The medical tent area was a scene of panicked evacuation. As the Westvale cavalry exploited the breach, the Northwatch command structure at Thornwood disintegrated. Officers were fleeing, and the remaining logistics workers were being abandoned to their fate.
"Lenn! Now!" Aris shouted, dragging Mira toward the largest supply wagon.
Lenn, thinner and paler than ever, stumbled out of a records tent, clutching a small, leather-bound ledger—the supply commander's manifest. His eyes were wide with shock, but when he saw Aris, a sliver of desperate hope returned.
"The wagons are loaded," Lenn gasped, pointing to the largest cart, pulled by a team of exhausted mules. "Food, medical supplies, and maps. They were taking them north."
"Not anymore," Aris declared. He looked back towards the melee. Doran and Tova were fighting their way back, Doran using the heavy pike shaft to sweep aside opponents, Tova stabbing defensively with her short-handled shovel.
"Mira, you and Lenn load the essentials," Aris commanded, his voice sharp and utterly authoritative. "Tova, when you get here, you take the reins. Doran, you're the rear guard. We need to cut this wagon free."
There was no discussion, no hesitation. The children had spent their entire lives following orders. Now, they were following their own.
Mira, immediately understanding the medical need, began grabbing satchels of bandages and anti-septic herbs. Lenn, the quiet intellect, went straight for the hidden box of maps and the ledger. Tova, fierce and protective, secured the mules.
Aris, armed with the superior Westvale short sword, cut the leather traces securing the other supply wagons, freeing their single vehicle from the doomed convoy. He then turned to Doran, who finally emerged from the fray, covered in mud and a few new bruises, dragging their original wooden pike shaft.
"Clear," Doran grunted, panting heavily.
"Get on the back," Aris ordered. He climbed into the driver's seat next to Tova, who had the reins wrapped tightly around her thin hands.
"North?" Tova asked, her eyes still huge with fear.
"North is where they expect us to run," Aris said, grabbing a handful of low-grade powder from a nearby discarded gunpowder keg. "We go East. Away from the main army lines. Into the wilder valleys."
He jumped off the wagon and ran to the shattered barricade, just as the first wave of Westvale knights broke through and began chasing the scattered Northwatch stragglers.
"Aris!" Doran screamed from the back of the wagon. "What are you doing?"
Aris ignored him. He found the powder keg they had used for breaching the barricade, quickly poured the low-grade charge into the remaining empty powder barrels and ran the trail of powder back to the wagon path.
He didn't need a huge explosion; he just needed a moment of blinding smoke and noise.
"Drive!" Aris yelled, leaping onto the back of the wagon just as Tova cracked the whip.
As the wagon lurched forward, Aris reached the trail of powder and tossed the lit torch he had grabbed from the wreckage onto it.
WHOOM!
The sound was not that of a massive bomb, but a bright, deafening flash of light and smoke that instantly enveloped the fragmented battlefield behind them. The Westvale pursuit, thinking it was a trap or a mine, immediately checked their charge.
The wagons shot free of the Crossroads.
The next few hours were a desperate flight into the eastern foothills. Tova drove the mules mercilessly, pushing them past exhaustion.
As the chaos receded, the immediate danger was replaced by a cold, unifying reality. They were five children, ten years old, driving a stolen supply wagon deep into a territory contested by three major powers.
They finally stopped the wagon in a sheltered, hidden glen, deep within the tangled scrub of the eastern valleys.
"Report," Aris commanded immediately. He didn't waste time on sentiment or congratulations. He jumped down and began checking the mules' legs.
The others immediately went into their assigned roles, recognizing the cold discipline that had saved their lives.
"The mules are spent," Tova reported, wiping sweat and soot from her brow. "They need rest and water, or they'll die before morning."
"The wagon holds fifty pounds of grain, medical supplies, and twenty gallons of water," Mira said, running her hands expertly over the sacks. The shock was fading, replaced by the detached focus of a field medic. "Enough to last us ten days if strictly rationed, not counting what we can forage."
Lenn, still clutching the ledger, spoke next, his voice trembling but steadying as he consulted the text. "The manifest shows we are near the River Shard, heading toward the neutral territory of the Free States—that's where the original Northwatch destination was. We are off-course, but not dangerously so."
He hesitated. "The ledger also contains a complete list of Northwatch supply drops, muster points, and the codes for the next two weeks."
Aris looked at the ledger—a book of enormous, world-changing military secrets, held by a ten-year-old boy.
"Good work, Lenn," Aris said, genuine approval in his voice. "That book is now our most valuable weapon. Memorize it. Then burn it."
Doran stood guard at the edge of the glen, holding his pike. "I killed a man," he mumbled, his voice dull.
Aris walked over to his friend. Doran was trembling, his large hands still clutching the pike shaft.
"I know," Aris said. He didn't offer comfort, only clarity. "You saved me, Doran. You saved Tova, Mira, and Lenn. You did what you were trained to do. The man who struck us first died. You survived. That is all that matters."
He placed his hand on Doran's shoulder. "We are not slaves anymore. We are not soldiers for the King. We are us. And we are not going back."
"Where do we go, Aris?" Mira asked, looking at the wilderness around them. "We are five children against three kingdoms."
Aris looked from Mira to Tova, then to Lenn, and finally to Doran. His eyes, usually cold and calculating, held a spark of intense, singular focus.
"We go to where the world cannot find us," Aris stated. "We find the resources to survive. And we use what we have—this wagon, this intelligence, and this discipline—to grow strong. We train until the war comes to us, and when it does, it will find not slaves, but something else."
He pulled the heavy, stolen Westvale short sword from his belt.
"The King called us the Penal Legion," Aris said, looking at the quality of the steel in his hand. "We are no longer their legion. We are free agents. And we will become what they fear most."
He looked at Doran. "You are the Shield. Mira, you are the Healer and Scout. Lenn, you are the Mind. Tova, you are the Driver and Keeper. And I..."
Aris spun the short sword, catching the hilt perfectly. "I am the Iron Fang. And I am your weapon."
The hierarchy was set. The mission was clear: Survival, strength, and eventual revenge. The new unit was born in the blood and chaos of the opening war.