Present Day…

Recalling that first meal stirred a deep ache within me, a pang not just of hunger but of something far more elusive—a longing that clutched at my chest and gnawed at the edges of my mind. My stomach rumbled with a low, persistent growl, and I let out a quiet snort. Thanks to Alexander’s meals, my stomach had become a self-declared connoisseur, always demanding more and reminding me of how much it craved indulgence. Yet, nothing we had encountered on our long journey could rival the magic of that first dinner.

For centuries, I had been deprived, not only of food but of kindness. That night around the campfire, I had tasted more than just a meal. The food was warm, yes, but it was the care behind it that made it truly nourishing. It seeped through every bite, thawing parts of me I thought were frozen forever. I had endured lifetimes without courtesy or compassion, and yet, there I sat, treated as something I hadn’t been in so long: a person.

Lyra made certain that I felt welcome that night, not as an outsider or an obligation, but as part of something. She expected nothing in return as she shared smiles and bread, as if the act of feeding me was a joy in itself. Her kindness had unsettled me at first, the unfamiliar softness almost frightening. If I hadn’t been so preoccupied with hiding the depths of my hunger, I might have let fear and mistrust consume me, as they so often did. I could have retreated into the walls I’d spent centuries building, the ones that protected me from betrayal and pain. But the warmth of the fire, the simple joy of that meal, held me steady.

In that moment, I was grounded, tethered to a life I thought I’d lost, a life filled with belonging, where suffering wasn’t the only constant. It was a glimpse of something long buried beneath the weight of cruelty and abuse, a fleeting reminder that perhaps, just perhaps, I could feel whole again.

I glanced up at Lyra through the window as my stomach grumbled, a persistent reminder of unfinished business. Our meal last night had been interrupted, overtaken by... other pleasures, untamed and indulgent. An impish grin tugged at the corners of my lips, the kind that comes from savoring a wicked secret.

I could still feel the ghost of her kisses, delicate as moth wings brushing across my skin—each one a fleeting tease, gone in an instant but leaving sparks behind. They weren’t just touches of affection; they were promises, stitched together with mischief and hunger, each kiss a delicious prelude to the way her teeth grazed me, wicked and full of intent. She’d tasted me like someone savoring a forbidden fruit, one sinful bite at a time. I could almost hear the echo of my own breathless warning, the words meant to coax rather than caution.

And gods, she hadn’t held back.

The memory smoldered inside me, its embers glowing long after the fire of her touch had passed, leaving behind a quiet, molten satisfaction, like the way wine lingers on the tongue, warm and intoxicating. My body hummed with the memory of surrender, and though my stomach might have growled in protest now, it didn’t know the feast I’d truly indulged in.

A grin spread across my face as images of her playful bites swirled in my mind, each one a tug between pleasure and torment. “Mmm... it’s polite to ask first, darling,” I rumbled, my voice low with a growl of desire that only urged her further.

Lyra’s attention stayed fixed on my neck, her lips grazing and teasing with maddening precision. Each kiss was accompanied by a whispered, silky “please,” her breath hot against my skin as her voice dipped deeper into sweet desperation. She wasn’t a Dhamphyr, but she reveled in the game as if she were, nibbling and nipping with a devilish glee.

With her need so palpable, her pleas brushing against my skin like a prayer, I leaned into her craving with a husky whisper, granting her everything she sought. “Yes, little love.”

And that single permission was all it took for her to claim me again, her playful hunger igniting between us like kindling caught in flame. Lyra delivered a sharp bite on my neck; in the exact spot I had fed on her many times before. I leaned my head back and drank in an intense breath before catching her face in my palms and bringing her lips to mine. I felt Lyra melt into me, opening her mouth and granting me access to devour her. My tongue caressing hers, she arched forward into me running her hands across my shoulders and up into my hair. She pulled at the strands now woven between her fingers. The hard tug elicited a snarl from deep inside my throat and I increased the intensity in which I lavished attention upon her lips.

I released one hand from her face, running it smoothly down her neck resting it briefly between the tops of her breasts before continuing down to the lacing of her corset. I teased at her waist and the end of the strings threaded delicately through the red satin and black netted lace, never quite pulling on it to unravel the beauty beneath it. Lyra whimpered against my lips, but I continued my playful strokes, stopping each time without giving her what she craved.

“Kieran...” She broke our kiss pleading with me. I moved the hand that was cupping the side of her face quickly to her chin and tilted her face up to peer into my eyes.

“Yes, Darling?” I said firmly holding her in this moment. Lyra groaned with excitement like a deep sated desire was screaming to life in her body.

