The sun was a merciless tyrant in the sky, beating down on the cracked earth with an oppressive, shimmering heat. Every breath felt thick, stolen from a furnace. For the small band of travelers, the road was a ribbon of baked clay, and the dust their constant companion, clinging to their clothes and coating their tongues.

  Leonotis, however, seemed immune to the misery. He marched with a theatrical swing in his arms, his boots kicking up puffs of red dirt. A wide, irrepressible grin was plastered on his face, a beacon of foolish optimism in the sweltering haze.

  "I'm telling you," he announced to the world at large, his voice booming with unearned confidence, "one day, bards will strum their lutes and sing of our deeds! They'll call me Leonotis the Brave! Savior of the People! Protector of the Weak!"

  A loud snort came from his side. Low, her powerful frame moving with a predator's grace, shifted the sling of heavy rocks at her hip. Her dark eyes, usually simmering with a dangerous light, were narrowed in pure annoyance. "Protector of the Annoying, maybe," she grumbled, her voice a low rumble. "Songs are for heroes who don't have to shout their own names every five seconds."

  Walking a few paces ahead, Jacqueline tapped her staff against the ground in a steady rhythm. A weary but fond smile touched her lips. "Honestly, the noise you two make is probably a better bandit deterrent than my water magic. They'd hear us coming from a league away and run for the hills."

  Trailing silently behind them all was Zombiel. The small boy clutched a cloth-wrapped bundle of herbs in his hands, his head bowed. His crimson eyes, usually as expressive as polished stones, blinked slowly, taking in the world with an unnerving stillness.

  The memory of the last village was a bitter taste in their mouths, a stark contrast to Leonotis's grand pronouncements. They had arrived to find the land sick, a creeping poison leeching life from the soil. They had worked tirelessly—Leonotis coaxing new life, Jacqueline purifying the wells, Low guarding the perimeter, and Zombiel burning away the corruption with his precise flames. But when their work was done, there were no cheers. Only suspicion. Shutters were slammed in their faces. Parents pulled their children back, whispering of monsters and cursed magic. Their reward was a few stale loaves of bread and the cold weight of fear in the villagers' eyes.

  It left their bellies nearly as empty as their spirits.

  Yet, Leonotis's optimism was a stubborn weed. He punched the air, a plume of dust exploding from his fist. "Next time will be different! People will cheer when they see us! They'll carry me on their shoulders and—"

  "—and drop you headfirst in the mud," Low finished, the corner of her mouth twitching into a smirk.

  Leonotis stuck his tongue out at her and laughed, the sound bright and defiant.

  But his laughter died in his throat. Ahead, Jacqueline had frozen mid-stride, her staff held motionless. Her entire focus was locked on something at the side of the road. The lighthearted banter evaporated, replaced by a sudden, tense silence broken only by the buzz of heat-dazed insects.

  There, huddled against the skeletal trunk of a withered tree, was a small shape. A lump of rags and misery that, as they drew closer, resolved into the form of a child. He was even younger than Zombiel, his tiny body curled into a ball as if to ward off the world itself. His clothes were tattered, and his face was a mask of dirt streaked by the clean paths of dried tears.

  The group came to a halt, the heat suddenly feeling colder.

  "Is he… alive?" Leonotis asked, his voice a strained whisper. All his heroic bluster had vanished, leaving behind only raw concern.

  Zombiel shuffled forward a single step. His quiet, raspy voice, so rarely used, cut through the stillness. "Yes."

  As if summoned by the word, the boy's head lifted. His eyes, wide and glassy with fever, fixed on them. A tremor ran through his frail body. He lifted two trembling, stick-thin arms, a gesture of pure, desperate supplication.

  "Please," he breathed, the sound no louder than a rustling leaf. "Help me."

  That single word, that simple gesture, struck them with more force than a physical blow. It was a plea that bypassed all defenses and went straight to the heart.

  Low was the first to react. In two long strides, she was beside him, her usual gruffness melting away as she knelt and pressed the back of her hand against his forehead. Her jaw tightened. "He's burning up."

  Jacqueline was already on her knees on his other side, her healer's instincts taking over. She gently checked his pulse, her fingers brushing against skin as dry as parchment. "Severe dehydration. Malnutrition," she diagnosed, her voice grim. "His body's collapsing."

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Leonotis crouched down, his face a canvas of shock and dawning horror. The world of grand adventures and heroic songs felt like a foolish dream now. This was real. This was a small boy dying by the side of the road. "We can fix this, right?" he asked, his voice pleading. "Jacqueline, we can help him."

  The boy's fingers, weak but desperate, latched onto the fabric of Leonotis's sleeve. His words came in broken, sobbing gasps. "Bandits… took my sister. I tried to… fight… they left me." His story crumbled into a fit of heartbreaking sobs.

  A profound sorrow filled Jacqueline's eyes. She pressed her lips into a thin line, her gaze sweeping over her companions. "I can heal his body," she said softly, her meaning hanging heavy in the air. "But if we ignore his words…"

  Low's expression was thunderous. She nodded once, a sharp, grim motion. "Then he dies without his sister."

