The fire crackled, smoke coiling toward a low gray sky.
The children sat close, shoulders brushing, their silence a living thing. Faces hollowed beneath the grime, eyes too still for their age — not merely tired, but emptied of something they would never name.
Lucen sat at their center, knees drawn up, fingers clasped loosely over mud-streaked boots. He didn't look at anyone. His eyes followed the flames' edge instead — the way it caught on damp wood, flared, died, then caught again.
When Mira's fingers brushed his sleeve, he didn't move. Didn't even blink.
Captain Dareth lingered a few paces off, boots half-sunk in the muck, hands clasped behind his back. He studied them the way a man might study something fragile but dangerous — unsure which would break first, the children or his understanding of them.
Beside him, Halric stood with his usual restlessness, sharp eyes flicking between each small figure, thumb tapping against his belt.
"They haven't said a word," Halric murmured.
"They're exhausted," Dareth said, though there was no conviction behind it.
Halric's gaze lingered on Lucen. "Exhausted men slump. They breathe heavy. These… they're just—" He paused, mouth tightening. "Still."
The wind pressed through the camp, stirring the king's banners and scattering ash through the air. The fire guttered. Lucen's head turned slightly, tracking the flame's falter before returning to stillness.
When one of the younger children reached for the stew pot, the others hesitated — eyes flicking first to Lucen. A breath's pause, subtle but shared. When he didn't react, they began to eat.
Dareth caught the rhythm of it: that small, invisible chain of command. His brows knit.
"They watch him."
Halric's jaw moved once in agreement. "Aye. The way recruits watch a commander."
"Too young for that."
"Too quiet for that."
Neither of them named what it really was.
"They were on the southern ridge," Halric said at length. "Before noon, if the scouts are right. How many made it off the line?"
"That's not known." Dareth's tone was flat. "The man who brought them — the overseer, he called himself — didn't offer much. Just said to use them as soldiers."
Halric gave a short, humorless breath. "The king can't believe this is mercy."
"Mercy?" Halric's mouth curved, but there was no mirth in it. "They were forged, not spared."
A soldier — younger, gentler by nature — crossed the mud toward the fire, bowl of stew in hand. He crouched before them, voice careful. "Tell me about today," he said quietly. "The southern ridge. You fought with men?"
For a moment, no one moved. Then Lucen's voice cut through the smoke — low, scraped raw from disuse.
"We followed orders."
A pause. Then softer: "We survived."
Halric's head tilted. "And the rest didn't," he muttered.
Another soldier approached, curiosity outweighing caution. "How many of you held the ridge?" he asked. "How many more out there?"
Lucen's eyes lifted — flat amber catching a thread of firelight. He measured the man for a heartbeat, then looked away.
Silence again, deliberate as prayer.
Halric exhaled through his nose. "They won't speak unless he allows it."
Before Dareth could answer, another voice joined them — firm, quiet, edged with weariness.
"The same goes for treatment," said the camp medic as she approached.
Her satchel clinked faintly as she knelt near the group, close enough to see but not close enough to threaten. "They've wounds that need cleaning," she said. "Burns. Deep cuts. One with a wrist that needs setting."
Dareth turned toward her. "They refuse?"
She nodded, jaw tight. "Every time I reach for one, the others pull away."
Halric's mouth twitched in something between frustration and pity. "Not surprising."
The medic's gaze settled on Lucen, the boy in the center. "He's the one they watch," she said softly. "If he lets me near him, the rest might follow."
Lucen didn't look up. The fire snapped once, scattering sparks.
And still, he didn't move.
The medic waited, linen roll loose in her hands.
No one spoke.
The fire crackled faintly, its light a fragile heartbeat against the gray, sinking afternoon. Smoke hung heavy under the low clouds, mixing with the metallic scent of mud and sweat.
Lucen didn't look at her. His fingers traced the ridge of his boot where the laces had frayed through, eyes following the flame instead of her face. Around him, the children stayed still — breathing in shallow, measured rhythm.
When the medic finally rose, it was with a quiet sigh. "I'll return soon."
She did — not the next day, but the next hour.