How I savored these moments, these playful exchanges that ignited the flames of passion between us. But alas, I reluctantly forced myself to push those memories aside for the time being. Indulging in them would only fan the flames of longing within me, and I couldn't risk disturbing her slumber. For now, I would suppress my desires and let her rest peacefully. After all, there would be plenty of time to savor those memories together once she awoke.

Scanning the balcony for a better option to satisfy my thirst, I reluctantly reached for the tankard before me, bracing for another torturous gulp of the dreaded Widow’s Ale. The thought of Lyra savoring this vile brew stirred a chuckle deep in my chest. Leave it to her to find joy in the most unlikely of things—nothing about Lyra ever unfolded as expected. As the bitter taste clung to my tongue, my mind wandered to that night in the forest, the memory sharp and vivid. It was after the thrill of a perfect hunt, when the shadows still lingered beneath the trees, that the truth of Lyra’s magic revealed itself to me. That night, the source of her wild, unpredictable power did more than surprise—it changed everything.

Weeks earlier…

I glided through the forest, my steps silent against the soft bed of moss and leaves, the cool night air wrapping around me like a familiar shroud. The dense canopy overhead filtered the moonlight into thin silver threads, but it didn’t matter—I saw everything clearly. Every twitch of a leaf, every flutter of wings in the distance, it all came to me as naturally as breathing. The thrill of the hunt coursed through me, sharpening my senses. Each movement was deliberate, precise, as if the night itself bent to my will.

I wove through the underbrush, pausing now and then to listen to the forest’s pulse: the rustling of small creatures in the undergrowth, the faint whisper of a breeze through the trees. My body hummed with anticipation, the thrill of hunting something more meaningful than sustenance driving me forward. This was the only time I truly felt free—the only time I could use my abilities without restraint. The wind shifted, carrying with it the scent of prey. I adjusted my course without a second thought, slipping effortlessly between trunks and ducking under low-hanging branches.

The forest reminded me of another life, one I had nearly forgotten. Memories drifted on the edges of my mind, like ghosts I couldn’t quite grasp. There had been a time before Killian, when I hunted game for sport, not survival, when I vanished into the wilderness to escape the noise of the world and found solace in the chase. In those moments, I had lived. But that life was gone now, buried beneath the weight of what I’d become.

I leapt over a fallen log, landing soundlessly on the other side, my senses alight with the dark energy of the night. These moments, stalking through the forest, completely unshackled, were the only ones I had left. A Dhamphyr like me was born to hunt. My body moved with supernatural precision, faster and stronger than any mortal, my muscles primed to run, leap, and strike. I could lift what others could not, outrun even the fastest prey, and my sight cut through the night as if the moon shone brightest for me alone. But in a world that saw me as an abomination, these abilities had become a secret, a curse to hide, not a gift to embrace.

I slipped through the trees, crouching low as I reached the edge of a clearing. My gaze swept the area, every movement slow and calculated, as I searched for signs of life. I stilled, not even my breath disturbing the silence. The forest around me was alive, but I had become part of it, nothing more than a shadow that drifted from one tree to the next.

As I waited, my thoughts drifted to my mother. I had loved her with everything I was, but her fear of me had shaped my life as much as her love ever did. Her warnings, her constant vigilance, they had been her way of protecting me, I knew that now. But that protection had kept me locked in a prison of silence and shame, denying me the chance to be who I truly was. She knew what others would see if they discovered the truth. To mortals, I was a monster, a nightmare far worse than any vampire. To immortals, I was a threat, something to be hunted before I could hunt them. No matter who looked at me, all they saw was something to fear. A monster.

A slow, bitter smile curled my lips as I crouched lower, scanning the clearing for movement. My mother had been right. When Killian saw what I was, he sculpted me into the very thing she had feared. He didn’t just use me to feed his hunger, he made me into his weapon. I was his dark hunter, the one he unleashed on those too pure, too innocent to survive in his path. If something dared to stand in his way, I was the one who ensured it didn’t stand for long. And the jobs no one else could stomach, the cruelest tasks, those were mine to carry out.

I moved again, the soft brush of my clothing barely stirring the air as I slipped through the clearing. The forest shifted around me, alive with prey, but I was something different—something set apart from everything else under the night sky. The excitement of the hunt pulsed within me, relentless, undeniable. Each step, each breath brought me closer to my target.

Killian had made me into a monster, but it was the world that had given him the tools. My mother’s fear, the mortals’ hate, the immortals’ threats, they had all shaped me, layer by layer. And now, here I was, exactly what they all expected me to be.

