Lucas exhaled slowly, looking out at the battered but unbroken crowd. "Then let's give them one they won't forget."
He turned toward the freed elves, raising his voice just enough to carry. "You want to stand with me? Then we start by making sure you're not bound anymore."
He gestured to the scarred elf woman—the one who'd kicked Drovek's corpse—and said, "Gather everyone with a slave seal. I'll take care of the rest."
She nodded crisply and began barking orders in Elvish. One by one, the elves formed a semi-circle, exposing the dark sigils still burned into their necks—symbols of ownership, of chains worn too long.
Lucas turned to the slime perched on his shoulder.
"You know what to do, buddy."
The slime gave a wobbly salute. "Slime magic ready, boss!" It wriggled down his arm and hopped into the center of the group, beginning to glow with a soft, golden light.
The air shimmered as it extended tendrils of energy toward each elf, the sigils reacting—flickering, fighting back.
