The rain fell in sheets, washing blood into the churned mud. The campfire hissed and sputtered, its dying flames casting jagged shadows across the clearing. The men in black closed in, their blades gleaming like fangs through the storm, their cloaks marked with the crimson sigil of the Iron Dominion.
The man in the tattered suit gripped the worn hilt of his sword, knuckles white as bone. His breath came in ragged gasps, his body screaming from wounds he had no time to bind. Fear coiled in his gut, cold and heavy, but behind him, he felt the weight of trembling stares. The freed slaves—gaunt, hollow-eyed, their chains freshly broken—clung to him with their fragile hope, heavier than any iron.
"They expect me to stand. They expect me to be more than I am."
He had thought of running. In the dark, rain-soaked hours before the fight, when the campfire was still strong and the enemy's torches were just pinpricks on the horizon, he'd imagined slipping away into the storm. But the weight of their gazes—children, mothers, men broken by years of toil—had rooted him to the earth. He couldn't turn away. Not now.
The first man lunged, steel flashing like lightning. The man in the suit twisted aside, parrying with a grunt as the shock of the blow rattled his bones. Their swords locked, rain streaming down their faces. The black-cloaked man sneered, his breath hot with contempt.
"Why?" he spat, leaning into the bind, his blade inching closer. "Why throw your life away for them? They're nothing but broken dogs. Do you think they'll sing your name when you're rotting in the mud?"
The words clawed at him, threatening to unravel his resolve. He was no hero—just a wanderer with a sword, a man who'd stumbled across a Dominion slaver camp and couldn't look away. But then, through the roar of the storm, a small voice pierced the chaos.
"Please… please don't die."
A child, no older than ten, her voice trembling like a candle in the wind. Her words ignited something in his chest, a spark of defiance that burned through the fear. With a roar, he shoved the man back, his blade arcing in a savage strike. Steel tore through flesh, and the enemy fell, choking on his own disbelief.
Another came from the side, shadow-fast. The man in the suit ducked low, mud splashing as he slid across the slick ground. His sword swept upward in a desperate arc, catching the man beneath the ribs. The scream was swallowed by the storm.
Still, they circled him—shadows in the rain, their crimson sigils glowing faintly under the flickering firelight. The Dominion's enforcers, relentless as wolves, trained to break any who defied their masters.
"You're no hero," one hissed, his blade poised like a viper. "You're a fool. These slaves will only drag you down. They don't need saving—they're already dead."
The man's chest heaved, his arms burning with exhaustion. Blood seeped from a gash on his shoulder, hot against the cold rain. Yet his voice, when it came, cut through the storm like thunder.
"THEY ARE NOT SLAVES ANYMORE. NOT WHILE I'M STILL STANDING."
He launched forward, blade ringing against another's. Pain tore through his shoulder as steel grazed him, blood mixing with the rain. He staggered, vision blurring, but refused to fall. Every time he faltered, he saw their eyes—fragile, desperate, waiting for him to be more than he was.
I DON'T NEED GLORY. I DON'T NEED TO LIVE FOREVER. I JUST NEED TO FIGHT TO PROTECT WHOEVER I WANT."
He shouted the words to himself, his voice raw, as if speaking them aloud could keep fear from swallowing him. Another black-cloaked man fell, then another, their blood thickening the mud. The storm howled, as if the world itself bore witness to the slaughter.
The last enforcer staggered back, his blade trembling, his eyes wide with something like fear. "Why?" he rasped. "Why fight for them? Why not run, save yourself?"
The man in the suit raised his sword, swaying from exhaustion. His body was a map of wounds now, blood—his own and theirs—soaking his tattered clothes. But his gaze burned with an unyielding will, a light not born of strength but of something deeper.
"Because no one deserves chains," he said. "Not them. Not anyone."
With a final, ragged strike, he cut the man down. Silence fell, broken only by the relentless patter of rain.
He dropped to his knees, sword sinking into the mud for support. His chest heaved, vision swimming, but when he turned, he saw them—the freed slaves, wide-eyed and trembling. For the first time, hope shone in their eyes, not as a distant dream but as something real, something he'd carved out of the storm.
