The camp was eerily silent after the skirmish. The bodies of the attackers lay scattered, their blood staining the earth beneath them.
Ryan stood at the center of it all, his sword still dripping, his chest rising and falling with the remnants of adrenaline. His men had subdued the remaining intruders, forcing them to their knees. The warriors loyal to the young prince of Farius glared up at him, their eyes burning with defiance.
"Let go of our prince, you bastard!" one of them shouted, his voice cracking with desperation. His hands were bound, but his spirit was unbroken. "You have no right to take him!"
Ryan's expression remained stoic, though a flicker of something—perhaps pity, perhaps regret—crossed his face. He sheathed his sword and stepped forward, his boots crunching against the gravel. "I have strict orders to take him back to our emperor," he said, his voice low but firm. "Resisting will only bring more bloodshed."
The Farius warriors exchanged uneasy glances.
