Dawn broke like the tightening pull of a drawn bowstring. Fog rolled low across the island's edge as the first light cast a golden haze through the mist. Zehn stood on the deck of the ship, gaze fixed on the distant ridge as the bandit stronghold stirred in the distance. The night had been quiet, their gliders tied and gear sharpened. Now came the strike.
His voice was low but firm as he addressed his squad. "Today, we're not just airbenders. We're executioners. Quick, clean, and merciless. No banners. No calls. No mercy."
Kiva stood nearest, adjusting the wrappings on her arms. Her eyes never left his.
"We'll move through the cliffs," Zehn continued. "The ridge gap is narrow. Quiet entry. Kiva, you take the left flank. Fira and Dalo, the center. The rest will follow with me to the right. Our goal isn't to destroy the entire camp at once—it's to decapitate it."
One by one, the benders nodded. Not a word wasted. Their silence spoke louder than any war drum.
Moments later, they launched.
The gliders caught the morning wind, low and fast, a blur through the mist. They sailed in through the unseen crack between the cliffs. No torches. No noise. The bandits had no idea death was already airborne.
They landed just outside the main palisade, slipping into the dense underbrush. From there, the squad moved like spirits—silent, quick, and brutal.
The first watchman didn't even have time to cry out. Kiva struck him with a burst of air that launched him off his post into the ravine below. Another was sliced across the throat by a crescent of compressed wind from Zehn himself.
Then it began.
The camp was vast, a chaotic sprawl of tents, wooden towers, and fire pits. Shouts erupted as the first few bodies dropped. Alarm bells rang. But by then, half the towers were already unmanned.
Zehn dropped into the central street with his core team. "Now!" he shouted.
Airbenders moved like shadows. Some whipped the ground, creating vortexes that flung bandits into the air. Others darted through tents, clearing barracks, silencing those who reached for blades.
But it wasn't easy.
These weren't street thugs. The bandits fought back—dirty, fierce, and desperate. They swarmed from their tents, some wielding old bending staves, others crude blades or stolen gear. Zehn blocked a spear thrust with a burst of wind, then countered with a spinning kick that shattered the man's ribs.
Kiva caught a glancing blow across the shoulder as she ducked behind a wooden stall. Blood ran down her arm, but she didn't stop. Her blade sang as she moved forward, deflecting another strike and slamming a wind-charged palm into her attacker's chest.
The battle spread.
Tents caught fire. Sentries screamed. The sky darkened not with clouds, but with the rising dust and ash of a collapsing kingdom.
Zehn and Dalo breached the inner circle—a makeshift command area built from stolen stone. A ring of the strongest, most brutal leaders gathered there, and they weren't unarmed. One hurled flame—likely a rogue firebender. Another wielded a hammer larger than most men.
Dalo was the first to charge. Zehn followed.
The fight turned savage.
Zehn dodged a sweep of the flaming whip and kicked the rogue bender off balance. But the hammer wielder caught him with a glancing blow to the ribs, knocking him back. Wind exploded from his palms, sending both enemies flying. Dalo moved like a tempest, his twin daggers carving through two more foes with elegant violence.
They didn't have numbers, but they had something better—precision.
By the time the sun reached its peak, the camp was in ruins. Fires smoldered across the courtyard. Over a hundred bodies lay scattered—some broken, some burned, some vanished into the cliffs.
Zehn stood in the center, blood splattered across his vest, shoulders rising and falling with exhaustion.
"Roll call," he barked.
One by one, the survivors returned. Two wounded. No dead.
Kiva limped up beside him, her shoulder bandaged with torn cloth. "Took longer than I liked."
"They fought harder than they looked," Zehn replied.
She nodded. "They always do when they've got something to lose."
He turned toward the wreckage of the camp. "Well, now they've got nothing."
As the air settled and smoke cleared, the wind picked up—carrying ash out to sea and leaving silence behind.
Dead Reef was no longer a den of thieves.
It was a grave.
And above it, Stormhaven's banner would fly.
Before they left, Zehn personally planted the standard atop the highest ridge—the dark banner bearing the mark of Stormhaven, now fluttering in the seaborne wind. The last act before departure wasn't one of celebration, but of closure.
None of the bandits were spared. No prisoners, no survivors. The last screams had long since faded, leaving only the scent of ash and blood. They had cleansed the island of its rot, but the cost had left marks.
One of the younger airbenders, Daro, limped heavily as he was helped toward the ship. A jagged gash ran from his thigh to his calf, the wound deep and still oozing. He'd taken it saving one of the others—pulling a fallen comrade from a collapsing tower while bandits swarmed.
"He needs help," Kiva said quietly, glancing to Zehn. "Soon."
Zehn nodded. "We'll return to the base. The waterbender—Niris—can heal him. Maybe better than any field wrap could. We don't have time to play heroes. We need our strength intact for what's next."
As the ship pulled away from Dead Reef, its hull scorched and its sails still reeking of battle, Zehn stood at the stern. Behind him, the once-invisible island now bore a symbol it never had before—belonging.
Stormhaven had claimed it.
Now they would return to regroup. To recover. To prepare.
Because this was just the beginning.