Sark dismounted with a grim look. "These men are professionals. Once they realize what's happening, they'll organize fast and resist."
"Maybe," Dem said calmly. "I've already dealt with their camp commander."
Sark blinked. "The camp isn't on alert. How did you manage that?"
"Quietly," Dem answered. "Get into position."
He felt the Sub-Chiefs' eyes on him — weighing his words, his composure, and the quiet confidence that came with it.
"You heard the Commander," Telo said, waving them into action.
There was nothing fair about what happened next.
Three roving guards were neutralized by nine scouts in absolute silence. They moved with the smooth precision of people who had practiced this maneuver a hundred times: two restrained the arms, the third stabbed cleanly and repeatedly. Each body was lowered gently to the ground, no sound louder than a breath.
Sark signaled retreat and raised a hand toward Reyka.
A heartbeat later, the night whispered with arrows.
Several tents erupted in flames instantly.
Then came the banshee screams of the spear oduns charging.
Dem's shadow blades shimmered into his hands as the darkness clung to him, a living veil. He flowed into the camp interior with Telo close behind, weaving between shadows and firelight. When a slaver rushed too close, Dem's blade flickered — a blur — and Telo's spear crashed down a moment later, shattering skulls with brutal efficiency.
With half a dozen tents burning and chaos exploding through the camp, the tarp over the slave pit stood out starkly — a heavy, oppressive shape stretched taut over misery.
Telo strode forward, dragging his spear down the canvas seam.
Rip—rip—rip.
Dem finished the tear with a clean sweep of both blades, pulling the entire tarp aside and flinging it away.
Inside the pit, dozens of dirty faces stared up at them — some fearful, some numb, some simply hollow. A few weren't moving at all.
"I'm Chief Telo of the Sentry force," Telo called. "We're here to free you."
He spotted the hinge and followed it to a massive padlock. "Heavy lock, Commander."
Dem knelt and pulled out Gotti's makeshift lockpick — the same one he'd been given at the Gathering. He slid it into the mechanism and began manipulating the tumblers.
A hand rose from below — slender, filthy, trembling — and closed weakly around his wrist.
Dem paused. He met the girl's eyes — saw the terror, the exhaustion, the desperate trust — and memorized her face before returning to his task.
The lock clicked open.
Dem tossed it aside and swung the door open with a clang. "We'll lead you out. Our people have cleared the way."
Telo reversed his spear and lowered the haft into the pit. Together, he and Dem began hauling the captives out. Within minutes, only one remained.
"My friend's legs are broken," whispered the girl who'd touched Dem's wrist. "Please… don't leave him."
Dem didn't hesitate.
He dropped into the pit — ignoring the stench of urine and rot — and scooped up a boy who couldn't have been older than twelve. The child whimpered but held on weakly.
Dem climbed out with inhuman ease, the boy cradled against him.
"I'll carry him," Telo offered.
Dem shook his head. "Lead the way. I'll watch our backs."
The group returned to the perimeter without incident. Inside the basin, the fighting had dwindled to scattered shouts. The crackle of fire drowned out the screams of the dying, smoke curling upward in the predawn dimness.
"Take them to the river," Dem instructed quietly. He shifted the injured boy into Sark's waiting arms. "Careful — his legs are broken."
Sark nodded. "Understood. Do you want a watch on the slaver camp?"
"Leave two scouts. Everyone else assists with the prisoners." Dem paused. "And send one scout to meet Swiftwind on the road. Escort them in."
Telo fell into step beside him. "Commander, what's our next move?"
"Keep the fires from spreading. Search the camp for anything we can use. Then get a full report from our spears."
"Aye, Commander." Telo grinned and jogged toward the burning tents.
"Aye? You a sailor now?" Dem snorted, peeling off toward the tent he'd visited the night before.
The slaver guard who had stood at the entrance earlier now lay facedown in the dirt, motionless, roughly twenty meters from the tent. Dem rolled him over with a foot.
An arrow jutted from the man's eye, perfectly centered.
"Reyka," he murmured. "No one else would place that shot. Unless they got lucky."
He lifted the tent flap and stepped inside as the first streaks of dawn touched the horizon.
