As the truck rolled in, it slowly ground to a halt.

  The engine ticked as it cooled.

  A door creaked open—then slammed shut.

  Boots crunched against the dry soil, each step heavy in the quiet air.

  A voice called out,

  “Hey, Chello! What’ve you got in the truck?”

  At the sound of the name, several heads turned toward Kloric.

  Not all of them.

  Some still watched him with doubt in their eyes—like they weren’t sure if he’d truly known the name… or if it had just been a lucky guess.

  But doubt didn’t move them.

  Fear did.

  And fear made them follow his example.

  Kloric rose to his feet slowly.

  No panic.

  No sudden movement.

  He waited.

  The tarp rustled.

  As the tarp was pulled open, Kloric was already on his feet.

  A guard froze when he saw someone standing directly before him.

  Instinct took over.

  His hand snapped toward his rifle. Kloric didn’t flinch.

  He raised his hands slowly—palms open, fingers spread—and waited.

  He didn’t speak. He didn’t move forward.

  He simply stood there until the guard stepped back, creating space at the entrance.

  The hesitation lasted only a second.

  But it was enough.

  The guard studied him, then the others behind him.

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  No raised voices. No resistance. No sudden movement.

  “Move,” the guard muttered, stepping aside.

  Kloric climbed down first.

  He walked several paces away from the truck, then stopped.

  Slowly, deliberately, he knelt.

  Terren followed.

  Then the others—one by one.

  Exactly as planned.

  The others began to notice it.

  The guards were exactly as Kloric had said—relaxed, armed, watching.

  And the leader stood apart from the rest.

  A long scar cut down his face, his posture loose but alert, eyes scanning the prisoners with bored calculation rather than rage.

  A cold realization spread through the group.

  Their lives were hanging by a thread.

  Not on luck.

  Not on mercy.

  On behavior.

  If Kloric had been right about this…

  then maybe—just maybe—he was right about everything else too.

  And if there truly was a way to survive—

  Then they had better not be the ones to ruin it.

  Night pressed down on the yard, the sky a dull stretch of cloud and stars.

  The soldiers stood in worn uniforms — heavy coats, canvas straps, steel helmets dulled by use. Rifles rested against their shoulders, dark metal catching only faint light from distant lamps.

  At the far end of the line, Kloric knelt.

  Still.

  Silent.

  The grieving man stepped forward.

  The moment he saw the guard — the one who had fired the shot — something in him surged. His boots scraped softly against the dirt as he moved, breath quickening.

  Then he saw it.

  Beyond the guard.

  At the edge of the line.

  Kloric.

  Kneeling.

  Unmoving.

  Kloric raised his head.

  Just enough.

  Their eyes met.

  The look wasn’t loud.

  It wasn’t dramatic.

  It was cold.

  The kind of stare that belonged to men who had already watched death and decided when it was allowed to happen.

  The grieving man froze.

  Every instinct screamed at him to rush forward.

  But another instinct answered louder.

  The one that knew when not to move.

  He took a step back.

  Then another.

  His shoulders sagged as the tension drained from him. He lowered his head and returned to the line.

  The soldiers never noticed.

  They shifted their weight, adjusted straps, breathed into the night — unaware of how close the world had come to breaking.

  Kloric lowered his gaze. And the line held.

  “Hmph. This is no fun.”

  The guard’s voice cut through the quiet as they knelt.

  “Yeah,” another said with a yawn. “I was expecting some resistance.”

  “At least this makes things easier.”

  The squad leader stepped forward, hands on his belt, and slowly walked down the line. His eyes lingered on each face, searching for fear, anger—anything.

  He clicked his tongue.

  “You’re right,” he said. “This is boring.”

  He glanced back. “Hey, Chello. What’s the commander planning to do with them?”

  Chello shrugged, pulling a cigarette from his pocket. “No idea. He just told me to bring them back. Should be on his way.”

  He lit the cigarette, then offered one to the squad leader. The leader accepted, exhaling smoke into the night.

  A guard snorted and looked down at the prisoners.

  “What are you?” he sneered. “Cowards?”

  He laughed harshly. “Weren’t you planning to die with dignity? Look at you now—kneeling like dogs.”

  He spat.

  The saliva landed on Kloric’s cheek.

  Kloric didn’t move.

  Inside, something burned—hot and violent—but he crushed it down.

  Survival first.

  The guard’s gaze drifted down the line and stopped on Terren.

  “This one’s young,” he said, smirking. “Damn. Valyrith must be desperate, sending out kids like this.”

  He reached out and tapped Terren’s cheek with two fingers.

  Terren stiffened.

  The guard’s smile widened as he drew his hand back—about to slap him.

  Kloric moved.

  He leaned forward just enough.

  The blow landed against his face instead.

  The sound cracked sharply in the night.

  That alone was enough.

  Any remaining doubt among the prisoners vanished.

  Following Kloric wasn’t just sensible anymore— it was the wisest decision they could make.

  The guard turned sharply.

  “Who do you think you are,” he snapped, “interrupting me?”

  He grabbed Kloric by the cheek, fingers digging in hard, forcing his face upward.

  Kloric didn’t resist.

  The guard sneered and glanced back at the squad leader.

  “Boss,” he said casually, “this one’s disobedient.

  You want me to correct him?”

  For a moment, the yard was silent.

  Then the squad leader nodded.

  “Go ahead,” he said.

  “Just don’t kill him.”

  Kloric felt a strange sense of relief.

  If he was being beaten, then time was passing.

  Time mattered.

  What worried him more was the others. He hoped his actions hadn’t pushed them too far—hadn’t inspired them to do something reckless. The last thing he needed was anyone trying to fight for him.

  The guard yanked hard on the chain around Kloric’s wrists.

  “Up.”

  Kloric didn’t resist. He stood as the chain rattled loudly, then stumbled forward as the guard dragged him toward the far corner of the yard.

  Just before they moved out of sight, Kloric turned his head.

  He looked at the others. And shook it—slowly.

  No.

  Don’t move. Endure it.

  For a moment, no one breathed.

  Then they understood.

  No one followed. No one spoke. No one broke the line.

  Satisfied, the guard shoved Kloric forward again and hauled him away.

  The night swallowed them.