I breathed in deeply, catching the scent of the prey I had been unknowingly stalking. The Thornback Stag stood motionless in the clearing, framed by the dim glow of twilight filtering through the autumn canopy above. Its massive antlers arched toward the heavens, gnarled and twisted like ancient roots, woven with fiery-orange leaves that flickered like embers in the dim light. Vines coiled along the stag’s back, thick and bristling with sharp thorns that glimmered faintly, as though they had absorbed the magic of the forest itself. They snaked down its spine and shoulders, creating a natural armor that warned off any creature foolish enough to approach it from above.

The creature lowered its head toward the earth, the subtle crunch of leaves barely audible as it grazed on moss and wild herbs. Beneath the thorny mantle that crowned its back, patches of short, velvety fur ran along its underside, from its chest to the curve of its belly. The soft fur shimmered in the low light, offering a stark contrast to the harsh exterior it wore along its spine. On its neck, the same gentle fur clung close to its throat, as if betraying a vulnerability hidden beneath its fearsome exterior.

Its eyes glowed with an ethereal blue light, swirling like storm clouds trapped beneath ice. Tiny motes of golden light, like fireflies or the embers of a long-dead fire, floated lazily around it, dancing through the leaves tangled in its antlers. A strange energy seemed to pulse from the beast, as though it was not entirely of the natural world, but an extension of the forest's will, something ancient and sacred, and far more dangerous than it appeared.

Every movement was deliberate, unhurried, as if the Thornback Stag knew it had nothing to fear. It stood as both prey and predator, a guardian of the woods, beautiful but deadly. When it shifted, the vines along its back creaked softly, thorns dragging against each other like the sound of bones scraping together.

As it grazed, the stag’s nostrils flared, inhaling the crisp night air. Its ears flicked toward the darkness at the edges of the clearing, alert to the slightest shift in the forest’s rhythm. My muscles coiled tight as I prepared to strike. The thrill surged within me again, and for a moment, it felt like freedom.

Then I remembered—it wasn’t. I pushed those feelings down, forcing them back into the pit where they belonged, focusing only on the task at hand.

The forest seemed to hold its breath, the world narrowing to the beat of my heart and the slow exhale of the stag in the clearing. In that instant, I became the arrow loosed from a bowstring, silent, swift, inevitable. There was no hesitation, no second thought. The night swallowed the sound of my movement, and in the blink of an eye, the hunt was over.

As I feasted on the gift the stag bestowed upon me, I felt my strength growing. Vitality poured into me as the blood hit my tongue with a warmth that spread like embers stoked to life, coaxing out a layered, complex heat. Aromas of black peppercorn, clove, and cinnamon drifted from the stag, mingling with the faint earthiness of smoked herbs. As I continued to drink, a deep richness bloomed, dark cherry and dried plum infused with hints of leather and toasted oak, as if the Thornbacks had been kissed by fire. The finish was long and luxurious, a final flare of spiced warmth that faded gradually into dark cocoa and charred wood.

I leaned back, releasing the stag, my breath heavy and ragged, but my hunger—finally—sated. A wave of fullness spread through me, heavy and all-encompassing, as if every corner of my being had been filled to the brim. Yet, instead of fading, the sensation intensified. The stag’s life merged with mine, threading through muscle and marrow, sharpening my senses beyond anything I had ever known. The night became clearer, more vivid—every rustling leaf, every shift of air against my skin crackled with new intensity. I could feel the heartbeat of the forest, as if it were now pulsing in time with my own.

But beneath the fullness, something stirred—a deeper hunger, darker and more dangerous than anything I had experienced before. Power surged through me in restless waves, making my skin hum, my body ache. It wasn’t just the satisfaction of a hunt well-executed—it was something more primal, more intoxicating. A craving awoke within me, insatiable and eager, whispering for more.

The fullness that had first felt so satisfying now felt incomplete, like a promise only half-fulfilled. The more I tasted of this power, the more I wanted—needed—more. The life I had taken wasn't enough. It had opened a door inside me, and beyond it waited a hunger that would not be denied.

I toppled over into the cool grass of the clearing, the night sky stretched wide above me, a swirling sea of cosmic wonder. Rivers of stardust spilled across the heavens like luminous scars torn through the fabric of night, their colors shifting from deep indigo to violet, from fiery gold to cold sapphire. A crescent moon hung at the sky’s peak, sharp and gleaming like a blade freshly drawn. Between the stars, dark clouds swirled and parted, revealing distant galaxies that shimmered as though the universe itself held its breath. The air felt electric, alive with magic, heavy with possibility.