The two women hung limp in their shackles, breaths thin, bodies barely responding. Dem remembered the keys he'd taken from the slaver commander and pulled them from his storage ring. One by one, he unlocked the restraints and lowered each woman to the blood-flecked bedding.
Up close, the paler woman's muscles spasmed uncontrollably. Her legs were cold as stone. Dem crouched beside her and used his thumb to gently open her mouth.
A sharp medicinal scent hit him.
Drugged heavily. Nearly overdosed.
"Everything alright, Commander?" Reyka stepped inside. Her blue eyes took in the scene — the women, the blood, the restraint marks, the scattered tools of cruelty.
Dem slapped the paler woman's cheeks — firm, alternating strikes. "Open your eyes… wake up."
Her lids fluttered. Pupils blown wide and unfocused. She whispered something hoarse and terrified.
Dem slipped an arm beneath hers and lifted her to her feet, bracing her so her knees wouldn't buckle. "Blanket," he said.
Reyka grabbed one from the bedding and draped it over the woman's shoulders before taking her other arm. "Poisoned?"
"Drugged," Dem corrected.
"What's the difference?"
"Not much," Dem said. "Get two more archers. We need the other one up and moving too. If they stop walking, they'll slip under again."
Reyka nodded sharply and called for help.
Dem walked the first woman in slow, steady circles around a smoldering campfire. By the time they completed the first loop, the second woman was also being walked — two Sentry archers supporting her weight as she muttered incoherently.
The dawn finally broke over the basin, illuminating a scene of chaos, smoke, and the quiet, relentless work of saving lives.
Reyka noticed the woman's steps improving — her legs finally beginning to carry some of her own weight.
"How'd you know to keep them walking?" she asked.
"Lots of drugs and worse in the streets of Thaigmaal," Dem replied honestly. "One of the twins got drugged once. Traffickers caught him alone and tried to take him."
"Twins?" Reyka looked over at him, sky-blue eyes sharpening with curiosity.
"Brim, the twins, and me," Dem said quietly. His stomach twisted — the memory of betrayal still sharp as a knife. "That was our group. Living, fighting… defending each other."
A breath.
"Until we didn't."
Reyka saw something dark flicker behind his eyes — a shadow of hurt, fleeting and hidden.
"You don't have to talk about it," she whispered.
Dem's grin flashed, chasing the shadows back. "The other woman has the corruption. Keep that arm covered. We'll bring her to the shaman."
Reyka's eyes widened as she looked at the other trio circling the fire. "I'll see to it."
Dem nodded. His mind lingered — not on the wound, but on the magic surrounding it. The corruption: that small patch of fur, always on the left forearm for most. His own had been on the right — easier to hide in the alleys of Thaigmaal.
Beastkin.
It was the mark of it.
But tribal shaman tattoos sealed the bloodline, masking the truth. Something in the magic always turned his thoughts away from the subject before they could fully settle — a heavy fog he'd never been able to push through.
He raised his voice so the other archers could hear.
"Let's walk them down to the river. Help them clean up."
By the time they reached the water, the other freed captives had already been cleaned, wrapped in spare blankets, and given basic first aid. Sark had splinted the boy's legs well — crude but sturdy.
"We need a healer," Dem muttered, crouching beside the injured boy.
"Commander."
Rodric's deep voice carried from the trail. "I briefed Telo. He asked me to give the report."
Dem stepped away so Reyka and her archers could tend to the drugged women.
"Let's hear it."
"Two minor injuries only," Rodric said. "Scratches, nothing more. We're holding the farmers — they were taking coin from the slavers. Lining their pockets."
He crossed his arms.
"Twenty slavers dead. No survivors. A few tried to surrender, but my hearing's bad, so…"
Dem snorted. "Right."
Rodric grinned slightly.
"Release the farmers," Dem said. "Tell them to leave the valley with whatever they can carry. We're keeping all livestock and equipment. If they resist, remind them their other choice is to join the slavers."
Rodric nodded once. "And the slaver bodies?"
"Toss them into the pit where they kept the captives," Dem said flatly. "Fill it in. Let it be the grave they earned."