Arielle
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Telio pov
🕑 Added 2025-11-11 22:49:59 +0000 UTCHi, November 9 was Telio's birthday, so I thought I might share this POV of the moment when Mc arrives at the Renegades' camp.
For this one, I chose to use my own Mc, Mewilen, but let me know if you'd like me to make it interactive so your Mc can appear.
The POV will be available for Tier Heart on Sunday. Until then only the Soul Tier members can read it
Telio opens his eyes with a start. The cold bars dig into his back, damp with night dew.
Outside, the air buzzes with sounds: boots sinking into the mudding ground, voices exchanging words he doesn't understand, his mind still clouded by a nightmarish sleep, the faint clinking of metal.
There are others. The rest of the group. Fantastic, he thinks sarcastically, despite the taste of bile rising in his throat.
He sits up slowly, his bones stiff and muscles sore from the night. It was impossible for him to curl up in the middle of the cage. He would have been too visible, a perfect target if the Renegades were bored.
At least in the corner, he could pretend to be invisible. Pretend he still had some control.
All he had to do was hold on until Mickhail arrived. Because he would come. This thought was not a prayer; he would have to believe in one of the Three for that.
No, not a prayer, but a certainty that he sought to hasten.
A sudden movement drew his gaze to the path between the tents. The air has changed; it is heavier, more tense. They are coming back. And they are not coming back empty-handed.
He leans forward, the iron biting into his palms, and freezes.
A group approaches. One of them is dragging a small figure behind him, far too small to be a dwarf.
Another child.
His heart stumbles. The ground seems to tilt as blood rushes to his ears. Leaves crunch under their boots, and he notices, too late, that they are following a red trail.
He knows this path. He has walked it himself. That red ribbon of blood.
The child stumbles, clutching something to his chest, perhaps a stuffed animal, as if it could stop the pain and suffering. A second layer of skin, a fragile shield.
The sight makes his throat tighten. He knows that look. That lost, dazed look. The look of someone who doesn't yet understand that nothing will ever be the same again.
Not after this.
Next to him, the lynx fidgets. His muscles tense. A low growl rises from his throat, hoarse and strangled. Telio turns his eyes to him, his companion in captivity, silent since yesterday, too badly injured to move.
But the sight of the child awakens something in the beast. Rage, perhaps. Or fear.
And suddenly, Telio understands why. The face is smeared with dirt and blood, but the ears, the faint, pointed curve of them, leave no doubt in his mind.
He has seen that face before. Not in person, but in Mickhail's chatter as he tucks him into bed in the room they both occupy on the second floor of the tavernkeepers' inn.
The other half-blood. Lady Elianna's child.
A child born of love, not a tool, the product of a horrible act.
The realization burns through his chest like a spark. Relief, Hope. If they're here, then not only Mickhail is bound to come here. And then it morphe in dread. He knows what happens to those brought here.
The Renegades gather around like vultures. Drawned by blood and fear, monsters of different shapes and forms. Theirs voices are too loud. They always are. Like they doesn't know fear, too used to handing it out.
And then it happens.
A noise sharp, and unpleasant.
Sloan's spear strikes violently against the wall of the cage holding the feline.
The cry that follows pierces Telio like lightning. It's not his, but it might as well be. Every blow he has ever received seems to resonate in that sound. The short-tailed creature struggles, muscles tense, and Telio can feel its fury, wild and desperate. He's seen this kind of rage before, the kind that gets beaten out of you if you show it.
His pulse begins to race. Easy, you're going to get yourself into even more trouble,” he thinks.
He tells himself not to move. Not to speak. Not to feel. But he does.
Something burns in his chest, deep and old, something that isn’t his. He doesn’t know why, but when the small half-elf looks up, Telio’s stomach knots so hard it hurts.
Their eyes don’t meet, not directly, too much distance, too many bars and yet somehow, he knows. The child’s fear vibrates against his own like a second heartbeat.
His vision blurs as they surround the little one. It makes him uncomfortable. No, more than that, and he struggles not to let himself be pulled into memories that are too horrific.