I stared upward, feeling the enormity of what I had just taken into myself. The Thornback Stag’s essence coursed through my veins, spreading with the same quiet inevitability as the starlight overhead. My body thrummed with energy, wild, ancient, and uncontainable. Each breath I drew felt deeper than the last, as though the forest air had thickened with power. The edges of my senses sharpened further, and my blood pulsed with new vigor, surging in a rhythm that seemed to sync with the pulse of the sky itself.

Killian had never allowed me to claim prey like this before. This was a forbidden indulgence, a gift too rare, too dangerous to be given freely. The stag’s life was no ordinary offering, it was a distillation of the forest’s oldest magic, a force untouched by corruption, as ancient as the stars themselves. It filled me, pressing against the edges of my soul, expanding through me until I felt as though I might burst apart into a thousand shards of light.

And yet, it was terrifying. The power was alien, unfamiliar in its purity. I had never known strength like this, strength that didn’t carry the weight of blood and shadows. The stag’s magic was raw, untainted, and it burned like a second sun inside me, illuminating places within that had long been shrouded in darkness. Wonder and fear tangled within me as I tried to grasp what this meant, what I was allowing myself to become.

The stars above me seemed to shimmer brighter, as if they recognized the change within me. They whispered of possibility, of power yet unclaimed, of paths un-walked. It was thrilling and intoxicating, but it was also a warning. This gift came with a cost. The Thornback Stag’s life was not given without consequence, it had become part of me now, woven into the fabric of who I was.

I clenched my fists, the exhilaration and fear mixing like starlight on the edge of dawn. This was new. This was dangerous. And yet, it was mine.

For the first time in my life, I stood on the precipice of something Killian had never prepared me for: freedom.

I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the swirling thoughts in my mind slowly untangle, as if the power surging through me needed time to root itself deep within. The stag’s essence settled into me, coiling around my bones and sinking into every corner of my being. It was overwhelming, a force both alien and exhilarating, and as I rose to my feet, the weight of the night’s triumph draped over me like a heavy cloak. My limbs hummed with newfound strength, but they also betrayed me, unsteady beneath the intoxication that coursed through my veins. I stumbled slightly as I made my way back to camp, the world around me tilting, as though the forest had become a living dream.

Drinking blood was never just nourishment, it was an indulgence, as sinful and potent as the most forbidden spirits. But tonight’s feast was unlike any other. Every drop I had taken burned through me, not with fire, but with a warmth that spread like spiced wine, blooming in my chest and melting into my limbs. My senses buzzed with clarity, and yet my mind drifted in a haze, caught somewhere between sharpness and bliss. For the first time in ages, I felt truly drunk, drunk on power, on life, and yet strangely, wonderfully, content.

Nearly tripping over my own feet, I tumbled into my tent with a breathless laugh, the rush of intoxication still humming in my veins. What a day it had been—Serpenthir, the nest, Nightcoil’s venom, and the chaos of magic let loose without restraint. Magic. The thought lingered, pulling at the edges of my weary mind, dragging me back to the battlefield and the sorcerer whose power danced wildly between brilliance and calamity, unpredictable as a lightning storm.

With a sigh, I let my head fall against the bedroll, closing my eyes to the night. Exhaustion crept in, and my thoughts blurred, teetering at the hazy border between memory and dream. It was in that fragile space, where the mind drifts unguarded, that the memory stirred, deep and distant, like a sunken relic rising from the ocean’s depths. A tale began to take shape, winding through my thoughts like smoke.

It was a story etched in the annals of whispered legend, one of perfection, pride, and penitence. The Trickster God, Orysus, meddling in mortal lives, slipping between their fates like a weaver unraveling threads. A life touched by mischief, magic, and whim. The memory rose clearer now, sharper, and with it came the image of a child, small, insignificant to the world but forever marked by the playful cruelty of a god.

I sank deeper into the folds of my bedroll, the memory pulling me away from the present and dragging me back to that fateful night at the Crow and Arrow Tavern. I could still feel the weight of exhaustion, thick as the snow on my cloak, as I pushed open the heavy wooden door. Snow swirled at my back, the wind howling in protest as I slipped inside. The cold followed me only for a moment before the warmth of the tavern swallowed it whole, wrapping around me like a worn blanket.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

The firelight flickered from iron chandeliers suspended by heavy chains, their glow sending shadows skittering across the cracked stone floor. Each crack and imperfection in the stone seemed etched with the memory of countless boots that had trampled through over the years. The scent of woodsmoke clung to the beams above, mingling with the aroma of stale ale and roasting meat, thick in the air, as if the tavern itself had absorbed every tale, every secret whispered over a flagon of beer.

