After a few minutes of rest, sitting next to the tree his body had hit, Joel kept his eyes closed and let his breathing steady. He knew he couldn't stay there much longer. The rules of the Cult of the Dawn were clear: if an agent was exposed or involved in a high-risk incident, like that fight, they were not to return to any of the hideouts or approach any cult member, under any circumstances. They were to disappear, get as far away from the scene of the incident as possible, without attracting attention, avoiding any confrontation, and living in anonymity for at least a full year, or until they were certain that no one was chasing them or that their actions couldn't compromise the organization.

  Joel knew it wasn't the first time he'd read that protocol, but this was the first time he'd had to apply it. He took a deep breath, shutting down any personal thoughts. He couldn't afford to grieve now. Sadness and guilt were luxuries he'd allow himself later, if he survived.

  Without a word, he began gathering the bodies. He used a small vial of viscous liquid he'd brought with him, a special accelerant created by cult alchemists. All he had to do was pour it over the corpses and strike a spark with a flint, and the fire devoured the remains with inhuman speed. The flames were white, silent, and smokeless. In less than five minutes, nothing remained but blackened fragments and ash.

  During the process, while searching the bodies of the two enemy mages, Joel found a surprising amount of gold coins, several enchanted gems, and scrolls with magical information. He also found small alchemical tools and enchanted objects of uncertain value. He took it all, without remorse. It wasn't looting, it was survival.

  When he reached Toren's body, Joel's expression softened. He knelt beside him, searching his clothes and backpacks. He found a small notebook, an identification badge, and a locket with a photograph inside. Joel didn't open it. He simply put it away with his other personal belongings, intending to one day hand them over to the Cult's caretakers. It was the least he could do for his fallen comrade.

  Having done this, Joel struggled to his feet, feeling the burning pain in his fractured ribs. He bandaged his superficial wounds with what little he had and staggered toward the caravan, guided by the memory of his journey. It took only a few minutes to get there. Smoke still hung in the air, though thinner. The place was deserted, abandoned, with the marks of the ambush still visible like open scars in the earth.

  The brutality of the attack was palpable; not even the horses had survived. The bodies were charred, severed, or shattered by magical impacts. One of the carriages was overturned, splinters of wood stuck into the ground like spears, and dark stains of dried blood marked the ground. The stench of burning flesh and rusted metal enveloped everything.

  Joel moved cautiously through the wreckage, his steps sinking slightly into the bloody mud. As he approached one of the carriages, he heard a faint sound: sobbing. A broken, fragile whisper that barely broke the silence. He approached slowly, circling the wagon until he found a door half-tied by remnants of burnt canvas and broken wood. There was movement inside. Joel placed his hand on the door and carefully pushed it. It was stuck, but with a little force, he managed to open it just enough to squeeze through.

  What he found inside stopped him in his tracks. In a corner, covered with a dirty blanket and shivering, were two children. At first glance, a boy and a girl, no more than nine years old. Their faces were stained with soot and tears. Their large, terror-filled eyes stared at him uncomprehendingly. Joel crouched down slowly, wordlessly, revealing his open, weaponless hands.

  "Calm down..." he whispered. “The danger has passed”.

  The children didn't respond, but neither did they scream or move away. They clung to each other, wrapped in the same blanket, as if physical contact was their only anchor to reality. The girl began to sob silently, hiding her face in the boy's shoulder. Joel felt the lump in his throat tighten, for it was a scene all too human in the midst of horror.

  He sat down slowly beside them, not touching them. Just watching, breathing calmly. For the first time since the mission had begun, Joel allowed himself to feel something other than fear or anger. He felt sadness. A deep sadness, like a wound that had just opened and that he knew would take a long time to heal.

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  But Joel immediately remembered that he was still on a public road, and that forced him to act quickly. Any delay could mean more witnesses, more enemies, and more risks. Without another word, he stood up, his expression tense.

  "I'm sorry," he murmured softly, more to himself than to the children.

  Without waiting for a reply, he bent down and took them both in his arms. They were light, too much for their age, and offered no real resistance. Only a couple of weak moans emerged when Joel picked them up. The boy stared into space, while the girl began to cry a few minutes after they left the carriage, her stifled, sustained wailing stabbing Joel's chest like a dagger.

