They had walked for a while, following a narrow dirt road that snaked through dense trees and rolling hills. The air in Silvans Glenn was thick with pine and salt, a strange mixture that made Elena's head spin. Her soaked dress clung uncomfortably to her legs, and her shoes squelched with every step.
"Are you certain this is Silvans Glenn?" Elena asked, brushing damp hair from her face.
"I am," Harthor replied, his eyes scanning the surroundings. "Though it's quieter than the stories suggest."
They soon met a lone man trudging along the road, a sack slung over his shoulder. His beard was patchy, his clothes worn thin.
"Excuse me," Harthor called. "Is there an inn or a pub nearby?"
The man grunted, pointing ahead with his chin. "Just past the bend. The Stag's Horn. You won't miss it, too loud to miss."
They thanked him and continued on until laughter, shouting, and clanking mugs filled the air. The Stag's Horn stood crooked at the roadside, lanterns swinging wildly as men spilled in and out.
Inside, the place was packed. Hunters, trackers, and mercenaries crowded the room, drinking themselves into stupor, roaring with laughter, and slamming fists on tables. Elena had heard stories of the men of Silvans Glenn deadly, precise, unmatched in the wild but tonight they looked like nothing more than drunkards celebrating survival.
They found an empty table near the wall. Harthor ordered two drinks without asking. When the mugs arrived, Elena took one cautious sip and grimaced.
"Ugh," she muttered. "How do people drink this?"
Harthor barely smiled. He was tense, fingers tapping against the table.
"Elena," she said quietly, leaning closer, "you need to explain what's happening. From the presentation… to the sea… to this place."
Harthor's jaw tightened. "This is the wrong place for you to be seen."
Before she could respond, he stood. "I'll speak to the pub owner. We need a place to sleep and answers."
He disappeared into the crowd, leaving Elena alone.
She drank again, slower this time. The rum burned all the way down, and she hated it just as much. That was when she felt it , the unmistakable weight of someone watching her.
She turned slightly.
In the far corner stood a man half-shrouded in shadow. Green eyes gleamed beneath dark lashes, fixed on her without shame. His black hair brushed his shoulders, and even seated, she could tell he towered over most men in the room. His face was partially hidden, but his posture radiated quiet control.
Elena looked away, annoyed, but found herself sneaking glances back. Each time, his gaze was already on her.
Enough.
She clenched her fists and stood, marching toward him. But before she reached the corner, she collided hard with a drunken man staggering sideways. Rum splashed all over her dress.
"Watch it!" he slurred.
"Basin's outside," a passing waitress snapped, pointing toward the door.
Elena huffed, mortified. She shot one last glare toward the stranger who merely smirked then stomped outside.
The cool night air hit her like a slap. She scanned for the basin when suddenly a figure stepped in front of her.
Her blood ran cold.
Soldiers.
Queen's soldiers.
She tried to retreat, but more guards closed in, blocking every escape.
"Elena," a familiar voice said smoothly. "By order of the Queen, you are to come with us."
"Theon," she whispered.
Panic clawed at her chest.
Before the guards could move, Harthor appeared at her side, staff already glowing faintly.
"I thought we were done with this," Harthor said coldly. "She stays with me."
Theon smiled thinly. "Fine. Then we'll do this the hard way."
Steel rang as blades were drawn. Harthor moved first.
The fight erupted violently. Magic cracked through the air, throwing guards aside. Flames leapt from overturned lanterns, quickly spreading to nearby houses and the pub itself. Screams filled the street.
"Elena, run!" Harthor shouted.
She turned to flee but strong arms seized her from behind.
It was the stranger.
"Easy," he murmured. "I'm getting you out."
Before she could protest, portals flared open around them. More guards poured through, led by Sir Randon himself.
Harthor froze, assessing the numbers.
He turned sharply to the stranger. "Your name. Are you a tracker, a guide?"
The man hesitated. "Thane. And yes."
"Take her and run. Take her to Old Man Geoffrey. He'll know what to do."
Thane scowled. "And why should I trust you?"
Harthor raised a hand, conjuring a heavy bag of coins. It dropped into Thane's palm with a solid thud.
"You'll get the rest when we meet again."
Elena shook her head furiously. "I'm not going anywhere without you!"
Harthor grabbed her shoulders. "You must."
"Drag her if you have to," he told Thane.
Thane grimaced, then struck Elena swiftly. Darkness claimed her before she hit the ground.
Moments later, she was slung over a horse, and Thane vanished into the night.
Now, only Harthor remained.
"You're all alone," Sir Randon called.
"Sad for me, isn't it?" Harthor replied calmly.
"This will be your end."
"Not today, Randon."
Harthor thrust his hand toward a nearby well. The ground trembled as water erupted violently, flooding the street. Flames hissed and died, steam rising thickly. Using the chaos, Harthor disappeared into the panicked crowd, leaving nothing behind but smoke, water, and unanswered questions.