I inhaled deeply, letting the familiar smells fill my lungs and ease the tension knotted in my shoulders. The cold and the chase lingered on my skin, but here, at least for a moment, I could pretend I wasn’t shackled to the demands of another. No one looked twice as I stepped deeper into the room, only vague glances flickering toward me before patrons returned to their private conversations. Mismatched tables were scattered without care, their wood scarred and chipped from years of use. Chairs, wobbling on uneven legs, stood like old soldiers too stubborn to fall. The bar itself sagged beneath the weight of dusty bottles, some of which looked as if they hadn’t been touched in years.

I made my way toward a shadowed corner, the uneven stones beneath my boots pressing into my sore feet with every step. My body begged for rest, muscles tight from hours spent in relentless pursuit. The hunt had been long, and the weight of it clung to me like a second skin—unwanted, suffocating. I dropped into the worn chair with a sigh, the wood groaning beneath my weight. My cloak slid from my shoulders and draped over the back of the chair, water dripping onto the floor in lazy taps.

The heat from the fire crept into my limbs, thawing the cold that had settled deep in my bones during the long trek from Killian’s castle. It was an aching kind of warmth, one that pried open every exhausted muscle, forcing me to feel just how much the hunt had drained me. My hands trembled slightly as I rested them on the table, but I forced them still. There was no room for weakness. Not under Killian’s watch, not even here.

This place offered a fleeting respite—a moment of stillness I knew better than to waste. I leaned back, letting the fire’s glow dance at the edge of my vision, warming the side of my face. My mind slowed, though the nagging thought of Killian’s ever-watchful gaze remained. It was never far, like a shadow at the edge of every thought. Even here, with the fire crackling and the hum of quiet conversation filling the air, I knew I dared not linger too long. Every moment away without purpose was a risk. Defiance—intentional or not—was met with swift punishment. I had learned that lesson more than once, and the memory of it made my jaw tighten.

A barmaid drifted by, her steps light, her presence just another detail in the tavern’s tapestry. I gave her a small nod, ordering a drink—not to enjoy, but to steady myself, to push back the edges of exhaustion and keep me grounded. I knew better than to indulge in a meal. Killian would know. Somehow, he always knew. I could take this moment, but nothing more. Anything else would be considered defiance, and Killian’s punishments were neither swift nor merciful.

When the barmaid returned with my drink, I wrapped my hands around the cup, letting the heat seep into my cold fingers. I lifted it slowly, the alcohol burning as it slid down my throat, sharp and clear, anchoring me to the present. I forced my mind to quiet, setting aside thoughts of tomorrow and the next hunt. Whatever Killian required of me would come soon enough. For now, the fire was enough.

I stared out into the tavern, smoke curling lazily through the amber glow of lanterns, wrapping itself around the patrons like a ghost. The room had drawn an eclectic crowd tonight, a mix of travelers, mercenaries, and locals, each nursing their drinks as they murmured in low voices. The air buzzed with quiet energy, the kind that could shift toward trouble at the slightest provocation.

My gaze lingered on a drunken bard, Sonata Silverstring, slumped over the table next to me, her slurred words weaving tales of far-off places and forgotten gods. She wore a careless grin, the kind only the truly free could afford. I envied her, just for a moment, knowing that freedom was a luxury I could never claim.

The fire crackled softly, and I let myself lean into the warmth a little longer, just long enough to gather my strength. I would return to the cold soon enough, back into the grip of Killian’s commands. But for now, in the glow of the Crow and Arrow, I allowed myself this—just a moment.

Seated across from the bard was Friar Leafy the Evergreen, a local priest whose antics were as varied as the titles he gave himself. Tonight, it seemed he was styling himself the "Abbot of Improbable Outcomes," but I knew better than to think the name would last the night. The Friar’s entire presence radiated playful irreverence, from the sly tilt of his grin to the twinkle in his eyes, a look that suggested he knew just enough to get into trouble, but not quite enough to avoid it. It was no wonder the bard, Sonata, always seemed to have him in tow. Where she wandered with her stories, he followed with winks and riddles, the perfect embodiment of Orysus, the trickster god they both claimed to honor (or defy, depending on their mood).

I watched from my seat as Sonata plucked the final notes of her latest song, her fingers moving across the lute’s strings with a surprising grace given the amount of drink she’d consumed. The tune drifted lazily into the air before dissolving into the background hum of the tavern. The bard gave a satisfied sigh, glancing down at her now-empty tankard. With a squint of frustration, she muttered a colorful curse, something about "thieving sprites draining her drink dry"—and clumsily pushed herself to her feet, the legs of her chair scraping loudly against the stone floor.

I smirked as she stumbled toward the bar, weaving around tables with all the elegance of a one-legged deer. The Friar leaned back in his chair, watching her go with a grin that hovered somewhere between fond amusement and patient resignation.

