained, her face reddening with effort. The blade shifted an inch, then dropped back into place with a thunderous clang that made them all flinch.
"Too heavy," she muttered, frustrated.
"Don't grab the big ones," Rory whispered harshly, his voice cutting through the air. "We'll never carry them. Look for something smaller."
He scanned the racks with sharp eyes, moving past the weapons meant for grown men. Then he found them: a stack of shortswords, plain but deadly, their hilts wrapped in rough leather. They were recruits' blades—lighter, meant for training soldiers into killers.
Rory's breath caught. He stepped closer, fingers trembling as they closed around one of the hilts. The metal sang a faint note as he lifted it. It was heavy, but not impossible. Real steel, cool and solid, far different from the chipped scrap he had clung to before.
This wasn't a toy. It wasn't a slingshot. It was a sword.
He turned, holding it up for the others. "Take these."
One by one, the children obeyed. Their hands were clumsy, their arms shaking, but the glint in their eyes grew sharper with every blade they clutched. They looked at one another with a new, terrified reverence.
"Rory…" Alex whispered, his voice quivering. "This feels… wrong."
"Wrong is letting them sit there while our parents suffer," Rory snapped, his face lit by a terrible fire. "We're not children anymore. If no one else will fight for them, we will."
The words hit like steel. The others shifted uneasily but didn't drop their weapons.
They slipped back into the night, their steps heavier now under the weight of the blades. The forest loomed in the distance, black and endless. Rory gripped the hilt of his shortsword tighter, his knuckles white. He turned to the circle of pale faces around him, their eyes reflecting the moonlight. They were frightened, every one of them. But they were also looking at him, waiting for his command.
"We're going to rescue our parents ourselves," he said, his voice low but steady, like an oath. "No more waiting. No more useless training."
The children stared at him—fear and admiration wrestling in their young faces. Their swords seemed to drag their arms down, yet none of them let go. In that moment, they were no longer just survivors. They were soldiers in their own eyes, a desperate army born of grief and anger.
Near the medical tent, Selene sat quietly on a log, her hands moving with patient care as she sorted herbs into neat bundles. The night was calm, her basket fragrant with lavender and bitterroot. The stillness broke in an instant.
"Selene!" Livy's voice cracked as she came stumbling into the clearing. Enzo was at her side, gasping for breath.
Selene's head shot up, her calm eyes sharpening. "What is it?"
"Rory—he's gone!" Enzo blurted, his words tumbling in panic.
"And he took others with him!" Livy added, her small face pale and streaked with fear.
Selene rose swiftly, setting the basket aside. "Tell me everything," she urged, her tone calm but urgent.
"He said the training was useless," Livy whispered. "He said you were all cowards."
Enzo's hands shook as he clenched them into fists. "He took swords! From the weaponry tent! They're going into the forest to find the adults!"
Selene's blood ran cold. She wasted no time, striding toward the command tent with the children scrambling to keep up.
Inside, Lyra and Shawn bent over a desk littered with maps. Candlelight threw harsh shadows across their faces. Lyra's finger traced a narrow ravine through the forest.
"If the bandits split, they'd have taken this route," she muttered.
Shawn shook his head. "No. Too exposed. They'd stick close to the caves." His voice was taut with frustration, exhaustion lining his face.
Their quiet debate snapped like glass as Selene burst through the tent flap, Livy and Enzo stumbling in behind her. Their ragged breathing and tear-streaked faces froze the room in an instant.
"Selene?" Lyra demanded, sharp irritation edging her tone—but her eyes narrowed as they locked onto Selene's grave expression.
"It's Rory," Selene said breathlessly. "He took some of the children. They stole swords."
For a heartbeat, silence. Then Shawn's fist slammed onto the desk, rattling the maps. "Damn it! Again?" His voice was a snarl, fury sparking in his eyes. "First that bastard slipped a sword past my guard, and now a brat walks into our armory and takes steel?!"
"Shawn—" Lyra's voice cracked like a whip, silencing him.
Before he could argue, the tent flap flew open again. Ava, a young soldier, stumbled in, pale and breathless. "General! Lieutenant! Several weapons are missing from the armory!"
Shawn whirled on her, rage spilling unchecked. "Who was assigned there? Demote the idiot—strip their rank! I'll—"
"Shawn," Lyra said again, her voice sharp as a blade. Her tone cut through his fury, commanding silence.
She turned to the trembling children, her gaze fixing on Enzo. "Do you know where they went?"
Enzo swallowed hard, tears brimming. "The forest," he whispered. "They're going to look for the adults themselves."
Lyra's face hardened, her fury cold and controlled. This wasn't just childish rebellion—it was a disaster waiting to happen. She locked eyes with Shawn, and the silent command between them was clear.
"Sound the alarm," Lyra ordered, her voice low and dangerous. "Get the search party ready to move. We're going after them."
Shawn didn't hesitate. He stormed from the tent, barking orders that rang out like thunder. Outside, the camp erupted into chaos—horns blaring, soldiers racing to assemble.
Inside, Lyra remained perfectly still, her hands resting on the desk. But her jaw was tight, her eyes blazing with a fury she rarely let slip. Rory's defiance had gone beyond stubbornness. He had turned children into soldiers, and now the forest waited to swallow them whole.
Selene stood beside her, silent, the weight of dread pressing between them.
For the first time since she had taken command, Lyra felt the fragile line between control and chaos begin to fray.