The march through the forest felt endless. Ropes cut into the prisoners’ wrists, and every stumble earned a shove from the orcs driving them forward. Branches tore at their armor and cloaks as they were forced deeper into the woods, the path twisting through dark trees that swallowed what little light remained of the evening. Rayz could still feel the ache in his shoulder where the blow had struck him during the ambush, but he forced himself to keep walking. Around him the other survivors moved in silence, their exhaustion heavy enough that none of them had the strength left for anger or protest.

The trees finally thinned near dusk, revealing the orc camp spread across a wide stretch of trampled earth. Smoke drifted from crude fire pits where half burned logs smoldered beneath iron spits. Tattered hides and patched tents sagged between rough wooden posts, many decorated with bones and broken weapons taken from past battles. The smell of the place struck Rayz immediately. Rot, sweat, smoke, and blood hung thick in the air, clinging to the back of his throat with every breath. Cages stood near the center of the camp, arranged in a rough line like market stalls. Some were made from branches. Others were built from thick timber posts hammered into the ground.

The orcs dragged the survivors toward the largest cage near the center of the clearing. One by one they were shoved through the narrow opening and thrown roughly to the dirt inside. Rayz hit the ground first, rolling once before pushing himself upright. Loto was thrown in after him, followed by Jorand, Titus, Niwa, Leonidas, Osric, and Sam. The door slammed shut behind the last of them with a heavy wooden thud as the iron latch dropped into place. Eight men remained. Eight survivors of the company that had left Varrock only days before. For a moment the orcs crowded around the cage, jeering and laughing as they jabbed spears through the bars to watch the prisoners flinch. One leaned forward and bared yellowed teeth at Rayz before tapping the wooden bars with the flat of his blade. Another prodded Jorand in the ribs, grinning when the large warrior snarled back through clenched teeth. Eventually their interest faded and they wandered back toward their fires, leaving only a few lazy guards pacing nearby.

Rayz pushed himself to his feet slowly and looked around the cramped cage. The men shifted into what little space they could find, each of them bruised, bloodied, and breathing hard from the long march. Leonidas sat apart from the others, his back against the bars and his head lowered. At first Rayz thought the knight was simply catching his breath like the rest of them. Then he noticed the faint tremor running through Leonidas’s hands. It was subtle, almost hidden, but it did not stop. The knight tried to conceal it by curling his fingers into tight fists, though the strain in his shoulders made the effort obvious to anyone paying attention.

Rayz watched him quietly for a moment, saying nothing. The camp around them settled into its evening rhythm, orcs shouting, drinking, and laughing around the fires as though the prisoners were nothing more than livestock waiting for slaughter. The noise of the camp softened as the night deepened. A few guards remained awake near the outer fires, but most of the creatures collapsed beside their tents or wandered off into the darkness beyond the camp. Inside the wooden enclosure the prisoners sat in uneasy silence.

Rayz shifted slowly toward the corner of the cage where the shadows were deepest. His wrists were still bound, the rope biting into his skin whenever he moved, but he carefully pressed his hands together as best he could and lowered his head. The others noticed the movement almost immediately. Osric spoke first, his voice rough with exhaustion. “You praying?”

Rayz did not lift his head. “Yes.”

Osric gave a tired breath that might have been a laugh. “Seems a bit late for that.”

Titus leaned slightly closer, curiosity overcoming his exhaustion. “What are you praying for?”

“For guidance,” Rayz said quietly. “For clarity. And perhaps for mercy.”

Osric shook his head. “You think your goddess is listening out here?”

Rayz was silent for a moment before answering. “The prayers I speak are called the Prayers of Saradyn. They are not meant to summon miracles. Priests of Saradyn have used them for centuries. They are said to bring a person closer to the goddess. Most believe they simply calm the mind and strengthen the spirit when hope is difficult to find.”

Titus leaned forward slightly. “Most believe?”

Rayz gave a faint smile. “There are stories. Legends, mostly. Some say that if the goddess truly hears a prayer, she may grant something more.”

Loto glanced over from where he sat against the bars. “More?”

Rayz nodded slightly. “Divinity. A moment of divine intervention.”

Osric snorted quietly. “Sounds like nothing more than a comforting story.”

Rayz did not argue with him. “Most people believe it is.”

Loto remained silent for a moment, turning the word over in his mind as he stared into the firelight beyond the cage. His brow furrowed slightly before he murmured to himself, almost too quietly for the others to hear. “Divinity…” he thought, the word hung there for a moment before fading into the quiet of the night. Rayz lowered his head again and continued the prayer silently, focusing on the rhythm of the words in his mind. Even if no goddess heard him, the act itself steadied his breathing and cleared the fog of fear that had settled in his chest. Across the cage, Leonidas sat very still. At first Rayz thought the knight had fallen asleep. Then he noticed the tremor again.

