The sun was a merciless tyrant in the sky, beating down on the cracked earth with an oppressive, shimmering heat. Every breath felt thick, stolen from a furnace. For the small band of travelers, the road was a ribbon of baked clay, and the dust their constant companion, clinging to their clothes and coating their tongues.
Leonotis, however, seemed immune to the misery. He marched with a theatrical swing in his arms, his boots kicking up puffs of red dirt. A wide, irrepressible grin was plastered on his face, a beacon of foolish optimism in the sweltering haze.
"I'm telling you," he announced to the world at large, his voice booming with unearned confidence, "one day, bards will strum their lutes and sing of our deeds! They'll call me Leonotis the Brave! Savior of the People! Protector of the Weak!"
A loud snort came from his side. Low, her powerful frame moving with a predator's grace, shifted the sling of heavy rocks at her hip. Her dark eyes, usually simmering with a dangerous light, were narrowed in pure annoyance. "Protector of the Annoying, maybe," she grumbled, her voice a low rumble. "Songs are for heroes who don't have to shout their own names every five seconds."
Walking a few paces ahead, Jacqueline tapped her staff against the ground in a steady rhythm. A weary but fond smile touched her lips. "Honestly, the noise you two make is probably a better bandit deterrent than my water magic. They'd hear us coming from a league away and run for the hills."
Trailing silently behind them all was Zombiel. The small boy clutched a cloth-wrapped bundle of herbs in his hands, his head bowed. His crimson eyes, usually as expressive as polished stones, blinked slowly, taking in the world with an unnerving stillness.
The memory of the last village was a bitter taste in their mouths, a stark contrast to Leonotis's grand pronouncements. They had arrived to find the land sick, a creeping poison leeching life from the soil. They had worked tirelessly—Leonotis coaxing new life, Jacqueline purifying the wells, Low guarding the perimeter, and Zombiel burning away the corruption with his precise flames. But when their work was done, there were no cheers. Only suspicion. Shutters were slammed in their faces. Parents pulled their children back, whispering of monsters and cursed magic. Their reward was a few stale loaves of bread and the cold weight of fear in the villagers' eyes.
It left their bellies nearly as empty as their spirits.
Yet, Leonotis's optimism was a stubborn weed. He punched the air, a plume of dust exploding from his fist. "Next time will be different! People will cheer when they see us! They'll carry me on their shoulders and—"
"—and drop you headfirst in the mud," Low finished, the corner of her mouth twitching into a smirk.
Leonotis stuck his tongue out at her and laughed, the sound bright and defiant.
But his laughter died in his throat. Ahead, Jacqueline had frozen mid-stride, her staff held motionless. Her entire focus was locked on something at the side of the road. The lighthearted banter evaporated, replaced by a sudden, tense silence broken only by the buzz of heat-dazed insects.
There, huddled against the skeletal trunk of a withered tree, was a small shape. A lump of rags and misery that, as they drew closer, resolved into the form of a child. He was even younger than Zombiel, his tiny body curled into a ball as if to ward off the world itself. His clothes were tattered, and his face was a mask of dirt streaked by the clean paths of dried tears.
The group came to a halt, the heat suddenly feeling colder.
"Is he… alive?" Leonotis asked, his voice a strained whisper. All his heroic bluster had vanished, leaving behind only raw concern.
Zombiel shuffled forward a single step. His quiet, raspy voice, so rarely used, cut through the stillness. "Yes."
As if summoned by the word, the boy's head lifted. His eyes, wide and glassy with fever, fixed on them. A tremor ran through his frail body. He lifted two trembling, stick-thin arms, a gesture of pure, desperate supplication.
"Please," he breathed, the sound no louder than a rustling leaf. "Help me."
That single word, that simple gesture, struck them with more force than a physical blow. It was a plea that bypassed all defenses and went straight to the heart.
Low was the first to react. In two long strides, she was beside him, her usual gruffness melting away as she knelt and pressed the back of her hand against his forehead. Her jaw tightened. "He's burning up."
Jacqueline was already on her knees on his other side, her healer's instincts taking over. She gently checked his pulse, her fingers brushing against skin as dry as parchment. "Severe dehydration. Malnutrition," she diagnosed, her voice grim. "His body's collapsing."
Leonotis crouched down, his face a canvas of shock and dawning horror. The world of grand adventures and heroic songs felt like a foolish dream now. This was real. This was a small boy dying by the side of the road. "We can fix this, right?" he asked, his voice pleading. "Jacqueline, we can help him."
The boy's fingers, weak but desperate, latched onto the fabric of Leonotis's sleeve. His words came in broken, sobbing gasps. "Bandits… took my sister. I tried to… fight… they left me." His story crumbled into a fit of heartbreaking sobs.
A profound sorrow filled Jacqueline's eyes. She pressed her lips into a thin line, her gaze sweeping over her companions. "I can heal his body," she said softly, her meaning hanging heavy in the air. "But if we ignore his words…"
Low's expression was thunderous. She nodded once, a sharp, grim motion. "Then he dies without his sister."
Leonotis looked from the weeping boy clutching his arm to the determined faces of his friends. The last of his childish bravado burned away, forged by the heat of the sun and the fire of righteous anger into something hard and unyielding.
"Then we'll save her."