The desert wind howled, carrying the smell of blood and burning sand. The bandits laughed, circling, waiting for the man to collapse. His knees trembled, his knuckles split, and his breath came ragged.
"Give us the brats," their leader sneered. "Ten percent. That's more than you're worth."
The man spat blood into the sand. His voice was steady.
"You'll get nothing."
He raised his hands, flames coiling up his forearms, his muscles tightening as if bound by unseen cords. His body was battered, but his will surged higher, fiercer, refusing to break.
The children huddled behind him, one bursting into tears. He turned his head just slightly, his eyes softening.
"Don't cry. Not here. Not tonight. I'll protect you."
Then it happened — the air itself seemed to tighten. The man's fire roared higher, brighter, merging with the rhythm of his heartbeat. Heat bled into the night, scorching the sand into glass where he stood.
Kairo and Igron exchanged a glance. Even for them, cloaked in silence, it was a sight to behold — raw, desperate strength.
The bandits' grins faltered. One of them took a step back.
But the man stepped forward. Calm. Unyielding. Flames licked the ground with every stride.
In that moment, to the children behind him, he wasn't just a man. He was a wall. A shield. A blazing star in the darkness.
A flicker of hope, no longer faint — but rising, burning.