Kayal and Samye continued walking along the upper wooden path overlooking the village. Training shouts echoed below. Smith hammers rang in steady rhythm.

  But Kayal’s expression grew heavier.

  “There’s something else you should know,” he said quietly.

  Samye glanced at him. “About the kidnappers?”

  Kayal nodded.

  “Our isolation was not only because of disease and ability wars. It became necessary because of betrayal.”

  Samye listened carefully.

  “Years ago,” Kayal continued, “our previous village chief chose compassion over caution. He allowed a group of outsiders to enter Kamaskh.”

  “What kind of outsiders?” Samye asked.

  “Refugees. Men, women, children. They were running from an ability wielder — or so they claimed. They were injured, starving, terrified.”

  Samye said nothing — but he understood that look. He had seen it before. He had been it.

  “Our chief gave them shelter,” Kayal said. “Food. Medicine. Protection.”

  He stopped walking.

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  “They repaid him by murdering him.”

  Samye’s eyes narrowed slightly.

  Kayal’s voice hardened.

  “Some of their men discovered the location of our chief’s private chamber — where sacred tribal artifacts and our hidden treasury were kept. They broke in at night.”

  “What happened?” Samye asked quietly.

  “They stole everything they could carry,” Kayal said. “And when guards confronted them — they killed them. Including the chief. Including his personal guard unit.”

  The forest wind moved through the trees.

  Neither spoke for a few seconds.

  “That night,” Kayal continued, “Kamaskh learned a cruel truth — kindness without caution is suicide.”

  They resumed walking.

  “After that,” Kayal said, “the new leadership sealed our borders permanently. No outsider was allowed entry again. No exceptions.”

  “But outsiders kept coming,” Samye said.

  “Yes,” Kayal replied grimly. “Not as refugees — as hunters.”

  He gestured toward the training grounds again.

  “Our people are physically stronger than average. Faster. Better fighters. Generations of martial culture and forest living shaped us differently.”

  “Which makes your children valuable,” Samye said.

  Kayal nodded once.

  “Kidnappers learned that Jhil children grow into elite fighters. So they began targeting them. Capture. Sell. Train. Weaponize.”

  Samye’s fist tightened slowly.

  Same pattern.

  Different place.

  Greed wearing a new uniform.

  “But today,” Kayal said, turning to face him directly, “you changed something.”

  Samye looked at him without expression.

  “You could have walked away,” Kayal continued. “Most people do. Especially in times like this. But you didn’t.”

  He bowed slightly — a warrior’s bow, not a servant’s.

  “You protected our children. For that — I am personally grateful.”

  Samye answered simply:

  “…I couldn’t watch it happen again.”

  Kayal didn’t understand the full weight of that sentence.

  But he felt it.

  And he did not ask further.

  Below them, the village prepared for celebration.

  Above them, the forest watched silently.

  And between past betrayal and present danger —

  a new alliance was quietly forming.