⸻
By then, the light had dimmed further, shadows stretching long across the camp. Soldiers moved through the mist, setting up tents, sharpening blades, repairing torn straps. The medic approached again, satchel clinking softly, the smell of herbs and spirits drifting ahead of her.
"Burns. Cuts. A fever if you don't let me work," she said evenly, kneeling a few feet from them.
Nothing. Not even the twitch of an eyelid.
Lucen sat motionless, a single silhouette framed by the fire's glow. The others mirrored him perfectly — the kind of stillness that wasn't learned but ingrained.
After a few minutes, Captain Dareth approached, stopping beside her. "Any luck?"
She shook her head. "They watch him. Always him. If he won't let me near, the rest won't either."
Dareth's eyes narrowed. "He'll have to yield eventually. Even a soldier knows when the body fails."
She gave a small, humorless smile. "You think they're soldiers?"
Dareth didn't answer. His gaze lingered on Lucen's arm — the faint stains of old blood darkening through cracked skin.
The medic stood, dusted her knees. "I'll come again."
⸻
Another hour passed.
The light sank to a bruised gray-blue.
A soldier — young, new to the unit — tried next. He crouched near the group, keeping his voice gentle. "There's room inside the barracks," he said. "Dry straw. A hearth. You can sleep without the rain tonight."
The silence that followed was absolute.
The soldier hesitated, then offered the smallest smile. "You don't have to speak. Just nod. I'll help you there."
Lucen's head turned slowly, eyes lifting from the fire. That quiet, unreadable stare landed on the man like a weight.
It wasn't threatening — only still. Unflinching. But it froze the man all the same.
He swallowed hard, stepped back. "Suit yourselves," he muttered, before retreating to the circle of tents.
When he was gone, Mira's hand crept toward the hem of Lucen's sleeve again, as if to ask something wordless. He didn't move. Didn't look at her.
The wind picked up, whistling through the camp banners, and ash scattered like dark snow.
⸻
By the third hour, dusk had bled fully into night. The fire burned lower, damp wood hissing with every drop of moisture in the air.
Halric came this time, dragging a spare blanket over his arm. "You'll freeze out here," he said. His voice wasn't unkind — just steady, firm. "Come inside, boy. You and the rest."
Lucen said nothing.
Halric tried again. "You've done your duty. You're not under orders now."
At that, Lucen's gaze shifted — not toward Halric, but toward the dirt. The faintest flicker of expression crossed his face. Something like confusion, or the memory of that word: orders.
Halric exhaled slowly. "Dareth says you can stay near the fire if you want. But you'll answer when you're spoken to. That's not a request."
Still no response. The silence stretched long enough that Halric finally turned away, muttering something about ghosts and children bred too close to the edge.
⸻
The medic came again near midnight.
She didn't try to speak at first. She only knelt by the fire, setting down her satchel, letting them see her hands were empty. The rain had started — light, fine, cold — speckling her cloak and the children's hair.
One of the smaller boys coughed, a dry, rasping sound that turned into a fit. His small body folded inward, trembling. The others shifted but didn't reach for him.
Lucen's jaw tightened. His eyes darted once — to the medic, then back to the fire.
She watched the tremor ripple through the child's shoulders. "He's feverish," she murmured. "I can smell it from here."
Still, no answer.
"I won't touch him," she continued softly. "Not without your say."
The rain thickened, pattering harder now. It hissed against the fire, made steam curl through the air. The smell of wet earth rose strong.
Lucen didn't look at her. But when the boy began to sway — eyes half-lidded, head rolling forward — something in his posture changed. His fingers dug into the dirt, knuckles whitening.
The medic stepped forward, just one pace. "If I don't clean that wound, he won't wake again."
Lucen's breathing quickened. Barely. But it was enough.
The boy slumped sideways into the mud. Mira gasped — quick, sharp, her hands reaching too late.
Lucen's body moved before his voice did. He caught the boy beneath the arms, turning him over, palm pressed to his cheek. Heat burned through the skin, bright as fire.
"Let me," the medic said.
