The wind howled through the hills as Aron and Lina followed the faint trail east. The sun was low in the sky, casting long shadows across the rocky land.
Aron's legs ached. His boots were worn. His throat dry. But his heart burned with purpose.
"They can't be far," he said.
Lina glanced at him, worry in her eyes. "And what do we do when we find them? There could be ten. Twenty. More."
"We do what we can," Aron answered. His voice was quiet, but sure. "If we die trying… at least we tried."
Lina sighed. "You're stubborn, prince."
Aron smiled for the first time in days. "So I've been told."
---
As night fell, they came upon a camp in a small valley. Fires burned low. Shadows moved between tents and wagons.
From a rise above, Aron and Lina watched.
"They've taken them," Lina said. "Look — there. In chains."
Aron saw the farmers. Three men, hands bound, guarded by masked soldiers.
His hand tightened on the hilt of his short blade. "We'll free them."
Lina grabbed his arm. "Aron, wait! Look closer."
He did. And his heart sank. There were more than he thought — at least a dozen men, all armed, all ready.
---
Lina whispered, "We need a plan. We can't rush in."
For a long moment, Aron said nothing. His mind raced.
Then he pointed. "There. That wagon near the edge of camp. Supplies. If we set it on fire, it will draw them. In the confusion, we free the prisoners."
Lina's eyes widened. "That could work."
"It will work," Aron said.
---
They crept down the slope like shadows. The camp was quiet, the men tired and lazy after a day of travel.
Aron reached the wagon, heart pounding. He pulled the flask of oil from Lina's pack, poured it over the wood.
Lina struck flint to steel. Sparks flew. A small flame caught.
In seconds, the wagon was ablaze.
---
Shouts rang out. The masked men scrambled to stop the fire.
Aron and Lina darted through the chaos. Aron slashed at the ropes that bound the farmers.
"Run! Now!" he hissed.
The prisoners needed no more urging. They fled into the night.
But one of the masked men saw them. He raised a horn to his lips.
Before he could blow it, Aron tackled him. The two crashed to the ground, rolling in the dirt.
The soldier was strong. He drew a knife. Aron grabbed his wrist, struggling to hold him back.
The blade came closer — and then Lina was there. Her dagger flashed. The man fell still.
---
They didn't wait. Together, they ran into the dark, following the freed men toward the hills.
When at last they stopped, safe beneath a stand of trees, Aron fell to his knees, breathless.
"We did it," he gasped.
One of the farmers, a broad man with kind eyes, came to him. "You saved us, lad. Who are you?"
Aron hesitated. Then he stood. "I am Aron. Son of the king."
The men stared.
"The prince lives," one whispered.
Aron lifted his chin. "Yes. And I swear to you — I will not stop until the Puppet Master is brought down. Will you stand with me?"
Slowly, the farmers dropped to one knee.
"Aye, Your Highness. We will."
---
Far away, in the ruined palace, Jaren looked out into the night. The stars glimmered cold above him.
A soldier came to his side. "The camp was attacked. The prisoners freed."
Jaren said nothing for a long moment. Then, quietly: "Good. Let the boy think he's won a victory. The greater the hope, the harder the fall."
He turned back to the stars.
The game has many moves yet to play.