The dim light of a flickering campfire painted the cave orange. Shadows danced along the jagged stone walls, creating sinister shapes that seemed to move on their own.
A faint whimper escaped someone's lips, followed by a man's clicking tongue. Then there was silence... apart from the shallow breaths of the elves tied to wooden posts.
There were three of them—each one secured tightly. Their wrists had turned blue and their faces pale. Blood trickled from various wounds on their bodies, staining the floor.
Despite their injuries, their eyes remained sharp, full of defiance. But when they saw the young boy standing before them, all that rage turned into empathy.
But the young elf boy, who was only twelve, had fear in his emerald eyes.
"Why did you stop, my boy?" the man sighed.
"...I-I ran out," the elf boy replied.
"Collect the knives, then."
