The bandits' jeers turned into snarls as they rushed in, blades flashing. The man met them head-on, fists blazing, each strike ringing with both fire and bone-crushing weight. For every one that fell, two more pressed in.
Blood streaked down his arm where a blade grazed him, his breath harsh, but his back never bent. He planted himself like a wall before the children.
One bandit slipped past, snarling, blade raised toward the huddled children—
—but the strike stopped mid-air, his wrist twisting unnaturally as though some unseen hand had bent it away. He screamed as his weapon clattered into the sand.
Another bandit loosed an arrow. Before it could strike, the shaft snapped in mid-flight, seared by a faint thread of heat that no one noticed but Igron, who smirked faintly.
Kairo, silent in the back, let his presence ripple just enough that one charging bandit froze, heart pounding in terror at something he couldn't name, before stumbling straight into the man's fiery fist.
The children never saw their protectors. To them, it was the man alone holding the line, even as his movements slowed, even as exhaustion dragged at his steps.
Still, he fought. Still, he stood.
By the end, he was staggering, fire sputtering at his knuckles, yet his eyes refused to yield.
And in the shadows of his struggle, Kairo's crimson gaze watched with the faintest flicker of… interest.