Lucen's head turned toward her at last. His eyes were different now — not cold, not angry. Just… uncertain.
For a long moment, he didn't move. Then he gave a single nod.
The medic crouched beside them, working fast and careful, wiping the blood and grime away, trickling water between cracked lips. Lucen watched every motion, body taut, ready to pull her back at the first sign of threat.
When the boy stirred, a tiny sound escaping his throat, Lucen's hands unclenched.
The medic leaned back slightly, voice soft. "He'll live."
Lucen looked at the boy, then at the others — Mira, the small group still huddled close, all watching him with wide, silent eyes.
The rain kept falling.
Then, without looking up, he held out his arm to her — the one with the split skin and badly wrapped burn.
"Do it," he said.
Her breath caught — not from fear, but surprise.
He didn't watch her work. He watched the others. Watched how they followed his silence, how even now, they mirrored him without question.
When she finished binding the arm, she set the bandage roll aside. He didn't thank her, but the quiet in his voice when he said, "Next," was enough.
Mira moved first. Then another. Then another.
By the time the rain thinned to mist, the medic's cloak was soaked through, her hands trembling from cold and fatigue. The fire had burned to embers.
The soldiers kept their distance now — watching, listening to the low murmur of the medic's voice as she worked, and the wordless discipline of the children as they obeyed only him.
——-
By dawn, the rain had thinned to mist.
It drifted low over the camp, softening every line until tents and men and banners all blurred into the same gray shape. Smoke from the dying fires mixed with it, turning the air sharp with the scent of ash and iron.
The children hadn't moved. They sat exactly where they had through the night — soaked to the bone, unmoving, their silence stitched between every heartbeat.
Lucen stayed at their center, knees drawn up, his gaze fixed on the faint orange glow where the fire still breathed.
The medic came first. Her cloak was damp, her braid heavy with water. She knelt beside them, eyes flicking to the smallest boy — the one she'd treated when the fever took him.
"He's breathing easier," she murmured. "The worst has passed."
Lucen didn't look at her, but his shoulders eased almost imperceptibly. It was the first sign of anything human in hours.
Captain Dareth stopped behind her, the mud sucking at his boots. "They didn't sleep."
"No," she said quietly. "They took turns keeping watch. Every hour."
"Children?"
"They don't think of themselves that way."
He said nothing, but the unease in his jawline deepened.
Halric appeared next, as he always did — restless, grim, a shadow that refused to stand still. He surveyed the group, rubbing a hand over his stubble. "Orders came through," he said to Dareth. "We're to break camp by midday. Front lines before nightfall tomorrow."
Dareth's mouth tightened. "All of us?"
Halric's gaze flicked toward the children. "Including them."
The medic straightened. "They can't go."
Halric looked at her like she'd spoken nonsense. "Can't?"
"They're half-starved, half-healed. One's arm barely bound, another hasn't eaten since yesterday. If you send them to the front, you'll kill them before the first volley."
Halric snorted. "You think they haven't already seen worse?"
"I don't care what they've seen. They're children."
"Not anymore." His tone hardened. "The order comes from the king's initiative. They're to be deployed with us. That means they're soldiers."
Her voice rose, brittle and fierce. "They're test subjects, Halric. You can dress it up however you like, but they were made for someone else's war, not this one."
Halric stepped closer, his voice lowering. "And what do you suggest I do? Disobey direct command because your heart aches for a few quiet strays?"
The medic's hands clenched. "They're human."
He gave a small, mirthless laugh. "You sure?"
That earned him a look from Dareth — brief, sharp, warning. But Halric didn't stop. He crouched a few feet from Lucen, studying him like one might study a blade — beautiful, terrible, and sharp enough to draw blood at a breath.
"Tell me, boy," he said softly, "do you even bleed like the rest of us?"
Lucen's eyes lifted then — slow, deliberate. The kind of look that silenced even men who'd seen too many wars.
He didn't answer, didn't move. But something in that stillness spoke all the same.
Halric straightened, the faintest unease ghosting through his features. "Didn't think so."
The medic's voice cut through the quiet. "You keep treating him like a weapon, and one day you'll find out you were right."
