3. Rise in Revolt

The stifling heat of the tropical island pressed in from all sides, suffocating, unrelenting.

The sun hung high in the sky, a cruel overseer to the prisoners locked in their rusting cages.

Sweat dripped down Elliot's brow, mixing with the salt of the sea and the grime of captivity.

His muscles ached, his stomach growled, but still he remained still, observing.

Watching.

Listening.

The slavers were a loose, unruly group, too confident in their control.

But Elliot could feel the tension building beneath the surface—like the calm before a storm.

The prisoners, broken and weary as they were, began to stir in their cages, murmuring in low voices, eyeing each other with looks that spoke of silent promises.

They were not all resigned to their fate. Not yet.

The day passed slowly, the hours stretching and warping beneath the heat.

The slavers went about their duties, some lounging under the sparse shade of the trees, others sharpening their weapons by the flickering light of a fire.

Elliot kept his head down, doing his best to seem like just another helpless prisoner.

But beneath the facade, his mind was racing, searching for a way out.

A way to fight back.

Suddenly, the low murmur of voices grew louder, sharp whispers carried by the wind.

Elliot's gaze flicked to the prisoners in the nearby cages.

There, in the shadows, a figure moved with the quiet grace of a predator—one of the prisoners, a man of lean muscle and dark skin, was speaking to the others.

His hands made swift, deliberate gestures as he explained something, and soon, a handful of prisoners nodded, determination hardening their faces.

Elliot's heart quickened, the pulse of the world around him matching the rapid beat of his own.

*Is this it?* he thought, barely daring to hope.

He watched as the figure approached his cage.

The man's eyes, dark and intense, met Elliot's, and in that moment, there was no need for words.

The prisoner had been watching him, studying him, just as Elliot had been watching them.

The man knelt, his voice barely a whisper.

"I see fire in your eyes, foreigner. A fire that cannot be quenched. You have power, even if you don't know it yet. We can break free, together."

Elliot's breath caught in his throat.

He had no idea who this man was, but he felt it—the same stirring power beneath his skin, the same pulse of something ancient, something vast.

He had never felt more alive.

"What do you need me to do?" Elliot asked, his voice low and steady.

The man smiled, a fleeting expression that held no joy, only grim determination.

"You've felt it, haven't you? The tension in the air. The slaves are restless, the guards are too careless. Tonight, we strike."

Elliot nodded.

He didn't need more explanation.

He could feel the truth in the man's words like a stone sinking to the bottom of his gut.

*Tonight.*

The sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the island, painting the jungle with a sickly orange hue.

The firelight flickered and danced, casting erratic shadows that made the world seem more monstrous than it already was.

The slavers were beginning to drink, to laugh, to relax as night descended.

They thought they were safe, that they had nothing to fear.

They couldn't be more wrong.

As the night grew darker, Elliot could hear the sound of hushed voices and the clinking of chains, the subtle shifting of prisoners moving closer to their cages.

He could see it now—the prisoners in the nearby cells were preparing, their eyes full of purpose.

A handful of them, those who had whispered and planned earlier, were ready.

The rest… they were waiting for the spark.

*This is it,* Elliot thought.

His pulse hammered in his ears, every fiber of his being tuned to the rising tension in the air.

The slavers sat around their campfire, their faces illuminated by the flickering flames, their voices raucous and carefree.

The guards, distracted, laughed as they passed a bottle of foul-smelling alcohol between them.

It was the perfect moment.

With a sudden, explosive movement, the prisoner with the dark eyes—whom Elliot had learned to recognize as Amiyan—ripped a sharp, jagged piece of metal from the bars of his own cage.

He shoved it into the lock, and with a click, the door sprang open.

A low, violent cheer echoed through the prisoners as they followed suit, each cell coming undone one by one.

Elliot's heart raced as he moved into the shadows, instinctively staying low.

His eyes darted across the camp, scanning for threats.

The slavers were oblivious, their laughter now replaced by a confused, panicked shout as the prisoners surged forward, their shackles forgotten.

The first slaver fell, his body crumpling to the ground.

The jungle came alive with a chorus of roars and cries, a cacophony of freedom and violence.

The sound of metal on flesh rang in his ears, the clash of their weapons filling the air as the slavers scrambled to defend themselves.

In that moment, something changed.

The fear that had held him captive, the uncertainty, the doubts—all of it faded into the background.

He was no longer Elliot, the prisoner, the broken man.

He was *Rhaegos*

His soul burned with the heat of a thousand forgotten battles.

The name no longer felt foreign; it was as much a part of him as his breath.

