The northern woods engulfed them completely.
Branches reached for the darkening sky, their bony fingers scraping against twilight. The ground beneath their feet was soft with decay and rain, muffling their movements. Dray advanced with the careful intent of a man who had walked through blood before, his steel armor reflecting the little light that remained. Reerie followed behind, her boots making no sound, her breathing steady.
The forest closed in around them. Shadows gathered between the trees like spilled ink.
"Have you done rescue work before?" Dray's voice broke the silence, low and deliberate.
Reerie remained silent.
He looked back, his gray eyes piercing in the dimness. "Good. No bad habits."
They moved further in. The trees grew denser. Night draped its cloak over the land, and somewhere ahead, beyond the darkness, Agnes awaited.
The village emerged like a corpse under the moon.
Houses leaned at odd angles, their windows empty sockets gazing at nothing. In the square, a fire flickered low, smoke rising thin and gray. Shadows shifted around it—figures hunched near the embers, iron glinting dully at their belts. Soldiers. King Adam's men.
Dray raised his hand, signaling to stop. His voice was a whisper brushing her ear. "Two by the fire. One on the roof. Another near the well. They were already waiting for me."
Reerie scanned the village, taking note. Her new dagger shimmered faintly as she drew it, the edge promising silence.
"Take the roof," Dray whispered. "I'll move when they disperse."
She remained silent. She never spoke.
The first sentry was unaware that death had come.
Reerie's shadow crept along the decaying wall, her boots gripping the mossy stone. She breathed lightly. Her movements were exact.
His figure loomed dark against the stars, stood still with a musket on his side. Yet, he was focused on the front, he forgot about his back.
Her arm wrapped around his jaw, pulling him back into the shadows. The blade touched his throat once, deep and certain. His gasp fluttered like a dying moth, then ceased. Blood warmed her wrist as she gently lowered him to the roof, a silent prayer offered.
Below, Dray's shadow grew longer. He approached the square like a wolf hunting its prey.
Reerie slipped down from the roof, a wave of darkness trailing behind a broken cart. Her gaze was fixed on the house at the edge of the square—its door gaping like a rotting mouth, sickly yellow lamplight spilling onto the dirt. The foul stench that escaped it tainted the air: sweat, urine, and something worse.
The room was a cavern of shadows.
A single lantern flickered on a wooden table, casting sickly light across the cracked walls. Agnes was tied to a chair in the center—chains wrapped around her wrists and ankles, digging into skin that was already bruised and raw. Her dress was torn, stained dark with blood and dirt. A bruise spread across her jaw like spilled wine.
But her eyes—dark and fierce—remained steady.
The soldier towered over her, lean muscle and old scars, his grin revealing yellowed teeth. He crouched low, his breath hot and foul.
"Pretty little thing," he rasped, his thumb tracing her bruised cheek. "That mouth of yours? I'll find a better use for it before dawn."
Agnes spat blood onto his face.
"Go fuck yourself."
His laughter cracked like a whip. "Still got a fight in you. Good. Makes it more enjoyable when you break."
Another soldier stood by the door, a musket slung over his shoulder, watching with lifeless eyes and a slack grin.
Agnes raised her chin, her voice steady even though her throat trembled. "Try and see, a bunch of cowards. Think you smart because you caught me off guard, but Dray won't let you go easy."
The soldier seized her jaw, squeezing until her mouth opened. "I don't see Dray here. Do you?"
Suddenly, the door burst open.
Dray filled the doorway like a storm forming.
He lifted his hand—no gesture, no words—and blue light exploded from his palm. A sphere of crackling energy shot across the room and hit the door guard directly in the chest. The impact was immediate and complete. The man's sternum collapsed inward with a wet crunch, lifting his body off the ground and slamming it into the wall behind him. He crumpled, lifeless before he even hit the floor.
The soldier near Agnes turned, reaching for his blade.
Dray was already in motion.
His body blurred—moving faster than any elves should, magic coursing through his muscles like fire through dry wood. He closed the gap in two strides. The soldier's sword was halfway out of its sheath when Dray's fist—enhanced and crushing—struck his jaw. Bone shattered like pottery. The man's head jerked sideways, his neck breaking with a sound like green wood splitting.
He fell.
Silence crashed into the room like a collapsing wall.
Agnes stared, her chest heaving, chains rattling as she struggled against them. "Dray—"
He was already approaching her, his hands reaching for the chains. Blue light flickered around his fingers, building and condensing into focused points of force. He pressed his palms against the iron at her wrists.
The chains shattered.