Halric turned on her. "And you think he's some lost lamb you can patch together with bandages and pity?"
"I think he's a child who's been taught not to breathe unless someone orders it."
That stopped him. For a moment, the only sound was the soft hiss of rain against the dying fire.
Dareth spoke at last, voice low. "Enough. We move by midday. They come with us. End of it. I don't like this any better than you do" he sighed softly.
The medic swallowed her anger, her eyes flicking back to Lucen — who hadn't moved through any of it. She hesitated, then knelt again, softer now.
"You don't have to follow them," she murmured. "Not like this. You can tell me what you need."
Lucen's eyes shifted toward her hand — the one resting lightly on her knee. He studied it as though the gesture itself was foreign.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet enough to nearly vanish under the rain.
"We have orders," he said.
Her breath hitched. "From who?"
He didn't answer.
But the way the other children lifted their heads — alert, waiting — told her everything she needed to know.
⸻
By noon, the camp was alive with motion. Horses were saddled, wagons creaked under supply loads, and the metallic chorus of armor filled the air.
The medic moved among the ranks, her jaw set tight. She found Dareth near the central fire, checking the map spread across a crate.
"You can't take them," she said again.
He didn't look up. "We don't have a choice."
"You always have a choice."
"Not in this war."
Halric approached from behind, wiping mud off his gloves. "They're already forming up," he said. "And the boy—" he nodded toward Lucen "—he's making them stand in ranks. You don't even have to tell him what to do."
The medic turned. Lucen was indeed lining the others up, wordless but precise, adjusting shoulders, checking spacing. The way he moved — efficient, restrained — looked wrong in someone so young.
"He's not leading them," she whispered. "He's keeping them from falling apart."
Halric's expression softened for just a breath. "Maybe there's no difference."
When the first horn sounded, the soldiers began to move — a slow, grinding column of mud and iron. The medic walked near the rear, heart heavy. The rain had returned, light but steady.
The children fell in with the rest, Lucen at their head. He said nothing, but when the smallest stumbled, he caught her by the elbow, steadying her without looking back.
That night, when they stopped to rest near the ridge, the medic found him sitting apart from the others, cleaning a strip of bandage by the firelight.
She approached carefully, letting the flickering firelight illuminate her face. The smell of damp wool and iron hung heavy in the air, thick with mist rolling down the ridge. She knelt a few feet away, hands folded in her lap, not too close, not too imposing.
"You don't have to talk if you don't want," she said softly. "I only… I only want to know your names. Maybe what you like. Or don't like."
A pause. The children's stillness held, dense as fog, each small face shaded under mud and soot. Lucen at the center didn't look up; his gaze remained fixed on the fire.
She let a few moments pass, then spoke again, quieter now. "I… I like the rain sometimes. Even cold and gray like this. It makes the world smell clean. Do any of you… like it?"
A small shuffle, a toe tapping, almost imperceptible. One of the younger boys lifted his chin fractionally, curious, watching her. Another followed his glance. The movement rippled through the circle, subtle but real. The medic smiled faintly. "I like stories," she said. "Small ones. About woods, animals, soldiers… even people who thought they were too small to matter. I can tell one, if you want."
A silence, thick and careful. Then Mira, the smallest girl, whispered, "Animals?"
"Yes," the medic said. "A fox, maybe. Clever, a little tricky, but brave when it needs to be. Does anyone like clever animals?"
Eyes flicked toward each other. One boy's shoulders shifted, another leaned slightly forward. Lucen's head lifted just enough to note the movement. He didn't intervene, didn't command. He simply let the children decide.
Captain Dareth and Halric lingered behind a thin veil of mist, observing at a distance. Halric's brow furrowed. "They're listening," he muttered.the medic shifted slightly, letting her voice drift through the mist. "Foxes like riddles," she said softly. "They hide things just for the fun of seeing if anyone notices. Do you like riddles?"
A few of the children tilted their heads. One boy's eyes sparkled faintly in the firelight. A tiny laugh, almost swallowed by the night, escaped Mira. Lucen's eyes flicked toward her, then back to the fire. He didn't smile, but his shoulders eased slightly.
