The archer at G4 looses first, trying to punish [b]Fredrick[/b] before he can reach the center. The shot comes fast and flat through the clearing—but Fredrick is already moving, red hair flashing as he slips the line of fire by a fraction. The arrow hisses past where his ribs had been and vanishes into the brush behind him.

He does not slow. He drives straight for the knot around [b]Garreth[/b], shoulder low, strength gathered for a brutal breakthrough. But the two melee bandits are ready for him. The one at J9 takes the hit just enough to spoil its angle, boots skidding in the dirt instead of being bowled clean through, while the one at J10 steps into the opening that failed to form. Steel flashes. [b]Garreth[/b] catches one strike, turns another—and still takes a hard slash across his already battered side. The old captain stumbles half a step, breath breaking sharply, posture tightening around pain. He is still standing, still dangerous, but now visibly laboring for every breath.

At the cage, [b]Jilly’s[/b] answer is stranger and far more effective. She swells her cheeks into a wobbling blue shield just as the bandit at G13 hacks down at her. The weapon sinks in, slows, and begins to melt into sticky gum-colored jelly in his own hands. He stares for one fatal second, overcommits, and his momentum carries him forward. He smashes shoulder-first into the cage gate at G14, rebounds off the bars, and crumples in a groaning heap at Jilly’s feet—disarmed, dazed, and out of the fight.

For the first time, the path to the girl is open.

And from near the central tent, the woman in dark wool watches it happen without panic, one hand resting near the hilt of her plain saber. Garreth is badly hurt. The cage is within reach. The camp’s leader is now fully in the open.