The first tendrils of dawn crept over the edge of the forest, painting the mist-shrouded trees in the dim hues of war.
Just outside the rough palisade walls of Jamestown, Helios crouched in the branches of a crooked pine, his cloak fluttering softly in the breeze. His fingers moved with precision, weaving a quiet incantation. The air bent around him—shifting, sharpening.
"Carry the sound," he whispered. "Bring their words to me."
A thin, invisible line of wind slithered through the air, slipping beneath the flap of the governor's qauters.
Inside, Thomas's voice cracked through the wind-spell, laced with panic.
"He was taken! By the natives—I saw them. He was ambushed by them and was about to be killed when I shot the man. He then told me to run but I stay and hid and I saw them take him. Governor, they've taken John Smith from us and we need to go rescue him quickly!"
The boy's voice trembled. "We have to go after him now! We can still save him—please, sir!"
For a moment, there was silence. Then came Ratcliffe's voice, slow and dripping with contempt. "No."
Thomas stammered. "W-What?"
"I said no," Ratcliffe repeated. "Let the traitor hang. It's quite fitting actually since he wished to get close to them then he must be happy they'll be the ones to take his life instead."
Helios narrowed his eyes, already moving to interrupt.
Before Ratcliffe could utter another word, a second voice slid into the room—smooth and cold.
"Now, now, Governor. Let's not be hasty."
Ratcliffe froze mid-step. His eyes darted to the corners of his tent. "Who said that?" he hissed, spinning in place. "Who's there?!"
Outside, Helios smirked.
Inside, no one reacted. Not the guards outside, not Thomas, not the wind that continued to blow gently through the opening.
Only Ratcliffe could hear him meaning it was this thing again.
The Governor swallowed hard, composing himself with a flick of his coat. "Leave," he growled at Thomas. "All of you. I need to think. Alone."
Thomas hesitated but quickly obeyed, backing out of the tent like a dog kicked by its master. The moment the entrance closed, Ratcliffe turned again. "What do you want now?"
From the breeze came Helios' amused voice. "Come now I've been helping you and this is the attitude you show me. Regardless I've come to stop you from making a mistake."
Ratcliffe sneered. "What mistake?"
"Choosing pride over opportunity," Helios said. "Why turn away from the chance to rescue John Smith? Think of it—if you ride to battle with the settlers at your back, you'll be seen as a hero reclaiming one of your own."
Ratcliffe narrowed his eyes. "And…?"
"And," Helios continued, his tone sharpening, "once the tribe is gathered for the execution… use the chaos to summon the Heartless. Erase every obstacle at once—Pocahontas, the warriors, even the ones who defy you among your own men."
Ratcliffe blinked. Then, slowly, his lips curled into a grin. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, eyes dancing with the gleam of conquest. "A cunning move… the perfect trap."
"I thought you'd like it," Helios replied coolly.
Ratcliffe turned toward the entrance, ready to shout orders—but Helios stopped him.
"Not yet. Wait until just before dawn. If you march too soon, they might not be ready to execute John when you arrive—and then your excuse for the war dies, so then you must wait till the opportune moment to make your move."
Ratcliffe paused, nodding slowly. "Yes… yes, of course. At dawn. Let them get nice and ready."
The Governor turned back to the center of the room, arms folded behind his back. The voice was gone. But the idea remained.
A hush had fallen over the village—one deeper than grief, heavier than silence. The sun was beginning to rise and the moment was here.
Two warriors dragged John Smith toward a crude wooden scaffold built hastily in the night, little more than a raised log platform with sharpened stakes at its base. His hands were bound, his lip split, and his clothes torn. Yet he walked without stumbling, head held high.
The tribe gathered, silent and grim. Chief Powhatan stood before them, stone-faced and cloaked in feathers, staff in hand.
Not even the wind dared speak.
Behind the execution platform, Pocahontas stood surrounded by warriors, her pleas ignored, her heart breaking with every step John took.
Far across the clearing, in the shadows beyond the village's edge, Ratcliffe mounted a horse, his polished armor gleaming faintly beneath the rising sun. Behind him stood nearly every settler in Jamestown—armed, armored, eyes set on war.
He turned in his saddle, lifting one gloved hand.
"Today," he roared, "we avenge this treachery! We rescue our own! And we claim what should've been ours from the start!"
The settlers let out a cheer—and marched behind him, muskets loaded, bayonets gleaming.
Back at the village, Powhatan raised his staff high.
"This is justice," he intoned, voice trembling with fury. "Let the traitor's blood mark the end of lies."
One of the warriors placed his hand on John's shoulder, forcing him to kneel. The execution blade was lifted—gleaming in the pale dawn light.
And then—a gunshot.
The sound tore through the still air like thunder.
Everything froze.
The executioner staggered, blood blooming from his shoulder. He dropped the blade with a clang.
Powhatan turned, eyes wide. Warriors looked around, startled. Some reached for weapons, others scanned the trees.
And from the distance, the wind shifted… carrying the steady beat of marching boots.
Ratcliffe had arrived.
With a full army at his back.
And the world teetered on the knife's edge.