Deeper in the forest, beneath a crumbling cliffside.
The sky is darkening. Night creeps in under the dying canopy, swallowing the last traces of sunlight. Flickers of red still stain the horizon—embers of a kingdom burning behind them.
A ragged group moves through the underbrush. Not in formation. Not like soldiers.
Like survivors.
Commander Ric limps slightly, one arm wrapped tight in a bloodied bandage. His armor is dented, scorched, and half-missing—torn away during the retreat from the palace gates. But his eyes stay sharp. Focused.
Behind him, his daughter stumbles. She's no older than ten, hair matted with soot, cheeks streaked with dried tears. She clutches a doll that smells of smoke and ash.
"Daddy…" her voice is small, trembling. "I don't wanna die."
Ric stops.
Just for a moment.
He crouches down and takes her hand gently. "You won't," he says softly. "You hear me, Ella? I'll get you out of this. No matter what."
She nods, barely, but her lip quivers.
