A young soldier stumbled out of the cave entrance, breath ragged, torch trembling in his hand. Reaching Arthur and Lionel Drest, he dropped to one knee, voice hoarse.
"Your Majesty… Lord Lionel…" he gasped. "Inside—there's a prison. Packed with captives."
Lionel wasted no time. He struck his spear against the ground with a resounding crack. "I'll lead this myself." His eyes swept over the troops. "Fifteen men with me. Bring torches, stretchers, blankets. Healers, stand ready at the cave mouth. The rest of you, form a perimeter."
Arthur met Lionel's gaze for a brief moment and gave a single nod. "Bring them all back. Alive."
The small unit moved quickly, footsteps echoing through the narrow stone passage. Damp air closed around them, carrying the stench of rust and rot. The torchlight revealed moss-stained walls, shadows twisting like restless spirits. Water dripped from the ceiling, mingling with the faint clatter of chains swaying in the dark.
The passage narrowed, then opened into a chamber. The sight froze their hearts: emaciated bodies shackled to the walls—human, elf, and beastman alike. Hollow eyes stared into nothing, skin clung tight to bone. Some sat slumped against the stone, others lay collapsed, and several no longer breathed.
"Free them," Lionel ordered, voice low but resolute.
Steel scraped. Shackles were forced open. Chains clattered to the floor. An old man stared at the raw flesh on his wrists, then broke down in silent tears. A soldier draped a blanket over his shoulders and guided him toward the light.
Across the chamber, a weary elf rasped, "Children first." He pointed to two small figures clinging to each other. Lionel inclined his head in respect. "Children first," he echoed, and his men obeyed.
Stretchers began moving out, one after another. At the entrance, healers were already lighting braziers, preparing bitter tonics, hot water, and clean cloths.
But Lionel pressed deeper into the cavern. The air grew heavier, the darkness thicker. At one point, they passed a crude stone altar, its surface smeared with dried stains. Small bones were arranged in a circle, ritual cords still dangling. Lionel only cast it a glance before muttering, "Leave it. Focus on the prisoners."
At the very end of the tunnel, the torchlight revealed a figure bound in the thickest chains. Lionel froze.
"Hadrix…"
The face was barely recognizable. His left eye was gone. Teeth had been ripped out, nails torn away. Blood cracked his lips, his body trembling faintly but still breathing.
"He lives," one soldier whispered after checking his pulse.
"Break the chains," Lionel commanded. The iron was forced open, and Hadrix's limp body was lowered carefully onto a makeshift stretcher. Lionel himself steadied his head. "Guard him well. Every moment counts."
They carried him out. Outside, rows of torches illuminated a harrowing sight: hundreds of captives lay on the ground—some weeping, others staring blankly, too many already covered with white cloth.
Arthur stood among them. When he saw Hadrix, he rushed forward, kneeling beside the stretcher. His trembling hand touched his friend's bloodied brow. "I'm sorry… I was late," he whispered. Only shallow breaths answered him.
Healers swarmed, applying salves and binding wounds. Arion, pale and drained, raised his staff, conjuring the faintest layer of healing light over Hadrix's chest. "This is only a temporary brace," he murmured. "I cannot give more."
Elsewhere, soldiers ferried survivors into tents. Some collapsed unconscious in their arms, some sobbed when they felt firelight for the first time in months. A little boy clutched a cracked cup of water, drinking greedily before breaking down in tears, realizing he was no longer chained.
Arthur's chest tightened. Victory over the cult rang hollow amidst such suffering.
Lionel approached, face grim. "They await your command, Your Majesty."
Arthur exhaled, then raised his voice so all could hear. "Hear me! Tonight is not for celebration. Tonight, we save who remains. No one is left alone. Record the names of those who return. Lay to rest the ones we've lost with honor."
Soldiers nodded, many with tears in their eyes. They returned to their work, though their hands still shook.
Time passed. Torches were replaced with fresh wood, healers rotated, but the pale faces did not lessen. Cries of pain rose and fell within the triage tents.
At last, a senior healer approached Arthur and knelt, face ashen. "Your Majesty… we've tried everything. But with the supplies and strength we have tonight…" He swallowed hard. "…more than half will not see the dawn."
Arthur stood silent. The words struck harder than any blade. Lionel clenched his fists, jaw rigid. Murmurs rippled through the ranks—some lowering their heads, others staring at their King as if begging for a miracle.
The healer bowed deeper. "We beg you… tell us whom we must save first."
The camp fell into a suffocating stillness. The crackle of fire and the faint moans of the dying pressed down like a weight. Arthur's eyes swept the scene: children trembling in soldiers' arms, an old woman wheezing faintly, Hadrix stretched out pale and broken.
His hand trembled, then curled into a fist. His voice rasped.
"If we must choose…"
The words hung unfinished. Every gaze locked on him, waiting for the decision that would divide life from death.