Soren stepped out of Vulcan's tent, his frail body trembling from a sudden weakness.
It wasn't the physical pain of having his blood drained that weighed him down, but the weight of the words he had heard — and the fate that awaited them all.
The scorching desert air that greeted him outside felt like a harsh slap after the moderate climate inside the tent.
But his mind wasn't on his pain. One thought consumed him: he had to warn the others.
From the leaders' discussion, he had pieced together the inevitable fate awaiting them if they joined the Black Army. All this time, he had managed to deceive himself, to endure this miserable life, by feeding on a flimsy hope —
that one day he would grow older, stronger, or that the Imperial Army would find them and deliver them.
Those fragile dreams were the rope he clung to in order to remain sane.
But even that rope was fraying. Joining the Black Army meant the death of any hope of freedom, turning it into nothing more than a distant, unattainable dream.
And though he had always remained passive, obedient, unable to confront Vulcan and the Doctor openly, Soren, like Leon — like any human being — longed for freedom.
The difference was that he had waited for someone else to hand it to him, too afraid to risk himself to seize it.
But with the news that the envoys were coming tonight, he felt the time had run out. He had to choose: either seize freedom with his own hands now, or lose it forever.
Leon had been right. He had to act. No miracle was going to save them.
Suddenly, his steps froze.
A terrifying thought shot through his mind, chilling his blood even before it was drained.
What if their escape attempt only made things worse?
What if Vulcan discovered their plan? What punishment would await them then? His young mind could only summon faint, horrifying memories of the Doctor's lab.
The nightmares he had tried so hard to bury.
On the other hand, if they didn't try to escape, there was always the chance Vulcan would keep him alive — because he was useful.
Vulcan would protect him, shield him from the Doctor's experiments… at least until he was fully cured.
And then? What would happen once Vulcan no longer needed him? Who would care about a useless lab rat? He would hand him over to the Doctor, or worse — to the Black Army, who might have even more terrifying experiments waiting.
He was trapped between two hells: the hell of passive acceptance, and the hell of risking it all to hasten his own end.
Lost in these dark thoughts, his feet moved instinctively, carrying him to the only place that gave him a shred of safety —
the shabby tent at the far edge of the camp, where the six children lived… now reduced to five.
Unfortunately for him, two figures were seated at its entrance, playing cards in the sand. Soren knew them well: Zion and Carter. Like all the runaways, they wore ragged leather clothes and scarves covering half their faces, shielding them from the sun and sand.
But they were easy to tell apart — Carter had no eyebrows at all, giving him a look of constant surprise, while Zion was one-eyed, his remaining eye sharp and piercing like a hawk's.
When Zion noticed Soren approaching, he waved cheerfully, his voice booming.
"Soren! Come play with us! It's no fun with just two people!"
His lone eye glinted with watchful curiosity.
Normally, Soren would have politely declined, claiming fatigue or an errand. But suddenly, an idea struck him.
Maybe these two could be part of the escape plan — or at least serve as a distraction. Sitting with them might be the perfect cover.
So he forced a childish smile, trying to sound natural.
"Sure, I've got nothing else to do."
In truth, he didn't even know how to play the game. But that didn't matter. He could learn by watching. What mattered was his plan.
Carter began shuffling the cards skillfully, eyeing Soren with curiosity.
"So, little Soren… did you hear anything interesting inside the commander's tent?"
Normally, Soren would have lied, or wriggled out of answering at all costs. Revealing the leaders' secrets meant a slow death in the Doctor's lab. But this time was different.
He gambled on the hope that these two fugitives, like him and Leon, also wanted freedom. He gambled everything.
So he answered, trying to sound calm, indifferent.
"Yeah, I heard some things. But I didn't really understand what they were talking about. I think it had something to do with the Black Army."
At the mention of those words, Carter's hands froze mid-shuffle. Even Zion's single eye sharpened dangerously, like a blade. His voice was cold, skeptical.
"Oh? And what exactly were they saying about the Black Army?"
Soren reached the decisive moment. His heart pounded with tension, but he kept playing the part of innocence, as if oblivious to the change in their tone.
"I don't remember clearly… but they said something about the Black Army offering them a deal. To join and fight on the front lines against the Empire… in exchange for giving Commander Vulcan a permanent cure."
Both Carter and Zion's gazes grew sharper, more focused. Zion spoke again, voice edged with cold sarcasm.
"Careful, little Soren… those are dangerous words. Are you sure about this?"
Soren feigned the outrage of a child whose honesty was insulted.
"When have I ever lied to you?"
Zion's lone eye stayed locked on him, as if trying to pierce through his skull to see the truth.
"Oh, of course… our little Soren never lies."
Meanwhile, Carter set the cards aside and rose to his feet, grabbing Zion's arm. He cast Soren a falsely apologetic smile.
"Such a shame, we suddenly remembered we've got something to take care of. Looks like we won't be able to finish the game with you. Sorry."
The two of them left quickly, quietly.
Soren let out a long breath, releasing some of his dread — even though he knew there was a good chance they would go straight to Vulcan and tell him everything.
If that happened, his life would become a living, unbearable hell. But he had gambled for freedom… perhaps for everyone's lives.
After dealing with Zion and Carter, Soren continued toward the tent. He whispered to himself that the time had come.
He pushed aside the tattered flap and entered, ready to tell the others what he had heard — ready, at last, to face their fate. Tonight would be either freedom… or death.