  But he didn't stop, and ran as fast as he could, his ribs broken and his body still battered from the battle, heading into the woods in a random direction. He jumped over roots, slipped through bushes, and descended small slopes, always without looking back. He couldn't risk staying, not now, not with those children. And his priority was to disappear.

  Hours passed. The sun was already high when Joel, exhausted and drenched in sweat, finally found a stream hidden between stones and trees. The sound of the water was like a soothing balm. His legs were shaking, his breathing was erratic, and the children were no longer crying: they were asleep, or had simply stopped making sounds, sunk in a state of shock.

  Joel gently placed them on a flat, mossy rock in the perpetual shade of the leafy trees. He drank a little water directly from the stream, rinsing his mouth of dirt and blood. Then he sat silently, staring at the current flowing past him.

  They were far away, very far, but not far enough. Joel offered the children water from the stream, using his canteen, and they drank eagerly, as if only then remembering their thirst. Then he took a small emergency pack from his backpack: high-calorie crackers, dense and tasteless, but enough to keep an adult alive for days. He broke them into smaller pieces and carefully distributed them. The children didn't hesitate for a second and ate desperately, like starving puppies, not really caring what they had been given.

  The silence lasted for a while, broken only by the crunching of the crackers and the constant murmur of the water. Joel didn't want to push, but he needed information. He leaned in slightly, speaking to them gently, in the calmest voice he could.

  "What are your names?"

  The boy looked up for the first time. His eyes were red, his face smudged, but there was a spark of determination in his eyes, the kind that only comes from seeing too much, too soon.

  "I'm Liam. This is my sister, Aria."

  Joel nodded slightly. "How old are you both?"

  "I'm nine... and she just turned eight," the boy replied again, his voice low, his arm protecting his sister.

  "Were you with your family in the caravan?"

  Liam shook his head slowly. "They... they took us from our home. The soldiers said we were valuable. That... that we had a 'magic spark'." He spat the words out as if they were burning his mouth. "They took us from Mom and Dad."

  Aria sobbed harder at that, burying her face against her brother's chest. Joel swallowed bitterly, confirming the story he already knew. He remained silent for a moment, watching the wind gently caress the leaves above them, trying to calm his own rage. He knew he had to protect them from the empire; they couldn't fall into its hands, no matter what. Otherwise, in the worst case, he had to eliminate them.

  "You're safe," he finally said, more to convince himself than them.

  The children didn't respond, but they didn't cry again either. Joel leaned back on a mossy root, closing his eyes for just a moment. The protocol of the Cult of Dawn said that he had to flee and hide for a long time. But it said nothing about what one should do when carrying two children. And that complicated everything.

  Joel rested only long enough to ensure the children could continue. Then, without wasting any more time, he set off again. He persuaded Liam to climb onto his back, holding firmly to his neck and shoulders, while he carefully took Aria in his arms. The exhausted and silent girl clung to him without resistance. This arrangement allowed him to move with greater speed and stability through the forest. Although the combined weight of both children aggravated the pain in his fractured ribs, Joel didn't complain once. The pain was secondary, as the priority was to get away and disappear.

  He advanced steadily for hours, stopping only when strictly necessary. He drank only a few sips of water, and only when he was sure the children did too. He avoided open paths and sought out the densest areas of vegetation, crossing small streams, stepping only on firm ground and dry leaves, even taking care with the angle of his footsteps so as not to leave obvious tracks. Fortunately, he didn't encounter any dangerous animals, except for some large rodents and the occasional feline in the distance.

  Every decision, every movement, responded to techniques not entirely his own. They were fragments of knowledge inherited from one of his dream lives, memories borrowed from some forgotten spirit: a wandering hunter from the Grey Mountains, adept at surviving unseen and unheard for weeks on end. Joel didn't remember his name, but in that moment, it felt as if he were walking with him.

  The sun began to set, filtering orange rays through the treetops. The shadows lengthened, and the air began to chill, but Joel didn't stop. His breathing became heavier, but his pace remained steady. Aria slept soundly in his arms, her head resting against his chest. Liam barely murmured a word now and then, but he too was beginning to give in to exhaustion.

  Joel knew he would have to find shelter before nightfall fell completely. But for now, each step was another step between them and any pursuers. The exile was just beginning.