The medic continued, gentle, patient. "I also like bread," she added lightly. "Warm bread, with butter if I'm lucky. Anyone here like bread?"
A small hand twitched, another pressed against the dirt. Lucen shifted just enough for the others to mimic him — subtle permission, wordless.
She told a story then, soft and slow, about a clever fox that tricked a hunter, wandered forests, and made friends with creatures far bigger than itself. The children leaned in, unconsciously echoing each other's movements, their silence now threaded with curiosity instead of fear. Lucen watched, quiet sentinel, letting them unfold at their own pace.
Hours passed. The fire dimmed to embers. Mist settled around the ridge like a veil. The medic, hands cold and damp from the rain, allowed herself a small, private smile. They weren't speaking much yet, but they were listening. They were noticing.
Finally, Lucen moved. Slowly, deliberately, he reached into a small satchel at his side and pulled out a piece of bread. He tore off a rough chunk, then, without looking at her, extended it toward her.
She caught it instinctively, surprised, and looked at him. He didn't meet her gaze, only shifted his weight slightly, a quiet acknowledgment.
A silent promise, a thank-you, a reassurance all rolled into one small gesture. She returned the nod, murmuring softly, "Thank you."
The fire hissed in the damp night. Around them, the children leaned a fraction closer to one another, the first trace of trust forming, small but real.The medic tore a small piece of her own bread and offered it to Mira, who took it with hesitant fingers, eyes wide. One by one, the others accepted what little crumbs she could spare, and the small act became a ritual in the quiet night — not a feast, not a lesson, just the shared warmth of something simple, something human.
Lucen watched, hands folded over his knees, the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth that might have been a smile—or the easing of tension he rarely allowed himself. He didn't speak, but the gesture of giving her the bread lingered in the air between them: acknowledgment, trust, a silent pact.
"Do you… tell stories often?" Mira asked softly, her voice barely rising above the hiss of the dying embers.
"I… sometimes," the medic admitted, and she kept her tone light, careful. "Mostly to myself, before I forget the way the world smells. Or looks. Or feels."
A small murmur ran through the circle, curiosity threading between the children now. Lucen's gaze flicked to her once, amber eyes steady and assessing, then returned to the fire. He didn't command them to listen, didn't nudge them forward; he simply allowed it, and that permission was enough.
The medic told another small story, about a fox that wandered into a storm and found shelter under the roots of an old tree, discovering that courage sometimes came in the quietest places. The children shifted closer, huddled for warmth, leaning toward the words as if drawn by an invisible tether. Lucen remained at the center, body still, sentinel-like, but his shoulders were looser, the tight line of tension softening ever so slightly.
From the ridge above, Dareth and Halric observed in silence, figures cloaked in mist. Halric's voice broke the quiet, low and uncertain. "They're… changing," he murmured.
Dareth's arms were crossed, gaze fixed on the circle below. "Not much," he said, voice gruff. "But it's something. Enough to make them… human, for a night at least."
Halric exhaled slowly, thumb brushing the hilt of his sword. "It's fragile. Don't let it get broken before morning."
Below, the fire sputtered once, sending a wisp of smoke curling into the mist. Lucen tore another small piece of bread, this time breaking it in two, and placed it near the medic again. She caught his eye, a flicker of surprise passing over her damp, tired features. He didn't speak. He didn't have to. The small offering was enough.
"Thank you," she whispered, voice soft but certain.
Lucen's shoulders shifted slightly, the smallest nod of acknowledgment, and then he leaned back, letting the children drift closer to the firelight, leaning into the warmth of each other and the quiet bonds forming in the mist.
For the first time in hours, maybe days, they were not soldiers. They were not weapons. They were just children — listening, learning, noticing — and the sentinel at their center, the boy who rarely breathed without orders, had chosen, in his quiet, deliberate way, to give them this night.
The fire had burned low, hissing softly as raindrops pattered against the damp ground. Shadows clung to the children, the medic, and Lucen at their center. The mist hung thick over the ridge, curling around boots, cloaks, and the edges of tents beyond.