"One day," he called after her with mock seriousness, "you’ll learn to pace yourself, Sonata. That or find a god willing to bless you with a second liver."

Without missing a beat, Sonata shot a sloppy grin over her shoulder. "Already asked Orysus! He said no—too busy stealin’ mine for himself."

The Friar chuckled, tipping an imaginary hat. "As expected from the patron saint of poor decisions."

I fought the urge to laugh, instead I raised my cup to my lips to hide my amusement. Watching the two was a rare kind of entertainment, one born of shared chaos and mutual bad ideas. It was the kind of partnership that made sense only to those caught up in it, though it often left the rest of the world scratching its head in bewilderment.

The Friar remained at their table, absently swirling the dregs of his own drink as he hummed a tuneless melody to himself. His eyes, always twinkling with mischief, scanned the room as if searching for the next opportunity to stir things up. I could see the wheels turning in his head and knew it was only a matter of time before the Friar decided to liven things up again, whether the tavern was ready for it or not.

For the moment, I allowed myself to continue to relax, soaking in the ridiculousness of it all. The bard and the Friar were an odd pair, but there was a lightness in their antics that made the weight I carried feel a little less suffocating. It was a small thing, really, this quiet humor. But in a life where every step was measured and every breath monitored, it was enough.

I took another sip of my drink, letting the warmth settle into me, content to watch their chaotic dance unfold. It wouldn’t be long before I’d have to leave, slipping back into the cold, into Killian’s grasp, where laughter had no place. But for now, at least, I had this—a fleeting moment of warmth and amusement, stolen from the madness of the world outside.

When Sonata reached the bar, she slapped her empty tankard onto the counter with far more force than necessary, startling the barkeep. I shook my head, biting back another grin. "Hear me, good barkeep... Hic! I demand something beyond the mere swill you've sloshed into my cup!" Sonata's voice rang out amidst the tavern's noise. The barkeep, ever indulgent of the intoxicated bard, replied with a playful smirk.

"If it's harmony you seek for your ballads, allow me to present the exquisite, dare I say flawless, Angelfire Spirits. Crafted over years, it captures the essence of celestial beings whose wings have been doused in brandy, wrung out and sent damply along their merry way!”

"Ah, tread lightly there, friend... Hic... You wouldn't want to ssshtir the mischief-maker's interest, for we've all heard the yarn," warned Sonata with a wobbly grin. Intrigued, a newcomer sidled up to the bar, inquiring, "What tale?" The friar muttered a plea to the gods under his breath, realizing the Bard was about to seize the moment to spin her infamous story.

The bard began to pluck the strings of her lute, a playful melody burst from its cords.

“Gather 'round, ye drunken lot, I'll sing ye a tale so bold,

Of a child in the silver woods, with magic rich as gold.

Her gifts were pure, her powers bright, untouched by earthly sin,

But pride, it seems, can beckon woes and let the tricksters in!

Oh, pride met mischief in the wood, where fey and mortals play,

The gods above looked down and laughed, on that fateful day!

Her magic danced, her magic spun, till chaos had its way,

And Orysus, that trickster bold, turned light to wild display!

Her mother, oh, with swelling heart, she bragged both far and wide,

"My child, she’s blessed! She’s godly touched!" with barely masked pride.

Her praises rang through leafy boughs, a melody so sweet,

It reached the ears of Orysus, who found himself a seat.

Oh, pride met mischief in the wood, where fey and mortals play,

The gods above looked down and laughed, on that fateful day!

Her magic danced, her magic spun, till chaos had its way,

And Orysus, that trickster bold, turned light to wild display!

He came down dressed in leafy guise, a sprite upon the breeze,

With eyes aglow and laughter sharp, he flitted through the trees.

The child’s power, pure and bright, had caught the trickster's eye,

And so, with glee, he wove his spell and let her magic fly.

Oh, pride met mischief in the wood, where fey and mortals play,

The gods above looked down and laughed, on that fateful day!

Her magic danced, her magic spun, till chaos had its way,

And Orysus, that trickster bold, turned light to wild display!

No longer calm, her magic swirled, a storm of wild delight,

Orysus laughed and danced along, beneath the moon's pale light.

The child’s gift, now touched by fey, was chaos in its prime,

All thanks to mother's prideful boast, and Orysus's fey crime.

So, heed my tale, you tavern folk, beware the prideful tongue,

For tricksters watch and lay their traps when praises go unsung!

The woods still echo with their laugh, the magic wild and free,

And Orysus’s grin still lingers where the mischief’s meant to be!”

