The square of Eclion was a confusion of fear and desperation.
In the middle, the bandit leader, broad-shouldered, and with rusted chain mail banging against his armor strolled lazily among the frightened village people. A vicious smirk danced on his lips, displaying a chipped axe that had years of blood smeared on it.
"Gold," he said, tapping the axe against the palm of his hand. "It is the first of the month, and I am feeling generous. This time, give me double my share, and I will let you keep your pretty little kids alive."
The villagers quivered. A few had cloth bundles in hand, pathetic nibblings of coins, and scattered copper. Not nearly enough. They never did have enough.
The old village chief, hunched and white-bearded, made his way forward and dropped to his knees. "Please…give us more time. The harvest... was poor… and we are good people–"
The exclamation was cut short by the sound of the bandit who swung the butt of his spear into the old man's back. He flipped forward, dust scattering around his frail body.
The bandit leader let out a roar of boisterous laughter, "Old man! I've had enough of your blithering nonsense."
He paused, his dark eyes glinting as he turned to look around. "But, I heard something interesting to add to our gathering. There is a new man and woman here. Outsiders." He grinned broadly. "Bring them to me."
The chief's eyes widened in horror. "No... please, don't. They are not part of this—"
But the leader only laughed again and raised his hand to snap his fingers. "Bring them to me!"
A young man, perhaps seventeen, leapt up onto the platform beside the chief and yelled, "Stop! Leave them alone—"
However, his act of bravery was short lived. A bandit with a sword, swung the flat of the sword into the boy's stomach dropping him, gasping to his knees in the dirt. The crowd shrank away from the platform, mothers hugging their children to their chests.
Moments later, the bandits dragged in the newcomers.
The woman was striking, even dressed in a plain brown dress. Her hair was tousled, but her eyes—dark and unwavering—belied someone who had never bowed to a tyrant. But, she did not flinch when the bandits shoved her onto the platform into the square.
The hollow-eyed leader swept his drink and gaze over the woman with open lust. "Well, well," he purred. "What a treasure we found today."
He reached out to caress her face, but she flinched away from him, giving him a glacial glare that seemed capable of igniting the world in flames.
"You will pay for this," she replied, calmly but with unwavering fierceness.
He chuckled, "Oh, will I? You are fortunate I'm in a good mood. Maybe I'll let the boys have their fun with you after I am done—"
From near the treeline, an arrow sang and in a flash of silver and death, it struck him squarely in the mouth—cutting off his final word in a gurgling choke. His eyes widened in astonishment as he fell to his knees, blood gurgling around the arrow.
The square fell deathly still.
Bandits stared with mouths wide. The villagers froze in place—barely daring to breathe.
They emerged from the edge of the forest—tall figures, armed with bows and swords, ears peeking from under hoods and helms. Elves. And right beside them, men—scarred warriors and one boy with eyes that glowed with the blaze of daybreak.
Faren stepped forward, sword in hand. Arwin followed, his bandaged arm steady on the hilt of his blade.
"Enough," Faren called, his voice carrying across the stunned square. "No more extortion. No more cruelty. This ends today."
The bandits scrambled, weapons raised, confusion and panic in their eyes.
The square was filled with stunned silence from both the bandits and the villagers. The bandits were restless and shifted anxiously back and forth, looking at one another as their hands wrapped tightly around weapons that had lost their comfort. The Vice Leader, a man with a scar across his nose, stepped forward. He spoke through quivering breaths, but held onto the sneer.
"Who are you?" he said glancing between the elves' pointed ears and the french villagers standing beside them. "We have done nothing to the forest tribes so why interfere with us?"
Arwin stepped forward his one good hand tightening around the blade. He spoke coldly and calmly, at the lowest of tones, "The lady you were trying to touch? She's mine mistress."
And with that, he lunged into the action, steel glinting in the morning light.
The bandits did not have time to think. Arwin's blade plunged into the nearest bandit's chest, sending him back to the stone with an anguished cry. Another bandit magically dropped to the rocky ground from an expertly placed arrow that had whistled past Arwin's shoulder.
The bandits didn't have time to think. Arwin's blade slammed into the nearest bandit's chest, sending him sprawling with a cry. Another arrow whistled through the air, dropping a second bandit where he stood.
From the treeline, more elves emerged—bows drawn, green-clad warriors moving with quiet, deadly purpose. Their eyes were hard, their steps sure. The bandits, so used to terrorizing helpless farmers, found themselves facing an enemy that fought back like the forest itself.
Swords clashed, spears shattered, and cries of pain echoed across the square.
It didn't last long.
The bandits weren't soldiers, and the elves fought like the wind—silent, unyielding. In moments, the tide of battle shifted. Bloodied, terrified, the bandits began to break and scatter.
The vice leader watched with wide, panicked eyes. His voice cracked as he shouted over the clash of steel. "You think this ends here? We'll come back! We'll bring more men—hunt you down, elves and humans both!"
But even as he spoke, the earth itself seemed to hush him.
At the edge of the square, a behemoth crept from the trees.
Valdrak.
The white tiger strode to the square with an unnaturally elegant gait, every move measured and smooth, like slow falling snowflakes. His eyes seemed calm and cold, and without fear. On his back was a boy—Luenor—his hair windswept back, his eyes wide and unblinking.
The sight extinguished the remaining fight in the bandits.
The vice leader jerked back. "N-no, that's—"
He turned and bolted into the forest with the last of his men tumbling behind him.
This time, the world stood still for a heartbeat.
Suddenly, the villagers dropped to their knees, forehead pressed to the ground.
"Forest spirit," one said.
"The forest has come to save us," another one said. "This is a sign."
Luenor took in everything; he struggled to breathe. The weight of all the things—the fighting, the blood, the unreal sight of Valdrak standing there beside her and the others settled on him like a boulder.
He slid off Valdrak's back, boots colliding into the packed earth of the square.
Then he saw her.
Rhea.
She stood frozen still at the center of the square; tears brimmed up in her eyes; she looked at Luenor as if he were the last piece of ever wanting or hoping for some dream she held tightly in her heart.
Luenor didn't think, he just ran.
She launched herself onto him, wrapping her arms around him and crushing him against her chest; he could feel her choking on her sobs; he heard her whispering his name, over and over. "Luenor... my boy... my little star."
He buried his face in her shoulder and let his tears pour, hot against her shoulder. "Mother..."
Hera stepped over carefully and came up to them, her eyes glistening; she placed a gentle hand on Luenor's back and another on Rhea's shoulder.
In that moment, in that small circle of quiet reunion, the world felt still and whole.
And above them, Valdrak sat, tail flicking, his massive head raised like a silent sentinel—guardian of the forest and of the fragile, hopeful future they had claimed.