"You saved us," a small girl whispered, her voice breaking as she stepped forward, her skeletal frame shivering in the rain. "You… you're our hero."
The word struck him like a blade. Hero. How many had been called that, only to fall, to be forgotten? He wanted to tell her she was wrong—that he was no hero, just a man too stubborn to turn away. That his wounds burned, his resolve wavered, his body begged to collapse. That the weight of their hope felt like drowning.
But as he looked into her eyes—wide, trembling, like a bird that had forgotten how to fly—he understood. Freedom wasn't eternal. Tomorrow, these people would face hunge and, cold. They would never be fully unshackled from life's burdens. But tonight, in this fleeting moment, they were free.
And he had given them that.
He swallowed the lump in his throat and straightened, his voice rough but steady. "I'm not your hero," he told the girl, his eyes softening. "I'm just a man who chose not to look away. But listen to me—freedom isn't a gift I can give you forever. It's a fight you'll have to carry. I'll stand with you, bleed with you, die with you if I must. Not for glory. Not for a name. But because you deserve to live."
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the crackle of the dying campfire. One by one, the freed men and women bowed their heads—not in submission, but in respect. For the first time, he felt it—not pride, not joy, but a quiet understanding. Being a hero wasn't about what he felt. It was about what they found in him when they had nothing else.
His strength ebbed, the world tilting as blood loss pulled at his senses. He sank to the ground, the mud cold against his knees. His sword slipped from his fingers, sinking into the earth.
"So this is how it ends huh.", he thought, his breath shallow. "It's Not so bad."
His mind drifted, unmoored, to a memory long buried—a woman's face, soft and warm, her voice singing him to sleep under a different sky. The only good memory the man has.
"Mother! I wonder if she'd be proud. If she'd forgive me for forgetting about finding her, and all the years i wandered alone, searching for something worth fighting for."
"I am coming mother, i missed you."
His eyes fluttered, the rain a gentle drum against his skin, each drop a cold kiss pulling him toward oblivion. Darkness closed in, blurring the edges of the world, but a small hand slipped into his—fragile, trembling, yet impossibly warm against his blood-chilled fingers.
"Please… stay," the girl whispered, her voice a thread of light in the storm's roar. Her eyes, wide and glistening, held a desperate hope, her gaunt face streaked with mud and tears.
He wanted to speak, to tell her he was no hero, that he was just a man breaking under the weight of their freedom. But his body was betraying him, each breath a shallow rasp, each heartbeat a fading echo. With the last ember of his strength, he lifted a trembling hand, his fingers brushing her cheek, rough with dirt but soft with youth. Her warmth anchored him, if only for a moment.
"Don't be afraid, little one," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper, soft as the rain. A faint smile curved his lips, weary but genuine, shielding her from the despair clawing at his heart. "If I'm gone… take my place. Grow strong. Protect them. But don't—" His breath hitched, pain flaring through his chest. "Don't let the world grind you down like it did me."
He didn't want his death to break her. He didn't want the weight of his sacrifice to chain her spirit. He wanted her to carry the hope he'd fought for, not the shadow of his fall.
Her small hand tightened in his, a silent vow. Then, his strength gave out. His body slumped into the mud, rain and dirt cradling him like a grave. The world faded—the girl's trembling gaze, the distant crackle of the dying campfire, the endless patter of the storm—all swallowed by silence.
He was weightless now, untethered. His thoughts drifted, formless, into a vast, inky void.
-------
Next chapter—
"Where am I?"
The question flickered, faint as a dying star, as his consciousness floated through a darkness that was neither cold nor warm, neither empty nor full. It was a space between—between life and death, between the man he'd been and whatever came next. Shadows pulsed at the edges, whispering memories he couldn't grasp: a woman's lullaby, a blade's weight in his hand, the chains he'd broken.
Something tugged at him, a gentle pull like a current, drawing him deeper into the unknown. Was this death? Or something else entirely? The darkness shimmered, and for a moment, he thought he saw a faint light—a distant spark, calling him forward.
"Mother… is that you?"