As the bard’s song filled the tavern, I found my thoughts drifting to what I knew of Orysus, the trickster god. A master of disguise and deception, Orysus could shift forms at will, taking on the appearance of anything from an elf to the smallest fey creature—sprites, pixies, brownies, whatever amused him at the time. Yet no matter the shape he assumed, one thing was constant: the vibrant green that always adorned him, a mark of his deep connection to the wild, untamed forests where elves and fey held sway.

I’d heard tales of Orysus many times before, in taverns like this one or bustling marketplaces, where stories of his mischief spread like wildfire. Whenever someone boasted of their own perfection, the name of Orysus often followed, a jesting warning on the lips of those who knew better. His playful nature might be harmless at times, but there was always an edge to it, a touch of unpredictability that could turn an innocent prank into a disaster.

As if on cue, the friar raised his voice, adding his own solemn warning to the bard’s drunken song. "Beware evoking the temptations of the Trickster, Orysus," he intoned, his words cutting through the jovial atmosphere. "For his ears are sharp to the sound of prideful boasts. Invite not his mischief lightly. Often harmless, yes—but always unpredictable. You may find yourself gifted with more than you bargained for, touched by his whimsical hand in ways you may not even understand."

The bard, unbothered by the friar’s interruption, gave a sloppy curtsy before collapsing back into her seat, drawing laughter from the room. "Indeed, a timely reminder, Sonata!" the barkeep chuckled, his tone heavy with mock seriousness. "We spent weeks dousing the flames that accursed fire nymph set the last time Orysus graced us with his ‘gifts.’ And that poor professor… well, let’s just say he hasn’t been seen at the university since."

The room erupted in knowing laughter, but beneath the merriment lingered a quiet unease. Orysus’s touch was fickle, and even in jest, the warning was clear—beware of pride, for the trickster’s gifts came at a price.

The memory slipped back into the darkness, retreating like mist dissolving beneath the morning sun. My eyes grew heavier, the exhaustion of the day pressing down on me as sleep pulled me closer. I hovered on the brink, teetering between the waking world and dreams, when an image surged to life in my mind, unbidden, vivid, and unsettling. It dragged me from the threshold of slumber, yanking me back into awareness with startling clarity.

An elf, perched with the grace of a cat among tangled branches bathed in dappled sunlight. His fiery hair wove through the leaves, catching the light like strands of copper set ablaze, shimmering against the green canopy. His horns curled skyward, ancient and elegant yet brimming with playful malice, a crown not of royalty but of trickery, worn by a being who danced to his own tune.

But it was his smile that haunted me, a wicked thing promising nothing but trouble. The curve of his lips spoke of untold secrets, the kind of knowledge that twists the world just enough to unravel it. His sharp eyes gleamed with a flicker caught between mischief and menace, as if every word he uttered was a riddle, every gesture part of a game only he knew how to play.

My heart fluttered, uneasy, a disquiet stirring deep in my chest that I couldn’t shake. I tried to root myself in reality, but it was like grasping at smoke. And then, just at the edges of hearing, came the sound—a faint, distant laugh, light and fleeting, brushing against my senses like the whisper of autumn leaves stirred by a passing breeze. It curled through the air, playful but unsettling, neither entirely present, nor entirely gone.

My eyes shot open, and recognition hit me like a rogue wave crashing against jagged rocks. The familiarity of the figure in my mind was undeniable, this was the same elf who had woken me in the nest. Or at least, I thought it might be. There was something elusive about him, as though his appearance was a flickering flame, never quite the same from moment to moment. He was familiar and foreign all at once, a shadow of memory shaped by the will of something far greater.

It was as if the Trickster himself had wanted me to remember, planting the memory deep in my mind only to tug it free at just the right moment, a reminder that Orysus’s presence lingered, always watching, always playing, and always just out of reach.

I shook my head, disbelief knotting my thoughts tighter with every passing moment. If I was right, if my suspicions were true, then Lyra was no ordinary ally. She was a living myth, a story brought to life, an enigma resting by my campfire. The weight of that realization settled heavily in my chest. I swallowed hard, the creeping thought gnawing at the back of my mind: What does the Trickster want from me?

Had it really been fortune that brought me here, trapped in the same room with her? Without that encounter, I wouldn’t be sitting here now, scheming my escape from Killian’s grasp. But fortune was a fickle thing, and my life had long since taught me that luck often came with a cost. What if it hadn’t been chance at all? What if I had been placed here—deliberately—another pawn in one of Orysus’s intricate games?

A new kind of unease prickled under my skin. What if the Trickster had cast me into Lyra’s path not to aid me, but to obstruct her? I could feel the thought slither through my mind like a serpent, coiling tighter: Was I just another piece of imperfection, a flaw placed carefully in her way? The notion unsettled me. A game with rules I couldn’t see, played by a god who delighted in chaos, what part was I meant to play? And more disturbingly, what did Orysus stand to gain from any of this?

