Time passed quickly, and soon evening settled over Underwood Village.
The warm colors of the setting sun bled into the deepening blues of the approaching night.
From inside his room, Theron could hear the growing noise of a gathering crowd in the village's central square, which was just a short walk from his home.
The square was coming alive with anxious villagers.
Meanwhile, the atmosphere inside Theron's room was much heavier.
Elira sat beside him, her hands moving carefully as she cleaned his wounds. Garlan and Brude stood nearby, silent and grim-faced, their eyes following each of Elira's movements as she worked.
Elira moved with care, but her expression was tight with displeasure. She was clearly still upset about Theron's decision to give a speech.
She didn't say anything, though. She didn't argue—which was good. Instead, she let out sharp exhales every now and then as she dabbed his wounds, replaced the blood-soaked cloth, and began wrapping clean bandages around his ribs and shoulder.
Theron didn't respond to her attitude. There was no need. The other two didn't say anything either. They all had more important things to worry about.
When she finished, Elira stepped back in silence.
Theron reached for his outfit: a long, deep charcoal tunic trimmed with faint silver lining, fastened with a leather belt bearing an engraved metal clasp. Over his shoulders, he draped a dark mantle—clean, simple, but regal enough to show authority.
Elira stepped forward again, this time holding a small clay vial.
Theron raised an eyebrow when he saw it.
"What's this?"
"Tonic," she muttered. "For the pain."
He hesitated.
He was still cautious about consuming anything for now—especially from Elira, given how she was still fuming. It wasn't hard to imagine poison in that bottle.
Still—he was surrounded. All eyes on him. He let out a quiet sigh and took the vial, inspecting it for a moment.
'What's the worst that could happen? Just death,' he thought dryly before downing the contents in one go.
The taste hit him like a slap.
Calling it bitter would be kind. It was awful. No wonder the previous Theron hated these tonics—it was more punishment than medicine.
"Gods," he coughed, nearly gagging, his face twisting. "That's diabolical."
"No one ever said healing tastes good," Elira replied, her tone dry.
But within minutes, warmth spread through his body. The aching in his limbs began to ease. He stood—unsteady at first, but upright. His body still protested, but the tonic was working. Though the vile taste lingered in his mouth.
He made a mental note: if he lived through this coming ordeal and break the curse, he would definitely talk to Elira about improving the taste of that tonic.
"Better," he muttered, shifting slightly. Pain still throbbed in places, but not nearly enough to knock him down like before.
Elira was certainly capable, though her overly caring nature might need some trimming—at least when it came to Theron.
Well, that's if he survived. There was no point in making plans until the curse was broken.
He glanced at the walking stick they had prepared nearby and scoffed.
'Not tonight,' he thought.
Theatrics mattered. People believed what they saw, not what they were told.
If he wanted to lift the people's spirits, limping into the square looking half-dead wouldn't help. Walking upright and strong would leave a better impression.
Without another word, the four of them stepped out of the house and into the dimming evening, heading toward the gathering.
The moment Theron came into view, a ripple ran through the crowd.
Whispers.
Gasps.
Shock.
"Is that… Theron?"
"He's alive…"
"And healthy too. I thought the rumor said he was dead…"
Slowly, a hush fell over the square as the villagers stepped aside, eyes wide in disbelief. Hope flickered, struggling against their doubt.
Theron walked slowly but without help. His steps were steady, even though pain pulsed in his body. His sharp, quiet presence hushed the murmurs as he passed.
He climbed the makeshift platform and turned to face them, the fading light behind him casting long shadows over the square.
For a moment, he simply looked at them—dozens of faces worn down by fear and uncertainty. Then he spoke.
"I know what many of you are thinking."
His voice was calm, but it carried clearly across the square.
"That I should be bedridden… or even dead. That I'm too weak to be here. And you might not be wrong. But here I am, standing—because I refuse to lie in bed and wait for death while the village falls apart around me."
He let the silence linger for a moment before continuing.
"We've suffered. We've buried our kin. We've watched our soldiers return broken. And now… we wait, fearing the next attack will be our last. But let me be clear—Underwood is not done yet."
There was a stir among the people.
What did he mean by that?
They all knew the truth. Underwood Village was finished. The enemy was too strong, too many in number. There was no hope left.
Theron studied their faces, taking in their worn, hopeless expressions before speaking again.
"I have a plan," he said, his voice growing firmer. "And with that plan, I intend to drag us out of this."
A man near the front scoffed, his tone full of doubt. "What kind of plan? You're acting like there's miracle's just waiting to happen."
Theron turned his gaze to the man. "You don't need to know the details yet."
The crowd began to murmur again—frustration and disbelief rising among them.
"That's nonsense. He's stalling. He's got nothing," the man said louder this time, enough for everyone to hear.
Theron stared at the man, memorizing his face.
He suspected the Vanilia forces had a spy hidden among the villagers. And this loud man had just made his way onto Theron's list of suspects.
He turned and looked over the rest of the crowd. They seemed to share the same doubt as the man. His brow furrowed.
He observed for a moment longer, then spoke.
"You all seem to have a lot to say. Then by all means—if you have a better idea, I'm right here. Speak." His voice was louder now, sharp and cold.
Silence.
Not one voice rose.
It wasn't just the shock of being called out. It was also because this new Theron—standing tall and speaking with strength—was nothing like the man they had known before. The Theron they remembered had no spine. But this one… this one felt different.
Theron watched their quiet faces, then slowly nodded.
"That's what I thought," he said.
His gaze swept over the crowd—calm, but locked with firm resolve.
"I've heard the whispers. Some of you are talking about running. Others are thinking of surrendering."
He paused, then let the next words drop like venom.
"Go ahead. Run. Surrender. But know this—if you give up, you won't be shown mercy. You'll find slavery. Humiliation. A slow, painful death at the hands of those who hate us."
"And for those thinking of the forest as an escape—try it. The beasts out there are starving. They'd tear you apart before you even make it halfway."
A heavy silence followed, thick like fog.
Because deep down, the villagers knew Theron was right.
If they surrendered, they'd suffer worse than death. And if they tried to flee into the Myrrwood Forest, they wouldn't make it far. That forest was infamous, filled with creatures that didn't need a reason to kill.
Theron saw this. He saw their faces shift, their fear turning into something else.
He spoke again, his tone a little softer.
"But there's another path," he said, looking them each in the eye.
"You can trust me."
"You can stand with me. And together—we'll survive this. I promise you, not just survival, but a future. A life where we're not victims, but people who fought back for what was ours."
A long pause followed. Then he stepped back.
"All I ask right now is for your blind faith. Just for a little while. And I promise—we'll get through this. Together."
A quiet murmur passed through the crowd. Doubt still lingered, but something had shifted. A crack had formed in their hopelessness. And from it, just a little… hope began to bloom.