The refugees emerged through The Frame, a portal that sliced through the oppressive gloom of the Underpaths, into the breathtaking expanse of the World of the Living. The sudden shift was jarring, a sensory overload after years of dim, stone-choked existence. A wave of fresh, damp-earth scented air washed over them, and the vast, dawn-streaked sky stretched above, an ocean of blue that seemed to swallow the horizon.
For those who remembered the surface, it was a homecoming after an eternity of exile. An elderly woman, her face etched with hardship, sank to her knees, her gnarled fingers digging into the rich soil. "The sky…" she breathed, a reverent whisper, as if the very word could shatter the fragile beauty. She dig her fingers into the soil before rubbing the dirt on her face. It was cold with remanence of rain water and sweet smell of nature. Others clutched their chests, their breaths catching in their throats, overwhelmed by the sheer, unadulterated life of the world above.
But for the children, and those born in the Underpaths, the experience was a raw, almost painful awakening. They recoiled from the golden light, their eyes squeezed shut against the unfamiliar brightness. A young boy cried out, his voice laced with panic, "It hurts!" A girl, her hair matted with dust, clung to a teenager's sleeve, her voice trembling, "The sun… it's too bright."
"Yeah," the teenager murmured, his voice thick with awe, his eyes tracing the lazy drift of clouds. "It is."
Before they could fully process the sensory explosion, a strong, resonant voice cut through the daze. "Welcome back."
Sir Barnen stood before them, a towering figure in half-plate, his cloak billowing in the gentle wind. His sharp eyes, tempered with a surprising warmth, scanned the weary pale faces, acknowledging the weight of their journey and existance beyond the frame.
"You are safe now," he declared, his voice firm but gentle. "The past is behind you. Whatever chains bound you in that place—they hold you no longer."
His words settled over the crowd like a soothing balm, a promise of sanctuary. Some wept openly, their tears a release of years of bottled-up pain. Others stood stoically, their fists clenched, grappling with emotions they couldn't yet articulate.
Barnen moved through the crowd, his touch a grounding presence. "You are not alone," he reassured a trembling man, his gaze encompassing the entire group. "None of you are."
A long, silence followed, broken by a ragged cheer, a sound born of relief and disbelief. It was a cry, but it sparked a chain reaction, growing into a chorus of voices, a symphony of liberation.
One by one, they stepped through The Frame, each arrival a testament to their resilience. Zyna, her movements as composed as ever, led the way. Myre followed, her expression a mixture of relief and apprehension. Finally, Anzhelina, her presence radiating an undeniable authority, emerged.
Barnen snapped to attention, his foot stamping the ground in a crisp salute. "Lord Lionheart," he greeted, his voice steady. His gaze, sharp as ever, took in the weary refugees, their faces etched with the scars of their ordeal.
Anzhelina nodded, her expression unreadable, yet a flicker of satisfaction danced in her eyes. Barnen, sensing her unspoken thoughts, inquired, "I take it you have an order in mind for them."
She turned her attention to the crowd, her gaze lingering on the children, their faces awash with wonder and fear. "They need a place where they can stand again," she said, her voice firm. "Somewhere they won't just survive, but live. Somewhere they can stand."
"I'll take them to the city," Barnen replied, already understanding her intent. "We've prepared housing in the outer district. It isn't much, but it's stable."
"That will do," she affirmed, her voice leaving no room for argument. "Ensure they are protected, Barnen. Some of them have never known safety." She says looking at women and children still in chains who were saved directly from slaughterhouse house prize section.
Barnen broke the chains and cuffs freeing them. "You don't need to tell me twice," he retorted.
With a silent gesture, Anzhelina indicated for him to lead the way. "Follow me!" Barnen commanded, his voice ringing with authority, yet laced with a gentle reassurance.
As the refugees began their slow, hopeful march, Anzhelina lingered, her gaze fixed on The Frame. The others had arrived. But Ritso was missing. Her jaw tightened, a flicker of worry creasing her brow.
.
Meanwhile, deep within the Underpaths, Kelly navigated the chaotic remnants of the Slaughterhouse, her small body moving with an urgent purpose. She wasn't running, but her steps were rapid, her small fists clenched. The air was thick with the bitter taste of disappointment, the murmurs of disgruntled warriors.
Kelly, however, was oblivious to their discontent. Her mind was consumed by a single word: "Papa." She whispered it like a mantra, searching the faces in the crowd, the shadows of the alleys.
"Papa… where are you?"
The word felt foreign, a strange weight on her tongue. She had never known a father, the concept explained to her only recently by Ritso. Now, she was driven by a desperate, newfound longing.
She stumbled upon a hulking figure, an Oni with towering horns. "Get a grip, kid," he grumbled, his voice gruff but devoid of malice. Kelly, her senses overwhelmed by his intimidating presence, closed her eyes and darted past him.
"What a stupid kid…" he muttered, watching her disappear into the crowd.
She reached the audience seats, her feet skidding to a halt. Below, in the pit, she saw him.
A monstrous figure, a bull of a man, loomed over him, his presence suffocating. Warriors ringed the pit, their weapons drawn.
Kelly's breath hitched, a wave of icy fear washing over her. But beneath the fear, a deeper emotion stirred, a primal instinct she couldn't yet name.