  Leonotis looked from the weeping boy clutching his arm to the determined faces of his friends. The last of his childish bravado burned away, forged by the heat of the sun and the fire of righteous anger into something hard and unyielding.

  "Then we'll save her."

  The bandit camp was a festering sore on the twilight landscape, a chaotic smear of stolen goods and unwashed bodies. A greasy haze from a sputtering campfire hung in the air, carrying the stench of scorched meat, stale ale, and something sourly human. Rough, laughter echoed from the dozen or so men lounging on crates and furs. They were brutes, their eyes holding the casual cruelty of men who take what they want, their desires the only law they followed.

  And in the center of their circle, illuminated and utterly alone, was the prize they had stolen.

  A little girl, no older than seven, was tied to a crude wooden post. A dirty gag was stuffed in her mouth, but it couldn't stop the heartbreaking sounds that escaped her, muffled sobs that were drowned out by the bandits' harsh laughter. Her small body trembled violently, a tiny leaf in a vicious storm.

  Leonotis felt his heart hammer against his ribs, each beat a frantic, sickening thud. All the air seemed to have been punched from his lungs. Every boastful word he had ever spoken, every fantasy of being hailed as a hero, turned to ash in his mouth. There was no glory here. There was no adoring crowd. There was only a terrified child and the monsters who had put her there. The world of songs and legends felt like a child's foolish dream. This was real.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder and flinched. Jacqueline was beside him, her face a grim mask. "Leonotis, breathe," she whispered, her voice tight. "Charging in blindly will get us all killed, and her along with us."

  Low was a coiled spring of violence beside them, her knuckles white where she gripped a heavy stone. A low growl rumbled in her chest, a sound that was more beast than human. "Just point me at them," she hissed. "I'll tear them apart."

  Normally, Leonotis would have puffed out his chest and agreed, eager to lead the charge. But the boyish bravado had been scoured out of him. In its place was a cold, sharp fear that, to his surprise, didn't paralyze him. It focused him. His gaze swept over the camp, not as a stage for his heroics, but as a battlefield. His mind, usually buzzing with self-aggrandizing chatter, fell silent and began to work.

  He saw it all. The dozen men, drunk and complacent. The single campfire as their main source of light. He saw the piles of dry brush and discarded supplies—perfect tinder. He saw the hard, rocky ground on Low's side of the ridge. And his eyes, attuned to the life in the earth, followed a line of dark, damp soil that led away from the camp toward a barely visible stream.

  The pieces began to click into place.

  "No," Leonotis said, his voice quiet but firm, startling the others. He held up a hand, forestalling Low's protest. "A frontal assault is what they'd expect. We'd be surrounded. We have to be smarter."

  Low stared at him, her eyebrows raised in disbelief. "You? Smarter?"

  Leonotis ignored the jibe, his eyes still locked on the scene below. "Their confidence is their weakness. They don't expect a real threat." He turned to them, his expression one they had never seen before—not boastful, not goofy, but intensely serious. "Here's what we do."

  He pointed a steady finger. "Low, you see those loose rocks on the ledge above them? When I give the signal, I don't want you to throw one. I want you to bring the whole ledge down. Not on them, but behind them. Block their escape route and cause a massive distraction. Make them think the mountain itself is coming down."

  Low's skeptical look slowly morphed into a predatory grin. It was a plan that appealed to her sense of overwhelming force.

  He then turned to Zombiel. "Zombiel, all that dry brush and their supply wagons? The moment they're distracted, you light it up. All of it. Create a wall of fire. Panic them. Make them feel trapped between the rockslide and the flames."

  Zombiel gave a single, sharp nod, his red eyes glowing faintly in the deepening gloom.

  Leonotis's gaze found Jacqueline. "That damp ground I saw leads to a stream. While they're blinded by the fire and deafened by the rockslide, they won't see you coming. That's your opening. You go straight for the girl. Use the steam and smoke from the fire for cover."

  Finally, he looked at his own hands. "The ground here is soft. Rich. While they're scrambling, disoriented, and trying to figure out where to run, I'll let the earth take care of them. I'll bind them."

  They all stared at him. The plan was simple, brutal, and it used every one of their unique skills in perfect concert. It was… a good plan. A leader's plan.

  Jacqueline looked at him, a flicker of surprise and pride in her eyes. She gave a firm nod. "It'll work."

  Low grunted, which from her was the highest form of praise. "Just tell me when."

  Leonotis took a deep breath, the cold air settling his racing heart. He looked back at the camp, at the small, trembling girl tied to the post. The fear was still there, a cold knot in his stomach, but now it was joined by a fierce, burning resolve. He wasn't playing a hero anymore. He was about to become one.

  He gave them a final, determined look. "Get into position. On my signal."

  The four of them melted into the shadows, silent predators circling their prey. The bandits below laughed and drank, blissfully unaware that their world was about to be torn apart.