4. Victory

The air was thick and humid as the group of warriors moved swiftly through the dense jungle, leaves brushing against their arms like silent warnings.

For months, they had tracked the slavers, following cold trails and whispers that led them deeper into the hems of the Archon's realm.

Reports of children vanishing in the night, of families left with nothing but memories of laughter, had driven them forward.

Every step was a small, fierce promise to restore what had been taken and to end the silent terror haunting the fringes of the realm.

At the front of the party, General Quizig's face was set, the lines of age and experience deepening in the dawn light.

His steps were sure, his grip on his sword firm, though a silent dread gnawed at the edges of his mind.

He had led countless missions, but the thought of stolen children made the world feel fragile, the stakes sharper.

"We're close," Quizig muttered, his eyes scanning the worn trail. "Their camp can't be far."

Beside him, Rima, his second-in-command, matched his pace, her expression hardened with grim determination.

"We'll get them back, General. We'll get *him* back," she said softly, as if reminding herself of the promise she'd made.

Behind them, the Babaylan clerics advanced in their own quiet procession. Their energy was one of calm and healing, a stark contrast to the warriors' intensity.

Maya, the eldest among them, led the way, her worn hands brushing against her ceremonial charms, each step a whispered invocation for protection.

Maya sensed the spirits of the land growing restless, whispering warnings of danger and darkness ahead.

She quickened her pace, her heartbeat a steady drum. In her spirit, she could feel the frightened echoes of the children—their fear and longing vibrating like strings just out of reach.

Alona, a young cleric beside her, cast a worried glance around the dense canopy. "Do you feel it too?" he asked, his voice low.

Maya nodded, her face set. "The spirits are troubled. The children… their light is faint, as if it's dimming." She glanced toward the warriors ahead. "We may be too late if we're not swift."

Alona swallowed, gripping his staff tighter as a sense of helplessness pricked at him. Around them, the sounds of the forest seemed to grow louder, filled with an urgency that only heightened their own. Quizig kept them pressing forward, ignoring the exhaustion in his bones.

"We have to be faster," he ordered, pushing branches aside. "For the children. For the families waiting back home."

Just beyond a stand of trees, they found it—the clearing where the slavers had set up camp. But instead of the grim silence of captives and captors, chaos greeted them.

Children, battered but defiant, were at the center of a whirlwind of bodies. Some wielded sticks, others clutched rocks with white-knuckled determination.

The slavers, caught off guard by the revolt, scrambled to contain the uprising, but the children's desperation was a force they hadn't anticipated.

At the forefront of the chaos, five young figures stood out, fighting with the last of their strength.

Elliot, his face pale and his body bruised, swayed unsteadily as he fought, his once-powerful scales now dull and cracked.

Beside him, Amiyan desperately blocked incoming attacks, his dagger darting but slowing as exhaustion took its toll. He glanced back, his face a mixture of fury and desperation.

The sight spurred Quizig's warriors forward. Without a word, they moved into formation, slipping swiftly into the fray.

The slavers barely had a moment to react before the first strike fell. Metal flashed, slicing through the murky air as the warriors swept in with a fierce, unrelenting purpose.

Swords clashed, bodies fell, and the cries of battle mingled with the cheers of the children, who watched in awe as salvation descended upon them.

Maya and the clerics moved forward, weaving through the chaos with an urgency born of purpose.

She knelt beside a child who had fallen, pressing her hands over a deep gash as her healing light pulsed softly, knitting the skin together.

"You're safe now," she whispered, soothing the child's bruised spirit with her words.

Alona joined her, his hands glowing as he healed another, the boy's tear-streaked face softening as the pain faded.

Around them, the clerics worked with quiet efficiency, the power of their healing a constant light in the storm of battle.

Thanks to their proficiency, no life slipped away, each child pulled back from the brink.

As the slavers' numbers dwindled, Quizig caught sight of Elliot and Amiyan among the children. Elliot's face was drawn, blood trickling from a deep cut on his side, his breaths shallow as he struggled to stay upright. Quizig moved toward him, fighting off an attacker in his path before reaching his side.

"You fought well, lad," Quizig said, his tone gentle yet resolute as he signaled a cleric to help. Elliot's head tilted in acknowledgment, a weak, grateful smile crossing his face as he stumbled.

Amiyan caught Quizig's arm, his voice hoarse as he looked from Elliot to the warrior. "Please… he's hurt bad. Save him."

Maya was already there, her hands glowing as she placed them over Elliot's wound, her touch soft and steady.

"You're strong, child," she murmured, her voice like a balm. "Rest now. You're safe."

Amiyan watched as the light of her healing began to mend Elliot's injuries, relief flooding his face. "Thank you… thank you," he whispered, barely able to stand himself.

Quizig glanced at the remaining slavers, his voice a hard command that carried across the clearing. "Take them alive," he ordered his warriors. "We'll see them answer for their crimes."

Rima nodded, her eyes cold as she moved to bind the remaining captors. "It's over for you," she said to the slavers, her tone low and unforgiving.

Amiyan knelt beside Elliot as the clerics continued to work, his hand resting on his friend's shoulder. "We made it, Elliot. You… you did great."

Elliot's eyes fluttered, the relief washing over him like a wave. "Yeah… I think we did." His voice was barely a whisper, his gaze unfocused as he looked up at Amiyan, a faint smile playing at the corner of his lips.

Maya gave a small nod to Amiyan, her gentle reassurance that Elliot was out of danger. But as the healing light dimmed, Elliot's body went limp, his eyes closing slowly.

"Elliot?" Amiyan's voice shook, his hand tightening on his friend's shoulder as panic crept into his voice. "Elliot? Stay with me—come on, wake up!"

Wuxian, the tall swordsman, knelt beside them, his brow furrowing as he felt for a pulse.

"He's… he's just passed out," he murmured, relief in his voice as he met Amiyan's frantic gaze. "He's still here."

Amiyan's hand slowly relaxed, his breath coming in unsteady bursts as the realization sank in.

"Thank the spirits," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I thought… I thought I'd lost him."

Quizig looked down at the group of young fighters, a glint of pride and respect in his gaze.

They had fought for their freedom, and now, they would be brought to safety.

As Elliot lay there, his face peaceful, he felt the weight of the world lift from his shoulders.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he was safe. The world faded to black, his last thought a simple, profound relief.