The trembling in Leonidas’s hands had not stopped. In the faint glow of the distant fires it was easy to miss unless someone was looking closely, but Rayz had begun to watch him without meaning to. The knight sat with his back pressed against the bars, his head lowered and his shoulders rigid as though he were trying to hold himself together by force of will alone. His fingers curled tightly against his palms, yet every few moments they twitched again in small, restless movements that he could not seem to control.

Rayz shifted slightly closer. “Leonidas,” he said quietly.

The knight looked up, startled by the sound of his name. For a moment he seemed almost confused, as if he had been pulled back from somewhere far away. “You alright?” Rayz asked.

Leonidas hesitated before answering. “Yes.”

The word came too quickly. Rayz watched him for another moment. “Your hands say otherwise.” Leonidas glanced down at them and clenched his fists tighter, trying to hide the trembling. The effort only made the strain in his arms more obvious.

“It’s nothing,” he muttered.

“Nothing rarely looks like that.”

For a while Leonidas said nothing. His eyes drifted toward the campfires beyond the cage, where the orcs moved through the shadows like restless animals. When he finally spoke again, his voice was low. “I used to have control. Leonidas swallowed before continuing. “Of magic. It was years ago, when I was younger. Where I come from magic is not seen the way it is on the mainland. My island believes magic is a curse. They teach that anyone born with it carries something unnatural inside them. A demon. A spirit waiting for the right moment to take control. Children who show signs of magic are hidden. Or worse.”

“So you hid it.”

“I never used it. Never practiced. Never told anyone. I kept it buried for as long as I could. Most people born with the ability go to academies. They learn how to control it, they become wizards or sorcerers, but I simply never used it. This place, the fighting, Barrett…” His voice faltered briefly before he forced himself to continue. “The stress is bringing it back. I can feel it. Like something inside me pushing toward the surface.”

Rayz understood the fear behind the answer. Even the simplest spells required control, concentration, and careful direction of energy. Without discipline, magic could not only just fail, but erupt. He knew only a handful of basic spells, and even those were not truly his own magic. Wizards often sold binding scrolls that allowed ordinary people to trigger a prepared spell. They were useful tools for travelers, hunters, or merchants who might need a brief advantage. Rayz lowered his voice further as the weight of the situation settled in his mind.

“I can help you,” Rayz said quietly. “Magic is not only about training. It is about discipline. Focus. The same things that keep a swordsman alive when fear starts clouding his judgment.”

Leonidas shook his head slowly, the motion heavy with exhaustion. “You do not understand.”

“Then help me understand.”

For a moment Leonidas said nothing. His eyes drifted toward the dark shapes of the orcs moving through the camp, their fires casting crooked shadows across the dirt. The sound of their voices carried through the night in harsh bursts of laughter and drunken shouting. “We are already dead,” Leonidas said quietly.

“You do not know that.”

Leonidas finally looked back at him, and Rayz saw something in the man’s eyes that had nothing to do with magic. It was resignation. “They killed Barrett. They outnumber us fifty to one. We are locked in a cage in the middle of their camp.” His trembling hands curled slowly into fists again. “There is no clever escape waiting for us. No miracle.”

“That does not mean we stop trying.”

“Trying for what? A few more minutes before they decide how they want to kill us?” The edge in his voice drew a glance from Titus across the cage, but the young squire quickly looked away again. Leonidas lowered his voice again, though the bitterness remained. “It does not matter anyway. We will all die here.”

Before Rayz could answer, a heavy set of footsteps approached through the dirt outside the cage. The voices of the nearby orcs quieted almost immediately, and Rayz looked up. The titan stood in the firelight beyond the bars, its massive shadow stretching across the ground in front of the cage. The creature’s cleaver rested easily against one shoulder as its yellow eyes studied the prisoners inside. A slow grin spread across its scarred face. “Well,” the titan rumbled, its deep voice carrying easily across the camp, “you humans fought better than most. It is why I did not kill you.”

The orcs nearby chuckled quietly. “Tomorrow,” it said, “you will fight in our arena.”

Rayz followed the direction of its gesture. The dirt inside the ring was dark and uneven, as though it had been soaked many times before. Even from the cage he could see stains in the soil that no amount of rain had washed away. “We love good sport. Strength. Blood. Tomorrow one of you will fight in the arena. If he wins, he lives. The rest of you live as well. For now.. But if he dies…” The titan raised two fingers. “…two more of you die with him. You have the night to decide which one of you will fight first.”

The titan turned away, already losing interest as it began walking back toward the fires. A few nearby orcs followed it, still chuckling. The camp slowly returned to its restless rhythm. Inside the cage the eight men sat in silence as the night had suddenly become much longer.

Chapter Six

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