The wind died down, leaving behind only the stillness of a desecrated camp. But their anger didn't fade. It fueled them as they moved through the camp like a relentless storm, freeing the remaining laborers and tearing down every last chamber of depravity. Every stone, every filthy corner of the orcs' twisted creation was razed to the ground, reduced to ashes in their wake.
And by the time the last building was destroyed, they stood as an army. Five hundred elves strong, united in their shared suffering and righteous fury.
As they regrouped, their eyes turned toward Findir, who stood at the forefront of their march. Despite his appearance—his skin no longer dark from the curse—there was no hesitation in their recognition. He was a dark elf in their eyes, a warrior who had led them to freedom. And though his skin no longer bore the mark of his heritage, they saw something far more important in him: a leader, one they could follow without question.
