Driven by adrenaline and the thought of finally collapsing into bed, he ran the last stretch without pause. His lungs burned, yet his eyes often wandered upward, drawn to the stars. Their quiet shimmer eased the weight on his shoulders. Nearing the village gate, he slowed to a walk, granting himself the luxury of lingering under their light.
For a fleeting moment, he smiled—as if his burdens had vanished. But they hadn't. They were everywhere he looked, stitched into the very world around him.
Lanterns swayed at the entrance, chasing shadows from the narrow paths. He let out a long breath as he stepped into the village, his gaze sweeping across every detail, every potential anomaly.
The settlement lived as part of the forest. Wooden bridges webbed between massive trees, connecting homes carved into the trunks so seamlessly they appeared to have grown that way.
Vines and branches held up treehouses at the perimeter that the people called healing wards, their light falling across the ground like faint halos. Arcane Runes were etched into wooden fencing that marked the boundary, while wood elves kept a silent watch from high platforms.
At ground level, the heart of the village stirred. A tavern spilled laughter and the scent of spiced ale, while the nearby training ground echoed with the twang of bowstrings and the thud of practice strikes. Smithies hammered late into the night, sparks flashing like fireflies.
Above, in the trees, the elves' world unfolded. Walkways led to glowing gardens of luminescent flora. Communal platforms hosted gatherings, while lookout points watched the night for danger. The village leader's residence stood elevated among the northeast boughs, half home, half hall. Even higher, a secluded arboretum breathed with rare and magical trees, its hush inviting meditation.
Everywhere he looked, elves stood ready with bow or blade. The Chimerae, meanwhile, carried the weight of work—hauling, crafting, tending. A quiet balance of vigilance and labor, keeping the village alive.
All in all, the village's military strength lay in the hands of the elves, while the Chimerae bore the weight of its labor—or so he'd gathered in his time here.
It wasn't his history, not his people's.
There was much he could say about the symbolism of that balance, the quiet hierarchies and power structures it revealed. Yet now, none of that mattered. His only concern was reaching the guild hall.
He ascended to the tree level, where even the towering oaks seemed to diminish bit by bit, with each step upward, though their presence remained vast, looming over every path and platform.
His hands found refuge in his pockets, adopting a practiced indifference, he strolled toward the secluded guild structure.
With his daggers nestled securely in their compartments on his buckle, ensconced tightly by some invisible force. The moonlight struck them as he moved, glinting like twin promises of violence.
A few pairs of eyes tracked him from the shadows, careful not to be seen. Wood elves, drawn as much by the blades as by the strange half-fingered gauntlets hugging his forearms. He caught their stares easily enough, but chose not to return them.
Feigning ignorance, he whistled softly and strolled on as though unaware.
Nearing the guild, the faint glow of lanternlight spilled through its wooden slats. But before he reached it, a figure at the edge of his vision stalled him—a girl with dark-brown skin and hair black as midnight, standing alone in one of the watchtowers along the ground level.
He surveyed the other watchtowers, and noted a minimum of three occupants per tower. For a moment, he paused and smiled up at her. As if sensing his gaze, crimson eyes —like rivers of blood in moonlight— turned over her shoulder, but by that time he'd already left.
Inside, the guild hall breathed with a strange kind of silence, the sort that came not from emptiness but exhaustion. The long day had drained it of voices, leaving only the dregs of life behind—A slumped adventurer snored into a cup of mead, half-drunk on mead; a clerk tallying ledgers by candlelight, quill scratching steadily; a pair of hunters trading hushed words over a map before disappearing back into the night.
The hall smelled of wax, iron, and leather, and beneath it all, faint blood that no scrubbing could erase. Trophies were mounted along the walls, twisted horns and battered weapons that looked less like proud tokens and more like grim reminders of what service the guild demanded.
He approached the counter. The clerk, a lean elf with tired eyes, glanced up. Without ceremony, he placed the soul-fracts down, each shard glinting faintly with an inner light. The candle flickered as they hit the table as if fleeing some unseen danger.
The elf's gaze lingered on them a heartbeat too long before sweeping them into a satchel and counting out coin. The purse was heavy when it hit his palm.
"Another job well done," the clerk said, voice dry, routine. "The board will be updated come morning. Rest while you can." they chuckled a little, "Although seeing as it's you, I might find another mission completed before then."
He gave only a curt nod and smiled. The words slid off him like water off stone.
"Been seeing too much of me lately, huh?"
A quiet laugh filled the space between them. "Well I suppose you could say it's something along those lines. I think it's good. It breathes a bit more life into this old, dusty town of ours. Our village has been needing a bit of new blood."
"Dusty?" He trailed a finger across the desk before rubbing his fingers together, "Seems pretty clean to me. Also, new blood?"
The clerk shrugged, "Yeah, what's wrong with that?"
He looked around, "Oh, nothing, nothing at all. It's just, it sounds like some twisted way for you to say you love to see me bleed?"
The clerk laughed louder this time, a sound that cracked the silence for a heartbeat.
"Well," he said, grinning, "I'd stay longer, but it seems you're particularly bloodlusted tonight."
They waved each other off, and he went on his way.
As he lef he weighed the purse in his hand but it felt meaningless. His eyes roamed the room instead, moving past the clerk, past the hunters, past the drunk—searching. Always searching.
He was looking for a face. A single face.
But once again, it was not here.He questioned if his leads were misguided after all and that all this was yet another waste of his time.
The coin weighed light in his hands, yet beneath the surface, pressed the weight absence, like water trickling through the narrow cracks of a dam, spidering slowly.