The trek back from the ravaged bandit camp was a quiet, weary procession. The adrenaline of the fight had faded, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion and the dull ache of bruises. Jacqueline carried the small, sleeping girl, whose slight weight felt both precious and profound in her arms. Low leaned heavily on Leonotis, her usual stoicism cracked by a few well-earned scrapes, though she'd never admit it. Zombiel trailed behind, a silent shadow against the pre-dawn gloom.
As they neared the withered tree, a small figure scrambled to his feet. The boy, his face pale with anxiety, stared at them with wide, terrified eyes, searching for a sign. Then his gaze fell upon the sleeping bundle in Jacqueline's arms, and a sound that was half-sob, half-gasp escaped his lips.
Jacqueline knelt, and the rescued girl stirred, her eyes fluttering open. For a moment, she was lost, her gaze clouded with the memory of fear. Then she saw her brother, and the world snapped back into focus.
"Tayo!" she cried, her voice small and cracked.
"Asha!" he answered, his own voice breaking.
The reunion was a collision of pure, unbridled emotion. They didn't run to each other so much as fall together, two halves of a whole made one again. Their small arms wrapped around each other in a desperate, clinging embrace. Tears streamed down their faces, mingling with dirt and grime as they laughed and cried all at once, their voices the only sound in the quiet dawn. It was a private, sacred moment, and the four heroes instinctively took a step back, watching from a respectful distance.
Leonotis felt a strange lump form in his throat. He, who always craved the spotlight, felt like an intruder on this scene. He looked at the two children, a sight more powerful than any monster he had ever imagined, more rewarding than any cheer from a crowd. He scratched the back of his head, a wave of awkwardness washing over him, but a genuine, unforced smile touched his lips.
"Guess I don't need a song," he murmured, his voice softer than usual. "That was… that was reward enough."
Low, standing beside him, crossed her powerful arms. A smirk played on her lips, but for once, it lacked its usual sharp, cynical edge. It was a look of grudging, almost gentle, approval. She nudged him with her elbow, a gesture of camaraderie that was more eloquent than any words she might have spoken. "For once," she grumbled, "you didn't talk too much."
Jacqueline gave him a knowing look, her eyes soft as she watched the siblings. "You didn't need to," she said, her voice filled with a quiet warmth. "Sometimes being a hero isn't about what you say, or the glory you seek. Sometimes, it's just about listening when someone asks for help."
A quiet, raspy voice cut through the air, so unexpected that it made them all turn. "He lifted his arms."
Zombiel stood slightly apart, his small hands clasped before him. He rarely spoke more than a single word at a time, but now his gaze was fixed on the children, and a faint, warm light glowed deep within his crimson eyes. The others stared at him, surprised into silence.
He repeated the words, his voice barely a whisper, yet each syllable resonated with a profound truth they were all feeling. "He lifted his arms… and we answered."
The statement was so simple, yet it perfectly distilled the maelstrom of the past day. The fear, the fight, the brutal magic—all of it had been an answer to a simple, desperate plea.
They didn't linger. They gave the children the last of their bread and a gourd filled with Jacqueline's purified water. As they prepared to leave, the boy, Tayo, stepped forward, his sister clutching his hand. He looked up at them, his eyes shining with a fierce, tear-stained gratitude.
"You… you saved us," he stammered. "You're real heroes."
Hearing the very words he had once so desperately craved, Leonotis felt not a surge of pride, but a humbling wave of warmth. He knelt down, and instead of puffing out his chest, he simply smiled and gently ruffled the boy's matted hair. "You and your sister stay safe," he said. "Look after each other."
With a final, shared glance, the group turned and walked away, leaving the two children wrapped in the first hopeful rays of the rising sun.
The road stretched on, the same dusty path as before, but everything felt different. The air seemed cleaner, the oppressive heat of the sun felt more like a gentle warmth on their backs. The easy banter between Leonotis and Low returned, but it was softer now, underlined by a new, unspoken respect. The silence between the four of them was no longer just an absence of noise, but a comfortable, shared understanding.
Their journey had etched a new truth into their hearts, a proverb forged not in ancient scrolls, but in the crucible of their own deeds.
They had seen the plea. And in answering, they found that in carrying the weight of two small children's hopes, their own burdens had become immeasurably lighter.