Captain Dareth's voice cut softly through the rain. "Come here," he called to the medic, voice careful not to startle the children. She stood, wet cloak clinging, and approached, eyes wary. Halric lingered just behind, watching both her and the children like a hawk.
"They're… listening," Dareth murmured, glancing back at the circle. "But they won't speak freely. I need you to get them to answer. Just small things — numbers, names, what they saw on the ridge. If anyone can, it's you."
"I earned their trust by staying out of the way, by not forcing them," she said, voice low, a sharp edge of warning in it. "You want me to break that?"
"I don't want to," Dareth admitted, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "But we need information. We're walking a line here — if you can get even the smallest thing, it helps us survive the next stretch."
Halric crossed his arms. "Think of it like… coaxing the fox out of its den," he said. "You don't chase it. You leave a bit of food. A soft word. Let it decide to come. That's all."
The medic exhaled slowly, eyes drifting back to Lucen, sitting at the center, firelight dancing across his taut, quiet features. "I'll try," she said finally, "but only on their terms. Nothing more."
Dareth gave a brief nod. "Small questions. Nothing threatening. Names, counts, yes or no. You understand?"
She nodded, turning back to the circle. "I understand," she whispered, and knelt once more a few paces from the children, hands open and empty, letting the firelight and mist settle around her. The medic knelt again, a careful distance from the circle, hands resting in her lap so they could see she carried nothing that might harm them. Her cloak was soaked through, droplets trickling along the braid that hung heavy down her back. The smell of wet wool, earth, and smoke clung to her, blending with the faint, clean scent of rain.
"I… I have some questions," she said gently, her voice low and careful, letting it drift on the hiss of water hitting embers. "Only if you want to answer. You don't have to. I won't make you. Just… words, if you're willing."
The children remained still. Lucen, at the center, didn't even lift his head, amber eyes catching the firelight but not focusing on her. The others glanced toward him, seeking permission, and retreated as his posture held firm, a silent command.
"Maybe… maybe you can tell me your names," she continued slowly, each syllable measured, careful not to push. "Even just one… if it feels safe."
A small hand twitched — Mira's. She whispered her name, almost swallowed by the mist, and immediately ducked her head. A boy with tangled hair matted to his forehead spoke next, voice thin and broken, another small offering. Lucen shifted fractionally, the smallest acknowledgment that it was allowed.
"That's enough," the medic murmured. "Thank you. That's very brave."
A silence spread, deep and still, broken only by the soft hiss of the rain on coals and the faint crackle of the fire. The children leaned subtly closer to each other, shoulders brushing, forming a fragile warmth in the damp night.
"Were you on the southern ridge when… the fighting happened?" she asked next, softer than a whisper. "Just yes… or no. No one will hurt you for your answer."
Lucen's fingers dug lightly into the dirt. He didn't look at her, but the tiny tilt of his shoulder was enough. One by one, a few low voices murmured "yes," tentative, hesitant, like stepping into a frozen stream.
"Good," she said, nodding slowly, letting the words fall lightly among them. "Did… many men fall?"
The circle stiffened. Lucen's amber gaze flicked toward her for an instant. She waited. The silence stretched, heavy but safe. Then, a boy at the back whispered a number — barely audible. Another offered a smaller count. The rest remained motionless. Their words, small as they were, settled into the night like stones tossed onto a still pond.
"Thank you," she breathed, almost to herself. "Just… saying it, letting it out, that's very brave."
She paused, letting the fire, the mist, and the rain take up the space. Sparks drifted upward, disappearing into the low clouds, and she could feel the children's breathing, shallow, careful, like the rhythm of small waves.
"Can anyone tell me… what you remember?" she ventured, voice even softer. "Only if it's safe. One small thing… a color, a sound… something that stayed with you."
A whisper of movement, and a thin voice from an older girl spoke: "Smoke… black… red… the sky… it burned."
"Good," the medic said, nodding, voice a warm thread among the cold. "That's all I need. Just… remembering a little is enough."
