The Talons did not march like victors.
They moved in perfect, silent formation — six shadows gliding over the forest floor, their prisoners in tow — but there was no swagger, no show of triumph. Even the faintest rustle of their cloaks was measured, controlled. At their head strode Zaryth, his tall frame unhurried, each step a deliberate placement on moss and root. His gloved hands were clasped behind his back, but his eyes never stopped working.
He wasn't savoring the capture. He was calculating.
Zaryth's Private Reasoning
He had seen Gideon fight — the fire-and-ice armor blooming like a volcanic glacier, the short-lived brilliance of Kaelvryn's fusion, and the way Malachi's hammer had tried to smash him down in raw, overwhelming arcs.They were dangerous.
But they were also valuable.
"Dead," he thought, "and they're just another battlefield story. Alive, they are bargaining chips… study material… and bait."
The Talons had been fractured and bloodied in the earlier fights. The king would demand results, and the 7th Talon — ever hungry for decisive action — would want blood on the floor. But Zaryth was playing a longer game.
If he delivered two fighters of this caliber alive, the political weight shifted. The king would see potential. The 7th Talon would be forced to adjust plans. And Zaryth… Zaryth would have leverage.
He glanced back. Gideon trudged forward in manacles forged from moonsteel, each link etched with draining glyphs. The long and short katana forms of Kaelvryn had been taken from him, sealed in lockboxes of violet crystal. Malachi's mace hung across a Talon's back, inert under suppression chains.
Gideon met his gaze, eyes hard. Malachi, breathing slow, seemed to already be measuring distances — the length of a guard's reach, the time it would take to snatch a weapon. Zaryth made a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head. Don't.
"The others will hold," Vaeryn continued, turning back toward the path. "Zaryth won't kill them — not yet. He'll draw them out, test them, measure them. That's what he does. Which means we still have time to reach the castle before the rest of the Talons regroup."
Eliakim's voice was calm, but the undertone was sharp. "And when we reach it?"
Vaeryn smiled faintly. "That's when you'll see whether I'm a traitor… or the only reason you survive what's coming."
Without waiting for a reply, he started walking again. Caleb hesitated, then followed, his eyes never leaving the back of Vaeryn's head.
Eliakim trailed behind them, his mind already working through contingencies — for Zaryth, for the wounded Talons soon to rise again, and for the man who claimed to be an ally… but spoke like a chessmaster holding pieces no one else could see.
The trail wound downward, roots twisting across it like skeletal hands trying to pull them under. The canopy above thickened until the forest was almost dark, save for slivers of green-gold light that broke through the leaves. A damp chill clung to their skin, and the air tasted faintly of iron.
"You haven't answered me," Eliakim said, his tone low enough that only Caleb and Vaeryn could hear. "If you're our ally, why lead us straight into the Dark Elf King's fortress?"
Vaeryn's boots crunched over a scatter of black thorns. "Because the walls you fear are the only ones you can walk through alive right now. The open road will kill you. The forest will kill you. My people will kill you… unless they believe you have my shadow on your side."
Caleb's eyes narrowed. "And they believe that?"
"They will," Vaeryn replied, voice like flint striking steel. "Because I will make them."
Eliakim's gaze sharpened. "That's a dangerous game, Vaeryn. Shadows don't always move where their owners want them to."
Vaeryn glanced back, one corner of his mouth curving upward. "Then perhaps you should be ready when mine tries to move on its own."
The silence that followed was heavier than the air itself.
The path opened suddenly into a clearing where the forest gave way to jagged rock. Beyond it, rising like a spear of black glass, loomed the Spire of Thorns — its surface alive with creeping vines tipped in razor leaves, its shadow spilling across the land like a stain.
And waiting before it were six Talons.
Zaryth stood at their center, cloak draped neatly over his wounded arm, his expression unreadable. Around him, the five other Talons — once broken and battered — now bore fresh bandages and the stiffness of recent healing. Their eyes locked on Eliakim's group with predator stillness.
And between them, shackled and disarmed, knelt Gideon and Malachi.
Gideon's armor was gone, his breathing heavy but steady. Malachi's mace had been taken, his hands bound behind his back. They both looked up as Eliakim, Caleb, and Vaeryn emerged into the clearing — and the faintest flicker of relief crossed their faces before being buried under the weight of the moment.
Zaryth's gaze lingered on Vaeryn for a beat longer than was comfortable. "You took your time."
"I arrived exactly when I meant to," Vaeryn replied smoothly, walking forward without hesitation.
One of the Talons shifted, but Zaryth raised a hand and they stilled. "The commander is waiting."
They marched together toward the Spire, the two groups merging into one uneasy procession. The air grew colder the closer they came, the light dimming as though the tower drank it in. The thorned vines shifted faintly, curling toward them as if scenting blood.
At the massive gates of twisted blackwood, the escort stopped. With a groan like a dying beast, the doors parted, revealing a grand hall of green firelight and shadow.
At the far end, upon a throne of interwoven roots and stone, sat the Dark Elf King.
His form was tall and imposing, skin pale as moonlit marble, ears tapering to sharp points that caught the light. Black and violet feathers framed his mantle like a predator's plumage, and an aura of controlled malice radiated from him. His eyes burned a deep amethyst, and when they fixed upon Eliakim, it felt like the weight of centuries pressed down.
This was King Soryth Val'theris, Warlord of the Spire of Thorns — conqueror of the river-wards, breaker of three human strongholds, and the mind behind the Talon strike forces. Once a prince exiled for ruthless ambition, he had clawed his way back to the throne by spilling the blood of those who banished him.
Beside him stood another figure — cloaked in blackened armor traced with silver sigils, helm removed to reveal a lean, scar-scored face and pale hair bound in a warrior's tail. His eyes were the color of frozen steel, his stance as still as a drawn bow.
This was Serakh Draemyr, the 7th Talon — the commander of all the Talons and the Dark Elf King's right hand. Known among elves and men alike as the "Silent Blade," Serakh had once been the champion of the Ashen Duels before vanishing into the king's service. It was whispered he could kill faster than a heartbeat and plan campaigns years in advance.
The hall was utterly silent until the king spoke, his voice like velvet over broken glass.
"Vaeryn," Soryth said, "you've brought me something of interest… and something of defiance." His gaze swept over Gideon, Malachi, Eliakim, and Caleb. "I wonder which will be worth more."
Vaeryn bowed slightly, though the gesture held no true submission. "You'll find, my king, that they are worth far more alive than dead."
Soryth's lips curved faintly, not in kindness. "We shall see."