Tending to the elf overnight was not the easiest task. His injuries included deep gashes along his arms, bruises across his torso, and a swollen ankle that made even the slightest movement a struggle. Elenion's healing magic, managed to close the worst of the wounds. I worked alongside him, cleaning the cuts and bandaging his ankle. The elf winced and groaned but remained silent throughout the process.
When we finally finished, the elf opened his eyes fully for the first time. He pushed himself upright with a groan, leaning against the wall for support.
"I owe you my life," he said, his voice hoarse but firm. "I am General Triandal Fenmyar of the Elven Kingdom, noble of House Fenmyar." His tone carried an air of practiced authority, as though the very act of introducing himself was a proclamation.
"Shepherd Varland," I replied curtly. "This is Elenion Rothe."
Triandal inclined his head slightly before his expression hardened. "You must aid me. My men and I—those whom are still alive here in the prison—must escape this place."
I raised an eyebrow. "Just like that, huh?"
Triandal's jaw tightened. "I do not jest, human. The Elven Queen must hear of what has transpired at the border. She must know I survived. She must know…" His voice softened, his eyes taking on a distant, almost reverent look. "She must know I still stand ready to serve her... to..."
He went on to describe her in vivid detail, his words verging on obsession. The Queen of the Elves, as Triandal painted her, was a vision of otherworldly beauty—and I quote "...the most beautiful women in any of the realms, mortal or other. Long white hair like spun silk, eyes like the deepest blue of the oceans horizon, and a grace that could bring kings to their knees." It was clear that his devotion to her went far beyond duty—he was madly in love.
"Escape isn't as simple as you think," I said finally. "The entire main complex is surrounded by a magical barrier. It suppresses any magic and makes any attempt at escape… difficult, to say the least."
Elenion shot me a sidelong glance, his expression unreadable. I gave a slight shrug, unsure of how to respond to Triandal's fervor.
Triandal's eyes narrowed. "That explains why my magical essence feels so low, but I don't care for your excuses, human. What's at stake here is far greater than your petty concerns."
"Petty?" I snapped at Triandal.
The tension between us crackled like a storm about to break. Triandal glared at me, but before I could let my true thoughts out Elenion stepped between us.
"Enough!" he said, his voice firm. "We need to work together. Fighting amongst ourselves will only get us in more trouble than what it's worth."
I backed down, biting down my anger. Triandal's expression remained defiant, but he said nothing more. For now, we were at a fragile truce.
Over the next few days, Triandal's presence disrupted the fragile rhythm Elenion and I had established. His insistence on escape plans often clashed with my own cautious approach to life in this prison, and his disdain for my "human pragmatism," as he put it, only added fuel to the fire.
One afternoon as the late autumn sun cast long shadows across the yard, its weak warmth doing little to dispel the chill in the air. Prisoners milled about, some pacing to ward off the cold, others clustering in groups. I leaned against the stone wall, watching the flow of the crowds.
The air was more tense than usual, with the recent addition of the elven soldiers. A large group of prisoners clustered near the far corner, their voices a murmur of agitation. Even from a distance, I could feel the heat rising in the crowd, the kind of simmering anger that had only one outlet.
I exchanged a glance with Elenion, who leaned against the wall of the yard next to me, his face calm but his eyes sharp. "Whatever is about to happen, I would suggest you stay out of it," he muttered, barely audible over the growing noise.
But staying out of it wasn't in my plans today.
Shouting began as two groups squared off. The Sons of Iron stood opposite a cluster of the elven soldiers and of course at the front of them was Triandal. His stance was as defiant as ever.
One of the Sons, stepped forward, shoving an elf to the ground. The response was immediate. Triandal lunged, his movement sharp and precise, driving a roundhouse kick into the Son's ribs.
Chaos ensued.
I saw prisoners scrambling to choose sides. Some rushed to defend their friends or seize the opportunity for violence, while others hung back, waiting to see where the chips would fall. The mercenaries I had befriended hesitated, their eyes darting between the factions.
Then someone stumbled—no, was thrown—straight into Varos.
The beastfolks's expression darkened as he shoved the unfortunate prisoner aside, stepping into the fray like a storm personified. He let out a noise that sounded like a trumpet from his trunk which silenced the yard for a brief moment before the fighting resumed, fiercer than before.
"Shepard," Elenion hissed, his voice taut with warning.
But my blood was already pounding in my ears. My muscles tensed with an excitement I hadn't felt in months—a sharp, visceral thrill. This wasn't like sparring or biding time in a dark cell. This was real action.
My body reacted before my mind could catch up. I pushed off the wall and sprinted toward the elves. Triandal had already taken a solid hit or two, his defiance waning. I shoved a Son away from him, the man's surprise giving me just enough of an opening to land a blow to his gut.
"Stay back," I barked at Triandal, who glared at me but didn't argue.
A heavyset Son charged at me, his fists raised in a clumsy attempt at intimidation. I sidestepped his swing with ease, twisting on my heel and driving an elbow into his side. The air rushed out of him in a groan, and I followed up with a sweep of his legs, sending him crashing to the ground.
Rusty? Maybe. But it felt good to move again, to fight again.
The guards shouted orders from the towers, but they didn't intervene just yet—why would they? This was entertainment for them. Their laughter echoed faintly above the din of combat.
The fight surged around us. I dodged a crude swing from another prisoner, countering with a quick jab to his throat. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Khar caught up in the fray. He struggled against two Sons, unfortunately for him it was an uneven match up.
"Khar!" I shouted, but it was too late. One of the Sons swung a jagged shard of stone, and Khar crumpled to the ground, blood pooling beneath him.
The sight sent a surge of rage through me. I turned on the Son closest to me, my movements fluid and deliberate. I struck low, driving my knee into his midsection, then followed with a sharp elbow to his jaw. He collapsed, and I spun to face the next threat.
Varos, meanwhile, was making quick work of anyone foolish enough to challenge him. His massive fists sent prisoners flying, and his grunts of anger seemed to shake the very air. Our eyes met briefly across the yard, a wordless acknowledgment passing between us before we both turned back to the chaos.
The mercenaries finally made their move, though their loyalty wavered. One of them called out, "Shepherd! Whose side are you on?"
I didn't answer. My fists did the talking.
Triandal, for all his arrogance, held his own surprisingly well. He moved with a grace that betrayed his noble upbringing, dodging strikes and landing precise blows. But his endurance was fading, he must not be used to fighting without relying on any magic and I found myself covering for him more often than not.
The fight reached its climax when three bodies lay motionless on the ground—Khar among them. The guards finally decided to intervene, their shouting pierced the air as they descended on the yard with spears, swords and shields.
I backed away, my chest heaving, my knuckles bloodied. Triandal leaned heavily against me, his breath ragged but steady. Varos stood in the center of the carnage, his massive frame untouched by even a scratch.
The guards shouted orders, forcing us back into line. As we shuffled toward the cells, the man with the scar I encountered on my first day caught my arm. "Shepherd," he said quietly, his eyes filled with a mix of awe and uncertainty. "You're more dangerous than you let on. I knew you were no mage."
I didn't reply, my thoughts too muddled to form words. I glanced back at Khar's lifeless body as we passed, a pang of regret twisting in my chest. But beneath that, there was something else—for the first time in months, I felt alive.
Despite our differences, I couldn't deny that Triandal's arrival had reignited a sense of urgency. The clock was ticking, and if I wanted to achieve my goals, I couldn't afford to waste anymore time.