Chapter 7: THE IRON TRAP
635 Words
The Iron Mountains rose like the jagged teeth of a sleeping god. For Helios, every mile traveled was a miracle of sheer will. After the fires of the Willow Grove, he had somehow evaded the Black Legion, crawling through the marshes until he found what remained of his pride: the Aethel-Guards.
There were only three hundred left. They were haggard, their armor rusted and their spirits dim, but when they saw Helios—bloody, wounded, yet standing—they knelt in the mud.
"General," Captain Marek whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "We thought the river had claimed you."
"The river was not finished with me yet," Helios said, his Stoic mask firmly back in place despite the fever burning in his blood. "Status report."
"The Valerian Empire is moving a massive group of refugees toward the Han border," Marek reported, pointing to a map spread over a flat stone. "Thousands of our people, Helios. Women, children, and the elderly. They are being sold as slaves to the Han in exchange for iron and silk."
Helios looked at the map. He was a Genius of strategy, and his Loyal heart couldn't bear the thought of his people in chains. "We strike at the Northern Pass. We free the refugees and lead them into the safety of the peaks."
The Ambush of the Damned
The Aethel-Guards moved like ghosts. They hit the transport column at midnight, under a moonless sky. Helios led the charge, his bow singing as he took down the Valerian sentries.
"Break the chains!" Helios roared, his voice echoing off the canyon walls.
But as the Aethel-Guards rushed the wagons, something was wrong. The "refugees" didn't scream in terror. They didn't run. Instead, the heavy canvas covers of the wagons were thrown back, revealing not weeping mothers, but rows of Han Imperial crossbowmen in gleaming bronze armor.
"It's a trap!" Marek screamed.
The "refugees" stood up, shedding their rags to reveal the crimson-and-gold uniforms of the Han Empire. These were not slaves; they were the elite "Iron Vultures," the most ruthless hunters in the East.
"Helios of the Sun-Bird!" a voice boomed from the ridgeline.
A Han General, dressed in ornate dragon-scale armor, looked down at them. "The Emperor has waited a long time for your head. Kill the guards. Capture the General alive."
The Price of Honor
The m******e was swift. The Aethel-Guards, caught in the crossfire of thousands of bolts, fell where they stood. Helios fought like a man possessed. Even with his old wound reopening and new arrows piercing his limbs, he refused to go down. He was Brave to the point of madness, his Powerful strikes cutting down anyone who came within reach of his blade.
But eventually, the sheer weight of numbers took him. A heavy net weighted with lead balls was thrown over him, dragging him to the frozen ground.
"Wait," the Han General commanded as his men moved in to execute him. "The Emperor wants him to see the fall of his world before he dies. But since he loves his people so much, let us make sure he never looks upon them again."
Helios felt the cold steel of a dagger against his temple. He didn't scream. He didn't beg. He thought of Yuna, safe (he hoped) in the mountains. He thought of the child he would never see.
"You can take my sight," Helios hissed, his voice a Serious rasp. "But you cannot take the dawn. It is already coming for you."
The blade descended.
The world went black. Not the darkness of a cave, but a permanent, void-like silence. The legendary archer, the man who could hit a leaf from a hundred paces, was now a prisoner of the Han, his eyes taken as a trophy for an Emperor who feared his vision.
- Writer
