Rory moved like a shadow through the underbrush, every nerve in his body wired with purpose. The sword at his side was no longer just stolen steel from the armory — it was proof. Proof that he wasn't just a child. Proof that he could fight back, that he could do what the soldiers failed to do.
Behind him, five other children followed, their faces pale and uncertain in the moonlight. They had whispered doubts, asked him if this was really the right thing, but Rory's chest swelled with fire each time he remembered his mothers' faces. Mara, standing at the forge, hammer in hand, sparks bursting in the air like captured stars. Elira, leaning against the doorframe of their home, humming softly as she braided his hair, smelling faintly of lavender and smoke. They had been torn away, dragged into the dark. And every day the soldiers did nothing felt like a betrayal.
"They're out here," Rory whispered fiercely to the group, his voice quivering with passion. "My mothers. Your parents. We can't just wait."
The children nodded, some reluctant, some desperate to believe him. Together they crept deeper into the trees.
The night was thick with insects, the air heavy with the damp smell of moss and earth. Every rustle of leaves made them tighten their grips on the mismatched weapons in their hands — a couple of shortswords stolen from the racks, one rusted blade Rory had found days before, and several slingshots dangling uselessly at their sides.
For a heartbeat, it almost felt like adventure. Like they were the heroes of the stories their parents used to tell.
Then came the sound.
A guttural snarl — low, grinding, and cruel. The noise of something too large and too violent to belong in their fragile world. It rolled through the clearing like thunder crawling on its belly.
The children froze. Elara clutched Rory's sleeve, her voice barely a thread.
"Wh-what was that?"
From the thicket ahead, something stirred. Branches bent and snapped, thornbushes tore apart.
And then it stepped into the moonlight.
The creature towered above them, its broad shoulders draped in scraps of dented, bloody armor. A jagged tusk jutted from its snarling jaw. In its hand was a spiked club, stained dark with old blood. The stench of rot and iron filled the clearing, so foul it made the children gag.
But Rory's eyes were not on the club. They locked onto the sword strapped to the creature's belt.
Not an orc's weapon. A human blade.
The hilt was bound in worn leather, the grip almost too familiar. His stomach lurched as memory hit him: Mara's hand guiding his small fingers across the very same kind of leather, showing him how to oil the wrapping so it wouldn't crack. She had laughed when his hands slipped, her voice ringing like iron on anvil.
That sword had come from her forge. His mother's work, hanging from a monster's hip.
His fear twisted into something hotter, sharper.
"That's from our village!" Rory shouted, pointing his trembling blade. His voice cracked, but he didn't care. "He took it — they took everything from us! We can't just run forever. We can fight back. We have to! "
His cry was defiant, reckless, and full of desperate fire.
And then, before anyone could stop him, he charged.
The others followed — some out of loyalty, others out of sheer panic. A ragged war cry broke from their throats, but it sounded more like children screaming in the dark than warriors marching into battle.
Rory swung his borrowed sword with all his strength. The blade came down in a clumsy arc, heavy and slow. The orc barely moved — it lifted its club with a single, dismissive grunt and swatted the blade aside. The impact rattled Rory's arms so hard his teeth nearly cracked.
The other children rushed in, their shortswords jabbing at the monster's armor. Sparks flew uselessly as metal scraped against metal. The orc sneered, a cruel grin splitting its face. With a single sweep of its club, it smashed the blades from three of their hands. The weapons clattered into the dirt, leaving the children scrambling and shrieking.
"Slingshots!" Elara cried, fumbling for hers.
The children pulled them out with shaking hands. Pebbles flew, but without calm, without aim, without the discipline Lyra had drilled into them, they were wild shots — bouncing off bark, stones, and thick hide. The orc didn't even flinch.
It grunted, almost amused, then swept its massive arm sideways. Two children went flying, landing hard in the dirt. One screamed in pain.
Rory's courage faltered. His hands shook around the hilt of his sword. He had imagined victory — imagined standing tall with his mothers at his side again. But the reality was this: he was small, weak, and every choice he had made was dragging his friends closer to death.
"Run!" he screamed, his voice cracking into desperation. "Run now!"
They turned and bolted into the trees. But not fast enough
The orc's heavy boots thudded after them. It moved like a storm, tearing through branches and brush, faster than something that size had any right to be.
Then, with terrifying ease, it lunged and snatched one of the boys — Finn — by the back of his shirt. The child's scream ripped through the night.
"HELP!"
Rory skidded to a halt, breath ragged, heart pounding. He spun just in time to see Finn kicking and thrashing in the monster's grip, his small arms flailing helplessly. Its hand wrapping around Finn like a hawk catching prey.
"He's got Finn!" Alex cried, his eyes wide with horror as he froze beside Rory.
Rory's stomach twisted. The world tilted. It was his fault. His idea. His voice that had convinced them they could fight. His fire that had pushed them into this.
And now Finn was going to die for it.
He thought of Mara's steady hammer, of Elira's gentle voice. Of how proud they had always looked at him, even when he failed. And the guilt hit harder than any weapon could.
If I run now, I'll lose more than them. I'll lose myself.
"Go!" Rory yelled at Alex, shoving him back. "Get the others to camp! Tell them!"
Alex shook his head, eyes filling with tears. "Rory, no—"
"GO!" Rory roared, louder than he had ever shouted in his life.
And then he ran. Straight at the monster.
His sword glinted weakly in the moonlight as he raised it, voice tearing from his throat in a desperate, feral cry. For one moment, he almost believed he was the hero he had imagined himself to be.
The orc barely looked at him.
Its massive arm lashed out, the back of its hand crashing into him with the force of a battering ram. Rory felt the air leave his lungs as he was hurled across the dirt. The sword flew from his hands, clattering uselessly in the brush. He landed hard, pain blooming in every bone, the world spinning in dizzy fragments.
He tried to rise, but his arms buckled beneath him. His vision blurred. The sounds of Finn's terrified sobs filled the night, and Rory's chest seized with helpless, burning shame.
He had wanted to save them. He had wanted to bring his mothers home. But instead, he had led his friends into the jaws of the very monsters that had taken everything from them.
And as the orc loomed over his fallen friend, Rory finally understood: bravery without wisdom was not courage. It was death.