Metal screamed as it tore apart, links bursting into shards that clattered across the floor. The manacles fell away, leaving red welts on her skin. He moved to her ankles. Once more, the blue light flared. Again, the chains exploded into fragments.
Agnes surged forward, free, her hands trembling as she steadied herself against the chair.
"Took you long enough," she gasped, her voice tight with relief and something more intense.
"I apologize, your highness," Dray sincerely apologizing.
Reerie stood at the entrance, observing.
Her eyes followed the blue light—the way it gathered, condensed, and released. The way the chains broke like glass when it touched them. The way Dray moved quicker than a human should, his body was enhanced by something beyond just muscle and bone.
Magic.
She had witnessed steel and blood. She had seen fire and death. But this—this was something else. This was power, pure and effective. A tool sharper than any knife.
Her eyes stayed on his hands, in the dimming blue light.
For the first time in eleven years, something ignited in the void behind her ribs. Not emotion. Not hope. Just... curiosity.
A thought: Could I do that?
She tucked it away. The mission was not complete.
Agnes pushed herself up, steadying herself against the chair. Her gaze swept the room—fallen soldiers, broken chains, Dray standing over the debris.
Then she noticed movement behind him.
A shadow in the doorway. A figure wielding a blade.
Instinct screamed. "Dray, behind you!"
Agnes lunged forward, her leg extending in a practiced kick—full force, fighter's precision—targeting the figure's center mass.
Her boot struck Reerie's ribs.
The force lifted Reerie off the ground and sent her crashing backward. She hit the floor hard, the air bursting from her lungs. Her mouth opened—reflexively, desperately—but no sound emerged. Just a ragged exhale, silent as always.
Pain blossomed across her side. She gasped again, soundless, her fingers curling against the floorboards.
"Wait!" Dray's voice sliced through the room like a knife. "She's with me!"
Agnes froze, one foot still raised, breathing heavily. Her gaze fixed on Reerie—still on the ground, clutching her ribs, not screaming, not cursing, just silent.
Realization struck like cold water.
"Oh gods—" Agnes dropped to her knees beside Reerie, hands hovering, uncertain. "I'm sorry, I didn't—I thought you were—"
Reerie pushed herself up, her face blank. The pain was present—ribs aching, breath shallow—but it felt distant, unimportant. She'd endured worse. Much worse. This was nothing.
She stood, brushing dust from her cloak, and met Agnes's gaze with the flat calm of someone who'd forgotten what pain mattered.
Agnes stared, a flicker of horror crossing her face. "Are you—can you not speak?"
Reerie remained silent. She simply turned toward the door, her hand resting on her dagger's hilt.
Dray stepped between them, his voice steady. "She doesn't talk. But she's the best I could find. We move. Now."
Agnes nodded slowly, her eyes still on Reerie, apology and confusion battling in her expression.
But Reerie was already moving toward the door.
They had seconds, maybe less, before—
Heavy boots pounded the ground outside.
The noise echoed through the night like thunder—intentional, assured, many feet marching in sync.
Dray's head whipped toward the door. His hand moved to his sword.
The entrance was filled with shadows.
A man emerged into the light of the lamp, and the space seemed to constrict around him.
He was as broad as Dray, built like a fortress, clad in steel plate armor from neck to knee. The metal was dark, well-worn, and displayed an insignia on the chest, King Adam's emblem.
One side of his face was a wreck—burn scars stretched from temple to jaw, distorting the flesh into a permanent grimace. The other side was tough, weathered, the visage of a man who had endured decades of war and learned to embrace it.
In his grip, he held a battle axe.
The weapon was enormous, its blade notched and darkened from use. He rested it on his shoulder as if it were weightless, his eyes—cold, pale, like a predator's—scanning the room. Observing the bodies. The broken chains. Agnes standing free. Dray positioned between her and the exit.
Behind the commander, soldiers took their places. Four men. Muskets raised. Shields locked. Professional. Ready.
The commander's lips curled into a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Dray." His voice was deep, rough like grinding stone. "I was curious when you would arrive."
Dray's grip on his sword tightened. "Gully. Still mad at me for burning your face?"
Gully's smile grew wider. "Am I? I'm just mad an elf dared to touch me."
Agnes stepped back, her hands already tightened. Preparing for a fight.
Reerie's fingers tightened around her dagger, her body coiled, every muscle primed.
Magic flickered faintly around Dray fingertips—blue sparks fading into the darkness. "I guess this elf is stronger than you."
The commander lifted his axe, the blade glinting in the lamplight like a promise.
"We'll see about that."
The soldiers moved forward.
The room held its breath.
And the world teetered on the brink of violence, poised to plunge.