Lucen's eyes flicked toward the girl, just a glance — neither encouragement nor reproach. The children leaned subtly closer to each other and to the fire. Even in his silence, he gave permission.
"And… did anyone help you?" she murmured, softer still. "Even a little… a stranger… a friend?"
A boy's shoulders twitched. He whispered a single name, then dropped his head. Another shook theirs. Lucen's fingers moved against his boots, the smallest shift, enough to allow honesty, but only the honest he deemed safe.
"You don't have to say more," she whispered. "That's enough." She let the pause linger, long and gentle, the night and fire holding the silence like a shield.
Finally, she added, barely above the murmur of rain: "Do you… want to stay close to the fire? I can make room if that's okay. You choose."
Lucen shifted slightly, not looking at her, but enough. Enough for the children to inch forward, seeking warmth and proximity without words.
Above, on the ridge, Dareth and Halric watched. Halric's jaw worked once, almost disbelief, almost a smirk. "She's drawing it out," he murmured. "Bit by bit. Like smoke from a wound."
Dareth's voice was low, rough with thought. "She's walking the line. One false step… they retreat. But if it works… they'll give her more than words. Maybe even trust."
Below, the children huddled closer, leaning toward the fire and toward the quiet, tentative human presence beside them. Lucen remained at the center — sentinel, gatekeeper — allowing just enough, letting trust grow, slow and fragile, like dawn breaking behind misted mountains.
The medic's voice remained soft, coaxing, but the children's energy was fading. Eyelids drooped, small bodies sagging into the damp earth, one by one curling closer to the warmth of the fire and each other.
Lucen's amber eyes swept over them, noting every small movement. A girl's head lolled onto her knees, the boy beside her letting out a quiet sigh as his shoulders slumped. Even the older children, though still alert, leaned slightly toward each other, fatigue pressing into the muscles that had never known rest for long stretches.
The medic lowered her voice further, gentle, almost a whisper now. "Rest… if you need to. The fire will keep you warm. You've done well, sharing… noticing… just for tonight, you can let your bodies rest."
A soft murmur of relief ran through the circle. A boy near the back curled into a ball, hugging his knees to his chest, while a smaller girl tucked her hands under her chin and drifted into shallow sleep. Lucen's amber gaze lingered on them, quiet, unwavering. He shifted only enough to keep a protective watch, his posture still sentinel-straight.
Dareth and Halric watched from the ridge, their expressions softening slightly. Even in exhaustion, these children carried the weight of their training and their survival instinct. "They… they've been through hell," Dareth murmured.
Halric's jaw tightened. "And yet… they're still… alive."
The medic's eyes swept the circle, lingering on the smallest ones now slipping fully into sleep. "Their minds need this as much as their bodies," she whispered. "Rest will let them remember what matters… without fear."
A small shiver ran through one of the sleeping boys, a tremor of memory from the camp, and Lucen's hand shifted subtly to hover over him—not touching, not disturbing, simply a presence of watchfulness. His amber eyes flicked toward the medic briefly, almost apologetic, before returning to the circle.
From beside him, his closest friend—a boy slightly younger, still awake, eyes heavy—shifted closer to Lucen's side. His voice was low, barely audible over the hiss of mist and the fading embers. "We… we shouldn't… let them see too much. We… go back… the camp… after the war."
Lucen's head tilted slightly, a single nod. No words, just acknowledgment. His friend sank a little deeper into the damp earth, curling into a fetal position while Lucen's steady presence seemed to guard the fragile trust they'd built.
One by one, the younger children drifted fully into sleep, their small forms curled close together, breathing shallow and even. The older ones lingered awake, alert but quiet, eyes flicking between the medic and Lucen, gauging what was safe, what was expected, what was allowed.
The mist thickened further, wrapping the fire and the sleeping children in a shroud of gray, and Lucen remained at the center, amber eyes catching every flicker of shadow, every twitch of a limb. Silent, watchful, unyielding—a sentinel over the vulnerable, even as exhaustion began to claim them all.
Dareth shifted, kneeling at the edge of the firelight. "They're… trained killers," he whispered, almost to himself. "And yet… here, with him… they're just children."