He tries to follow their words, but their tone says more than the meaning. Mockery. Disbelief. Curiosity. He knows those words. He’s heard them before, whispered and shouted. They don’t hurt less when they’re aimed at someone else. In fact it make it worse. Such things should not be said to someone so young.
He can't see it in their eyes, but he knows they must look at the half-elf the same way they looked at him when they caught him back: like prey that shouldn’t exist. Unless to serve in whichever way possible.
The female dwarf says something more, her voice dripping with scorn. The child didn't freezes, then answers back too quick, too raw and defiant. Telio doesn’t catch the words, only the tone. Defiance. Pride.
And then the slap.
The dwarf’s hand flashes in the firelight, her nails raking the child’s cheek. Telio flinches like he’s the one struck. The others laugh again, but it’s a nervous laugh this time. Even the lynx has gone silent, eyes burning behind the muzzle.
But for Telio, the child’s defiance, this spark that refuses to die had lights something inside him that’s been cold for too long. So he laughs.
The sound bursts from him, sharp and angry, scraping his throat.
The Dwarf turns around, furious.
But Telio continues to laugh, his shoulders shaking with spasms, because for once, the cruelty is not directed at him, and it feels like a half-hearted victory, even if it is futile.
The little half-elf had rekindled that small ember of defiance that Telio thought he had lost.
So, even though inside he was trembling,
He would bite, scream, insult, and draw all the arrogance and malice towards him.
Then everything happened too quickly, too confusingly! Like a counterweight to his sharp laughter.
The iron, the fire, the mark.
He knows that sound even before it rings out. Pain doesn't wait, nor is it silent.
That kind of cry is always too hoarse, tearing through the air and your own throat at the same time. Always meaning the same thing: the end of an era, the beginning of a miserable period. The mark had taken hold. The fire had found another host.
And yet...
He should have been ready.
He had seen it before. For he had felt it before, too. But every time it happened, it pierced him anew, as if the pain remembered the path to return to its own skin.
He barely had time to cushion the little girl's fall as the Orc threw her into the cage
.
Swept away by the mercy of unconsciousness.
Her voice was weaker than most of the children he had known before.
No.
Not weaker, just... inexperienced. Like that of a bird that had never cried out before. The sound of freedom shattering and finding itself chained.
That of a wound branded with a hot iron.
Her whole body trembled with her cry, as if she were about to break from within. Boody twisting in agony.
Telio acted before he even thought. He put his hand over her mouth, because he knew what would happen if she didn't stop: the screams, the boots, the silence that would follow. Who rarely come back at all.
He couldn't let that happen again. “No. Don't scream,” he whispered, his voice breaking halfway through. His throat still burned from the one time he had screamed, long ago. “They don't like it when you scream.”
But she screamed anyway.
Like a swan song.
And he hoped it wouldn't be the last.
Her body convulsed beneath his hand, the sound desperately trying to escape from her chest. And for a moment, he almost cried out with her. Out of fear, anger, despair.
So he did what Mickhail had done for him once before.
He held her close, pressed her head against his chest, and stroked her hair in small, irregular circles. “I know, I know,” he whispered, the words pouring out like a prayer he had never learned but somehow remembered. “It hurts, but it's okay, I'm here. You can squeeze my hand really hard if you want. Don't worry, I won't let go. I won't let them hurt you anymore.”
He didn't know if it was true.
He said it anyway.
Her cries broke, softened, and finally turned into sobs.
Telio didn't move. He stayed there, even when his arms hurt, even when the smell of burning skin filled the cage and his stomach turned. Rocking her gently as Mikhail still did when he woke up in the night, filled with terror.
Because if he let go, she would disappear, like the others. Their ghost lingering in the air and behind his eyes.
She would haunt him too.
And when her breathing slowed, when her body went still against his chest, he whispered again, more softly this time, almost to himself:
“It's over now. You did well. You survived.”
He didn't realize he was crying until one of his tears fell onto his cheek.
Because boys like him can't save anyone. But they can help the little ones survive.