In that moment, power erupted within Elliot—dark scales enveloped his body, his strength surging forth just as it had when he battled the sea creature in the depths.

Elliot's breath was ragged in his chest as he surged forward, his claws instinctively scraping against the rough stone of the ground, his body moving with a speed he'd never known.

The power inside him was no longer a distant thing.

It was alive, writhing, twisting through his veins, begging to be released.

He reached out, his fingers crackling with dark energy, and with a roar, he unleashed a blast of shadow that sent two slavers sprawling to the ground.

The air rippled with the force of the strike, and Elliot's heart leaped in his chest as the power surged through him, unstoppable and pure.

But there was no time to celebrate.

More slavers were coming, weapons drawn, their faces twisted in rage and fear.

But the prisoners, driven by desperation, were no longer just captives.

They were warriors.

Elliot's body moved without thought, without hesitation.

He leapt, his limbs carrying him effortlessly across the ground as he collided with the next slaver.

Elliot swung his clawed hands with all the strength he could muster. Each swipe unleashed dark, serrated shadows that tore into his foes.

But with each strike, he could feel his power slipping away ever so slowly.

Eventually, the shadows grew weaker, fizzling into nothing before they reached their marks.

"No, no… come on," he muttered under his breath, panic flashing in his eyes as his claws dimmed, the power slipping from him just when he needed it most.

Beside him, Amiyan fought with the precision of someone trained, yet his steps faltered under the weight of exhaustion.

His movements were not the perfect dance of a seasoned warrior but the desperate fight of someone too weary to keep up.

His dagger flashed as he parried a blow, but it nearly slipped from his grasp as a slaver swung at him with brutal force.

Amiyan barely dodged, stumbling backward. "Elliot, you good?" he asked, his breath ragged, even as he forced himself to press on.

"Not… really," Elliot gasped, clutching his ribs where his armor had failed to protect him from a previous strike.

His face was pale, the scales now brittle and fragile. They both knew he was out of energy, yet he swung again, fighting purely on instinct.

Around them, other children—friends and allies—were collapsing, one by one.

Their faces were pale, their eyes heavy as they struggled and fell to the ground, each of them giving all they had until there was nothing left.

Their cries echoed through the chaos, heightening the desperation that hung over the battlefield like a storm.

Just when it seemed like they would be overrun, a figure leapt into the fray. A tall, handsome boy with sharp yet delicate features charged forward, his movements swift and sure as he swung his sword with deadly precision.

The blade gleamed in the dim light as he slashed through the approaching slavers, each swing fluid and graceful.

"Hold on, I've got you!" he shouted, glancing back at Elliot and Amiyan, his voice steady but tinged with urgency.

"Thank you, pretty boy," Amiyan managed, gritting his teeth as he swung his dagger again, barely deflecting an incoming attack.

"Don't worry," he replied with a smirk, "I'm Wuxian, by the way."

To their left, a large, muscular boy grappled with a pair of slavers, his face set in determination. With raw strength, he tackled one to the ground, wrestling fiercely until he pinned his opponent beneath him.

"A little help here, please!" he called, straining against the struggling slaver.

"Wait for me, Atlan!" Wuxian replied, pivoting to fend off an attacker before slicing his way toward him.

Meanwhile, a small figure darted through the melee like a proficient gymnast. Their small stature was deceptive; each blow landed with a force that sent their foes reeling.

They punched a slaver square in the jaw, knocking him back with a solid thud, then turned to back up Elliot and Amiyan.

"Keep fighting!" they urged, their voice unwavering even as their breaths came in short gasps. "We're not done yet."

"Easier said than done," Elliot muttered, staggering as he tried to summon his shadows again. His claws flickered, but the darkness didn't come. "It's not… working. I can't—"

"Then use what you've got!" they shouted, delivering a sharp kick to an enemy closing in on Elliot.

But even them were slowing down, their movements faltering as exhaustion weighed down on them.

Amiyan, his own energy nearly gone, tightened his grip on his dagger, looking at Elliot. "We're not going to make it, are we?"

"Stop talking like that!" Wuxian's voice cut through the despair as he swung his sword with another graceful arc, clearing the way for them. "We just have to hold on a little longer. Stay together!"

Amiyan nodded, swallowing back the rising fear. "Right. One more push."

Elliot managed a weak smile, his face streaked with sweat and dirt. "You guys… you're crazy. But okay."

In that desperate moment, the five of them stood together, bruised and bloody but unwavering, fighting back-to-back as the slavers closed in.

For each breathless second, they held the line, their resolve stronger than any weapon.

They knew their odds were slim, but as long as they had each other, they would fight to the very end.