The next morning Elara was determined to reach Silverkeep, and Fig was the determined to fly out of the forest at full speed.
She had some time before the next Trails began, but the faster she could get there, the faster she could get in and change her fate.
The forest edge thinned near the ridge, sunlight slicing through the canopy in thin, trembling beams. Almost out of the Dark Forest, she keeps telling herself. Until she hears it...
Elara crouched low behind a dense wall of brambles, her breath held so tight her chest ached. The scent of pine and moss masked the nearby stench—sweat, unwashed metal, and despair.
A rusted cage stood twenty paces away, crammed with villagers. Men, women—even a child who clutched a broken doll as though it might protect her. Another cage sat beside it, half-full. A third one was being dragged forward by grumbling guards, their iron-heeled boots crunching the dry underbrush like thunder to Elara's ears.
She gritted her teeth.
"Great gods above," Fig muttered, perched on her shoulder, his golden fur bristling and glittering in the sun like a floating halo of outrage. "This looks like the part in the story where the heroine gets caught, tortured, and never heard from again."
"Shh," Elara hissed, pressing him gently with two fingers. He made an exaggerated huff and shrank slightly into her cloak.
"I'm just saying, the sensible thing would be to run. Right now. Very fast. Possibly screaming."
"I said shh," she repeated, eyes trained on the scene unfolding.
The guards wore the tarnished armor of Thorne's private militia—mercenaries, not soldiers. Paid in coin, blood, or worse. One was leaning lazily on a spear, while two others took turns kicking at a cage wheel stuck in the mud.
"I don't suppose your plan involves an army appearing out of nowhere?" Fig mumbled against her collarbone.
"No." Her lips barely moved. "It involves me getting to the cages."
A long silence.
"You're not serious."
"Watch me."
She tugged her hood lower and slipped silently through the brush. Fig launched off her shoulder, floating to a low branch with a sigh that only slightly disguised his worry.
It had been six days since they left Hollowbrook, and two since she'd first heard whispers—missing villagers, distant screams, shadows moving through the forest at night. Elara had ignored it, convincing herself it wasn't her problem.
After all, she was trying to stay low- the whole not dying plan.
But seeing them—faces drained of hope, pressed behind rusted bars—something hot and old had stirred in her. She remembered a different cage. A smaller one. A cell with no name and a cold floor stained red.
Not this time.
Elara inched forward, moving with the painful awkwardness of someone who knew what stealth was supposed to look like, but had very little practice. She stepped on a twig. Froze. Waited.
No reaction from the guards. One of them uncorked a bottle of mead with a whoop, raising it like a war prize. The others joined in, guffawing, weapons resting against a mossy log.
She was close now—ten paces. Eight. Her fingers tingled.
"Do you even have a key?" Fig called softly from above.
Elara knelt beside the closest cage and pulled a thin iron needle from her boot. "Better," she whispered. "I've got talent."
She worked quickly, feeding the pick into the lock while her ears stayed trained on the guards' laughter. Her hands trembled, but her focus sharpened with each turn. It clicked.
The door creaked open.
"Don't move," she whispered to the stunned prisoners. "Don't speak. Wait for my signal."
A woman blinked back tears, nodding slowly. A man grabbed his son's hand, shielding him instinctively.
Elara moved to the second cage, confidence building.
She was halfway through the lock when a bottle shattered against a stone.
Fig hissed from his perch. "Time's up, Little Fox."
A guard staggered toward the trees, laughing, fumbling with his trousers.
"Shit," she breathed. She crouched lower, barely a breath away from the second cage's shadow.
The guard stumbled a few paces into the woods, grumbling to himself. He turned to relieve himself against a tree just opposite Elara's hiding place.
Fig darted down and landed on her shoulder again. "Now's the time to run. Flee. Bolt. Or evaporate, if you've secretly mastered forbidden magic."
But Elara stayed frozen. The guard finished, turned around—and tripped on a root, sprawling face-first into a patch of thistle.
"Stay quiet," she whispered again, finishing the second lock. It popped open with a sharp click.
The villagers inside stared at her with a strange mixture of awe and disbelief.
"Third cage," Fig said, "and then we're moving or I'm biting your ankle."
Elara crept across the last few meters. This cage was sturdier—newer. Reinforced. Probably where they planned to store the more "troublesome" prisoners.
A boy inside pressed his face to the bars, his voice hoarse. "Are you real?"
She gave him the tiniest smile. "Real enough."
The last lock was trickier. Newer tumblers, tighter spring. It resisted her pick like a stubborn mule.
A sharp snap. Her needle cracked in half.
Elara swore under her breath. The boy flinched.
"I've got another," she muttered, already reaching into her braid where a second pick was cleverly woven.
Then—laughter again. Louder. Closer.
"They're heading back," Fig warned. "Fast. They've finished their drunk-fest and they're not even tipsy. Who does that? Monsters."
Elara's fingers moved faster. The pick danced in the lock, searching, pushing, teasing.
And then—click.
The cage groaned open.
She didn't wait. "Run," she whispered. "North. Stay together. Get to the river and follow it to the trade road."
The prisoners hesitated, then the first woman stepped out, barefoot and trembling, gripping her child's hand like it was the last thing tethering her to life.
One by one, the others followed.
Fig zipped ahead, leading them through the trees with glowing spark trails. "I'll guide them," he called back. "If we die, I'm haunting you."
Elara turned to follow—and ran straight into the chest of a guard.
He grinned, breath thick with mead. "Well, well. What do we have here?"
Before she could draw her dagger, he grabbed her wrist.
Elara twisted hard, slamming her heel into his shin. He roared and swung at her head. She ducked, landed a punch to his ribs, and scrambled backward, heart pounding.
Two more guards charged forward, weapons raised.
She was cornered.
Then—howl.
A sound not quite wolf and not quite fox ripped through the trees. Golden light flashed past her. Fig had returned, and he was not in a helpful mood.
He barreled into the nearest guard's face, claws like silver sparks. The man screamed, trying to swat him away, but Fig vanished mid-air and reappeared above him, clawing again.
"Elara!" he cried. "Move!"
She did—ducking, rolling, grabbing a sword from the fallen guard as she went. Steel hissed in her hand.
The last guard lunged.
She met him head-on, their blades clashing. Her arm trembled with the force of each hit, but she held her ground. Sparks flew.
Then, with a twist she hadn't fully planned, she knocked his sword aside and drove the hilt of hers into his temple.
He dropped.
Silence.
Fig hovered beside her, panting heavily. "Was that your plan?" he asked. "Because I have notes."
Elara stared at the fallen guards, the empty cages, the crushed path of footprints leading into the forest.
"It was a rough draft," she admitted.
They walked in silence for a long time, following the trail left by the freed villagers. Eventually, they reached the river's edge where the survivors had huddled near a mossy bend, catching their breath.
A child spotted her first. "It's her!" she squealed. "The girl from the cage!"
Murmurs followed. Words passed between them like fragile threads: Thank you. Goddess-blessed. A hero. Brave.
Elara didn't feel brave.
She felt angry.
"What now?" Fig asked softly, curling on her shoulder again.
She looked at the forest. At the sky.
"We find out where they were taking those people. And we stop it from happening again."
"Ah yes," he said dryly. "Because charging into danger always works so well for you."
She didn't answer.
The sun dipped low on the horizon, painting the sky in shades of flame.
And Elara, once caged and powerless, now walked freely through the woods—with steel in her hand and fire in her heart.