Sparks Beneath the Shadows
Restlessness hung in the air of Eirindale like a storm cloud that had yet to release its lightning. In the central meeting hall, the elders and tribal leaders gathered with grim expressions. Spies who had just returned from Iskhalin brought soul-shattering news—of salt mine slaves who lived as nothing more than shadows of human beings. Their bodies were destroyed, their hands mere bones, and their eyes stared blankly into an endless void.
Some of them were kin. Children who once played in the river were now shackled in chains. Brothers who once sang during festive nights now groaned in the darkness. Iskhalin, under the looming shadow of King Sharrfan's rule, had created a hell beneath the earth.
Azfaran stood at the center of that circle, silent though his thoughts roared. He longed to act swiftly, to repay the cruelty in kind. Yet he also knew—a reckless step could trigger a great war before its time. And so he summoned Maeron—his friend and most trusted advisor, a leader with clarity in storms—to lead the mission of infiltration and liberation.
**
The Secret Planning
In Eirindale's command chamber, where torchlight danced upon stone walls, Maeron stood with scouts and elite soldiers. Upon a wooden table lay a rough map of the salt mine. Red lines marked old paths no longer guarded—narrow caves that wound like snakes through the bowels of the earth.
"Guard rotation: every six hours. We go in one hour before the shift change," said one of the scouts.
"And if they see us armed to the teeth?" asked a young archer. "It'll be taken as a declaration of war."
Maeron paused. There was a moral gamble here—should they go in fully armed, prepared for battle? Or carry only minimal protection, trusting that caution could save lives?
Finally, in a voice that was firm yet soft, she said, "We do not come to make war. We come to free them. Bring weapons—but hide them. Spill no blood unless your life is at stake."
Azfaran arrived just before dawn, nodding once at Maeron. In that look, there was full trust—like the earth trusting rain to nourish it. The small force departed, no war cries shouted, only prayers in their hearts and determination in their chests.
**
The Journey to the Salt Mines
They marched through rocky hills and dense forests soaked in mist. A gentle rain fell, like whispers from the sky mourning a pain not yet ended. Each step brought them closer to wounds they had not yet seen—but already felt.
Among the soldiers, quiet conversations arose—about lost families, about fear, but also about faith in Maeron. "She knows where to lead us," whispered a soldier. "She doesn't just fight—she heals."
By the second evening, they arrived at a ridge overlooking a dark valley where the salt mine lay hidden. From afar, they could see shadows of people dragging their bodies, hauling sacks, and drowning in salt dust. The torchlight at the mine gate flickered in the wind, as if weeping with those imprisoned there.
For two full nights, they observed, recording the guards' routines and mapping out entry routes. And in that deep silence, Maeron swore in her heart: not a single soul would be left behind.
**
Midnight Infiltration: The Liberation
As the sky reached its blackest hour, three small squads moved through the shadows. Maeron led from the northern side, crawling through a crack in the stone barely wide enough for breath. Every step pounded like thunder in her chest. A single misstep on gravel could mean death.
They managed to slip inside. But when one scout slipped and nearly caused a loud noise, a guard approached. In an instant, Maeron sprang from hiding, driving a silent blade into the guard's throat. Blood spilled—but made no sound. The scout could only stare at her with wide, grateful eyes.
Inside the mine, the atmosphere was like a grave. The slaves didn't even flinch when their iron doors were opened. They were too tired to hope. Maeron gave a signal with a small lantern—three flashes meant "follow me." Some crawled out, others only wept.
Maeron carried those too weak to walk. An old man missing both legs. A child whose chest rattled with bloodied coughs. All were lifted by hands that never hesitated. "No one gets left behind," she whispered—not to them, but to herself.
But as the troops began their retreat, the wooden alarm sounded—a guard returning early had seen footprints in the salt. The sound echoed like a scream from hell.
**
The Chase and Escape
Within seconds, the guards' horn blared, and arrows flew from the shadows. Maeron gave a sharp command. "Squad Two—cover the rear! Squad One—get the slaves out through the eastern path!"
A small skirmish was inevitable. Maeron drew her sword, parrying attacks, and led the retreat with sharp tactics. On the narrow path toward the hill, she ordered her soldiers to topple large stones they had prepared—causing a landslide that blocked the pursuers.
The enemy's cries were buried under dust and rubble. But one soldier didn't make it—struck by an arrow, he collapsed, managing only to say, "Make sure they get home…"
One of the freed slaves—a wiry teenager with sharp eyes—carried his unconscious grandfather on his back. There were no tears, only resolve. "I won't lose him again," he murmured.
**
The Journey Back to Eirindale: Reflection and Quiet Resolve
As the small group made its way back to Eirindale, their steps felt lighter despite the exhaustion that clung to their bones. The victory from the skirmish was still fresh, but there was no triumphal march. Instead, the air was thick with a quiet, almost sacred energy. The mist that rolled through the hills seemed to carry with it the weight of their journey, both physical and emotional.
Nightfall settled slowly, and the sky, darkened by the absence of clouds, was dotted with countless stars. The wind whispered through the trees, cool but gentle, as if the world itself was in a reflective silence. The faint murmur of voices rose and fell behind Maeron, who led the way with a steady gait, her back straight and eyes forward. She knew that while they had won this small battle, the war—whether literal or moral—was far from over.
Though the night was quiet, there was an undercurrent of hushed conversation among the soldiers. Whispers of hope, but also of uncertainty. "We will keep fighting," one soldier murmured, his voice low but firm. Another added, "This is just the beginning."
Some of the freed slaves, too, spoke among themselves, their voices a mix of exhaustion and elation. "I'll never forget what they did for us," a woman, still bloodied but walking with newfound purpose, whispered. It was a sentiment that spread quietly through the group.
But not all were at ease. A young soldier walked slower, his gaze fixed on the ground ahead, a distant look in his eyes. Maeron noticed and slowed her pace to walk beside him. "What's on your mind?" she asked softly.
The soldier paused, almost hesitant, then spoke with quiet concern, "Are we really ready for this? What we've done... it will lead to more bloodshed, won't it?"
Maeron studied him for a moment before responding. "What we're doing is not about war. It's about freeing those who deserve to live in peace. We've already taken the hardest step."
He nodded, though the worry in his eyes didn't fade completely. Maeron gave him a small, reassuring smile before turning her attention forward once more, her resolve hardening with every step. This was only the beginning, but it was a beginning with purpose.
**
Return to Eirindale: Consequence and Echo
At dawn, the small force returned to Eirindale. There were no victory drums, only sobs and the embrace of families reunited. Mothers hugged their children, siblings searched for familiar names in the crowd.
Azfaran greeted Maeron at the gate—not with celebration, but with a hand on his chest and eyes that could not hide their reverence.
"You've lit something," he said quietly.
"Not a fire of war," Maeron replied. "But a light of justice."
Some of the freed slaves began to share the horrors they had endured—of whips, of guard dogs, of jailers who laughed as they died. These stories spread, and the people of Eirindale began to unite. Their hearts burned—not with vengeance, but with resolve.
**
Shadows of War to Come
That night, Maeron stood atop a cliff facing north. In the distance stood the dark outline of Iskhalin's fortress—proud and silent beneath a black sky.
She spoke in her heart, to the wind, and to herself:
"If tonight can spark a flame, then the war to come will be a storm."
Behind her, the campfires of the now-freed slaves flickered gently. And the night sky—like a blank page waiting for the next chapter—watched in silence.