I exhaled slowly, trying to shake off the questions, but they clung stubbornly to me. Had I been chosen for some hidden purpose? Or was I merely a distraction, a minor obstacle tossed into her journey for the Trickster’s amusement? The uncertainty weighed on me. It was one thing to fight for freedom from Killian; it was another entirely to wrestle with the notion that I might be a pawn in a god’s grand design, shuffled along a path I hadn’t chosen.

What could Orysus possibly want from me, a cursed soul, broken and flawed? Or perhaps that was precisely the reason. Imperfection, after all, was the Trickster’s favorite tool. And if I truly was just another pawn in his cosmic game, shuffled into place with care... was there ever really a way to win?

I closed my eyes, letting the stag’s essence anchor itself deep within me, pulling me from the snare of tricksters and fates. But even as it settled, dangerous thoughts began to take root. The warmth in my chest didn’t just smolder with satisfaction—it blazed with something more: control. A control I hadn’t tasted in years. Strength no longer felt like a fleeting sensation. It felt permanent, undeniable. Unstoppable. And that, I knew, would change everything.

Lyra—imperfect and untamed—was a puzzle far more complex than I had anticipated. What started as a necessary alliance in my pursuit to destroy Killian had become tangled in threads more intricate than I imagined. But I should have expected it. The gods had toyed with me from the start, dangling hope just beyond reach. Now, they seemed to be at it again, casting Lyra into my path. A sorceress whose magic was as unpredictable as the storm that raged within her.

Her power, raw and volatile, was dangerous. Yet, somewhere in the chaos, I recognized the truth: Lyra wasn’t just a distraction. She was exactly what I needed. The gods, with their cruel irony, hadn’t granted me a perfect ally—they’d granted me disorder incarnate. But this time, I wouldn’t dance to their rhythm. I would no longer be a puppet, tangled in their cosmic threads. This time, I would seize control.

The venom of the Nightcoil still lingered at the edges of my mind, cunning, insidious, a toxin designed not just to weaken the body but to unravel will and ambition. The Serpenthir’s intentions remained shrouded in shadow, their true aim a riddle that gnawed at me. Whatever their plan, I knew one thing: they, too, stood in my path. While I schemed and fought for freedom from Killian’s grasp, the Serpenthir watched from the darkness, waiting for me to stumble, hoping I would fall prey to their hidden designs. But I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

There was something different now. I could feel it—a new power surging through me, driving back the venom’s lingering whispers, forcing it to retreat to the corners of my mind. The strength of the stag wrapped around me, not as a cure but as a temporary shield. I had no illusions; this protection wouldn’t last forever. But I didn’t need it to. I would wield this borrowed strength as a weapon, not a defense. Whatever traps the Serpenthir had laid, I would dismantle them, piece by piece, before they had the chance to close in around me.

They wanted me to falter. They wanted me to become another victim, another pawn in their schemes. But the power in my veins burned too brightly for that. The stag’s gift might be fleeting, but it was enough—enough to strike before their webs of deceit could tighten. And I would strike first.

Taking a slow, deliberate breath, I grounded myself in that clarity. Fate wouldn’t grant me freedom. Luck wouldn’t deliver me from Killian’s grasp. If Orysus placed Lyra in my way as part of some grand scheme, I would turn his game against him. I would take what I needed—her magic, her strength—without hesitation. If it meant burning bridges, breaking promises, or leading myself to ruin, so be it. There was no price too high. Anything was better than returning to Killian’s control. Death would be kinder than the life I once endured under him.

I felt it deep within me, Lyra’s magic, wild and defiant, could be tamed. Bent to my will. Wielded like a blade. If she didn’t offer it willingly, I would take it. The strength flowing through me demanded it. This wasn’t just power I was tasting, it was freedom. It was promise. I could already see how easily Lyra’s emotions could be molded with careful words, how her wildness could be turned to my advantage. She wouldn’t even realize how tightly I held the strings, until it was far too late.

Killian, and anyone foolish enough to stand in my way, would soon find me ready. This time, there would be no hesitation, no more waiting for fortune to favor me. I would fight with everything I had, claiming every scrap of power I could seize. The gods might mock me now, but they wouldn’t laugh for long. I would twist fate itself, wrench what I needed from anyone who opposed me, and tear down every bond if that’s what it took.

A smile curled across my lips. This time, I wouldn’t just survive. I would shape my own ending—one written by my hand, even if it meant ripping the heavens apart to do it.