Dusk laid a cloak of dark blue over the twilight, quieting the city and enticing its inhabitants with thoughts of rest. Dwindling crowds wandered the streets, faces sagging with the weight of the day’s work. Among the weary trod Vethirn, his own ragged face shrouded under a hood. Days had passed since he’d rested in any meaningful capacity. After escaping from Arz-Devar, he returned to a displaced guild – and he had to dedicate every second to eking out a new hideaway with enough resources to rebuild and survive.

Thus, having spent the better part of the day trekking across to the eastern side of the city and back, he’d begun to feel as if his body were reduced to scraps of skin clinging to bone. And as bits and pieces of his conversation with Lellia repeated in his head, his temples ached with annoyance. Still, he kept up his pace and blended into the more tightly packed groups, scanning the heads and bodies around him with every reflex at the ready. Though on his guard, he managed to maintain a relaxed demeanor.

Clacking hooves and rolling carts faded further into the distance until the only sound of toil left was the clang of the blacksmith’s hammer. More and more, the crowds thinned as the roads branched away from the square and into areas of residence. When sheer numbers could no longer provide him cover, he still sought the most occupied path at each turn. His headache intensified with the paranoia stirring in his skull; agents of the Sun’s Forsaken had seen his face, his stature, his gait – and they could be anywhere.

As he neared the edge of the city, moving along the last row of buildings before the road extended to the city’s outskirts, Vethirn was alone. Only when the light became scarce did the solitude sink in deep enough for him to feel a presence prickling at his back, as if following him at a short distance. A rustling in the bushes accompanied the sensation, and so he told himself it was only a small animal – but he did not manage to convince himself.

He lowered his hand to the crossbow at his hip, swift yet subtle enough that the cover of his cloak concealed his movements. The rustling weaved from bush to bush, seeming to pick up the pace each time he did. He followed the noise with only his eyes, shifting them from side to side each time it crossed the path. Slowing down, he let the source of the noise keep its momentum and continue past him. A red twinerat – a small, agile, harmless rodent, leapt out onto the path in front of him. Like a strand of silk, its body moved in light, feathery waves. It stood on its hind legs, beady eyes studying him as a little pink nose twitched with curiosity.

Vethirn stared back at the rodent. It blinked once, then turned its head up to sniff the air. As he relaxed his shoulders, the creature bounded away, threading its long, thin body between two rocks. Taking on a more confident stride while still holding onto a thread of doubt, the half-elf pressed forward.

False alarm, he told himself. Or red herring.

He came up to an arc of trees which overlooked the torchlit path ahead. The vibrance of wildflowers burst from every unoccupied inch of ground. As he passed under, he took in the sights of nature, ignoring a nagging uncertainty. The earlier distraction and the beauty of his surroundings served only as a temporary reprieve from his worries. As he continued further, it tapered, and the lingering presence continued to impose itself to a point beyond denial. Someone was following him.

Ôr, he mouthed. A tingle sparked at the back of his neck, then radiated to the top of his head and down his arms and legs. A resonant shell of magic cupped around him, amplifying all his senses. He listened with intent past the blood pulsing in his head and the steady breaths flowing through his nose like wind. From behind him came dry-nosed breaths tailed by a slight grunt. Heavy, irregular footsteps shuffled along with his own.

The follower reeked of booze and tooth-rot. A glance at the ground revealed his warped shadow. It was a dwarf, somehow making use of magic that kept him hidden to not only sight, but to every sense. The dwarf cleared his throat, assaulting Vethirn’s ears with the splattering sound of sticky mucus as clothing whispered with movement. He was reaching for something.

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Vethirn drew his crossbow. He turned around and fixed his aim on his follower, which appeared as no more than an ethereal, dwarven shape. The figure stumbled back as he realized he was being targeted. He let his dagger clink to the ground as he held open his empty hands. Slightly lowering his crossbow, Vethirn studied the cowering dwarf. Few of his facial features were distinguishable, but his glossy eyes reflected fear and confusion. Having caught his footing, the dwarf took a few intentional steps back, but the half-elf kept his weapon raised.

His ears twitched as a lighter set of footsteps rushed in behind him. Approaching on his left, a much smaller attacker cut the air with a violent swing of a knife. Though Vethirn managed to jump out of its path and protect his side, his arm took the slash. Fatigue had dampened his reflexes. The blade ripped through his sleeve and gashed his skin, how deep he wasn’t sure as he was gushing adrenaline to stay awake – and alive.

Extending his leg, he used his attacker’s momentum to trip him. The small dwarf stumbled, and Vethirn took the opportunity to glance behind in the direction of the other. He was still running away, and it seemed his invisibility was wearing off. Fortunately, there was no sign of any others besides the two; had they brought company, Vethirn may well have accepted his death. To keep from falling further into exhaustion while he still had a fighting chance, he dispelled his magic.

The smaller of the two, proving to be quite agile, sprung off his hand and recovered in a crouched position. Face-to-face with Vethirn’s crossbow, he avoided making any sudden movements. He was of a subset of dwarves not often spotted in Nelthemar – still decidedly Myskori in origin, yet shorter and more human-like in proportion. Were he to stand at full height, he’d be no taller than three-and-a-half feet. His kind called themselves the Dwolgin – “knee-stood” in the Myskori vernacular.

“Thought we wore ya down enough to pluck ya out," the Dwolgin said.

“Not yet," said Vethirn, suppressing a heavy blink. A stinging twinge poked its head through the numbness in his arm, causing the grip of his trembling hand to waver. His sleeve, now soaked with blood, clung to his skin. The part of him that wanted to shoot the man in front of him begged his integrity for leniency, begged it to claim even the smallest victory after such a miserable streak of failure. But something gave him pause.

“In that case, I can wait here ’til ya pass out,” the Dwolgin said. “Won’t be long, from the looks of it.”

“If only you had that kind of time.”

“Then go on and shoot if that’s what ya plan to do.”

“I’d prefer if you told me where the lot of you are holed up.”

“So the boss can have my hide instead of you? Worst offer I’ve heard in bloody ages. You ought to count your luck spent, seeing as you’re still alive. How ’bout this, ya twit – let me go, and my friend and I won’t tell anyone we saw ya.”

“Of course, I most assuredly can rely on an agent of the Forsaken to uphold his word,” said Vethirn, his sarcasm unfailing even in his wearied state. “Go. Tell them you saw me. Paint a breathtaking picture of the scenery if you’d like. But I will know if you follow me a single step from here. I suggest you don't.”

“That’s more like it,” the Dwolgin said with a smirk. “If there's one thing you can take my word for, it's that followin’ you ain’t worth a bolt to the chest.”

“Few things are.” With his crossbow still aimed, Vethirn tilted his head in the direction of the other dwarf. The Dwolgin nodded, his brows drawn close together. His amber eyes tautened, guarding a glint of vague emotion – irritation, and perhaps gratitude. All hesitance spent, he seized his freedom and scurried off to catch up with his friend.

Once both had left his sight, Vethirn tucked away his weapon. His bleeding had let up somewhat, but the pain prodded him to reach for the bandages in his pack. Indulging his instinct to rest for just a moment, he let his heavy eyelids fall shut. As he rummaged through his bag, he recollected the short encounter over and over. It seemed not all of the Forsaken were so blindly devout, as the pair quite clearly valued their lives more than their cause. But although they may have been simply following orders, perhaps he’d been too merciful, too sympathetic to their plight. Regardless, with the evidence of what had transpired now etched into his skin, he knew one thing to be true.

Avara is going to kill me.