Sky Mesa "Fire on the Mountain," Run, Boys, Run

Set for shortly after this thread assumptions made based on previous posts
Powerplay with permission, single replies welcome
@Machiavelli

They had not been made to wait long for the boy to resurface. The air hung heavy with anticipation as a small, sharp-eyed servant led the way, darting like a bird through the shadows. And there, where the barren path opened wide, Hasdrubal lay—his crumpled form scarcely recognizable. Sand and grime clung to his slender frame, and beneath his contorted hind leg, blood pooled in a dark, glistening tide, marking the cruelty inflicted on the boy.

Herod halted abruptly, his composure faltering as he beheld the ruin of the figure before him. For a long moment, his breath caught in his throat, choking on the horror and disbelief. The mask of cool authority he often wore cracked like glass struck by an unforgiving hand, splintering under the raw surge of emotion that coursed through him. Without a word, he swiftly removed the alligator hide cape from his shoulders, the material rustling softly as he draped it over the boy’s still body. The lion crouched low. With a tenderness reserved only for the boy that lay unconscious before him, reached out, cradling Hasdrubal’s delicate face, his trembling paw brushing away the dirt that marred his features.

Hasdrubal, Herod whispered. His golden eyes glistened with emotion as he gazed upon the boy's dirt-smeared face. What have they done to you? There was no hiding the anguish that clung to his words, nor the tremor that rippled through his voice like a tremulous note held too long on a violin string.

Herod turned his gaze toward his companion, the mask of authority slipping back into place even as his arms remained protectively around the pretty body. Go ahead, he commanded, his voice measured once more, though still tinged with the sorrow that gripped him. Send another to help carry the boy. I do not believe he will be able to stand, let alone walk on his own.

Tell @Ransem to move camp to the creek in the north. Once they are settled, assist @Elveera in restocking whatever she requires. His voice took on a sense of urgency now. He will need medical attention if we are to see him back to Godsmouth.

Herod's grip on Hasdrubal tightened ever so slightly, as if daring the world to take him away again. He had come too far, seen too much, to lose the boy again.

Quickly now, he urged, his gaze flicking toward the horizon as the sky darkened with the promise of nightfall. I will follow behind. We have not a moment to waste.

Someone was speaking. A voice—familiar. His rounded ear twitched, and slowly, with a heavy ache, his opal eyes dragged themselves open. Everything was wrong. The light was blinding, sharp, as if the sun itself had decided to swallow him alive. Had it always been this bright? And Gods, his body burned. Machiavelli's vision blurred, the figures before him swaying like shadows in water, shifting from three to one and back again, all silhouetted against the bleeding sky of the setting sun.

But then—those eyes.

No.

He knew those eyes. He could never forget them. Panic surged like wildfire, searing through his veins, but his body—his traitorous body—remained still, heavy and unresponsive, as though pinned. He willed his limbs to move, to pull away, but they refused, locked in place like a corpse.

He wanted to scream—to tear his throat open with the sheer force of it—but his mouth would not obey. Nothing obeyed.

No, no, no, no, no—

The word repeated in his mind, spiraling into a desperate chant as everything slipped, the light fading, the figures blurring again. The world dimmed, his heart racing as he was dragged, unwilling, back into darkness.