The massive doors of the guild swung open with a creak, revealing a cavernous interior teeming with life and energy. The guild hall of Brightwood was an impressive sight—an open expanse stretching upward for four stories, each level adorned with balconies where adventurers leaned, chatted, and exchanged tales of glory and hardship. The central space was alive with the hum of conversation, the clinking of mugs, and the occasional burst of laughter or argument.
Han, the Guildmaster, led them through the throng with the ease of a man who commanded respect. His sharp eyes missed nothing, darting from one group of adventurers to the next, as though assessing the weight of their mettle with a single glance. His steps were purposeful, leading Dreven and Lisan to a table near the edge of the room where a few empty chairs sat waiting.
With a wave to a nearby attendant, Han ordered a drink for Lisan, the absence of a second order for Dreven clearly intentional. Dreven remained stoic, noting the subtle dynamics at play. No drink for the summoned familiar—because a familiar need not indulge. It was a simple act, but one that reinforced his supposed place beneath Lisan.
Settling into his seat, Han leaned forward, his hands resting on the polished surface of the table. His gaze fixed on Lisan, his expression one of polite curiosity, though there was an edge to it—a hint of suspicion beneath the surface.
"So, Lisan," Han began, his voice steady but probing. "Where’s the rest of your party? The last I heard, you were headed deep into Nortaberg with quite the crew."
Lisan, ever composed, offered a casual shrug. "We got separated. My familiar was injured, so I returned for supplies. Figured I’d regroup with them later once we’re better prepared."
Han's eyes narrowed slightly, but he nodded. "Unfortunate. Nortaberg isn’t kind to the unprepared."
There was a pause as Han’s gaze shifted to Dreven, lingering for a moment longer than was comfortable. "This elf friend of yours?" Han continued, tapping a finger thoughtfully on the table. "Unusual. Where did you say he came from?"
Lisan hesitated only briefly before responding. "It’s...complicated. We met on the road heading in and he wanted to assist us. He knew of the Emberton family so he is trustworthy."
Han’s focus remained on Dreven, his eyes sharp, searching. "Does he speak?"
Dreven met the Guildmaster’s gaze with an expression of quiet puzzlement, tilting his head slightly as if processing the question but choosing silence over speech.
Han raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. "Strange for an elf. They tend to be a bit more haughty. This one gives me a bit of chills."
Lisan forced a light laugh, hoping to defuse the growing tension. "Dreven is… He’s adjusting."
“Han. I’m heading back out into the forest and need a complete resupply. Can you get that for me? Medium sized pack should be enough.”
Han looked at the two of them, his eyes lingered on Dreven before he gave a deep sigh. “Yes I can. Go to the front counter and tell them I gave the thumbs up.”
As they got up and finished their drink Han grabbed Lisan’s arm and attempted to whisper. “I need you to blink three times if you are in trouble. Twice if this is exactly what I think it is. Blink once for me to leave it all be and that everything is fine.”
Dreven’s eyes lingered on the back of Lisan’s head; he knew he couldn’t make it obvious he had heard and decided to trust in the blood bond. While he could tell Lisan was a competent mage he was sure her lack of familiarity with blood craft would make her less than able to resist it.
A few moments passed and Han let her go and smiled at Dreven before waving them away. “Be safe in the forest. Lots of beasts have been spotted recently.”
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Dreven adjusted the heavy pack on his shoulders as he followed Lisan down the worn path leading from Norran's gates. The distant sounds of the bustling town faded into the background, replaced by the rustle of leaves and the chirping of unseen birds. He allowed himself a fleeting moment of relief. Passing the guards unnoticed was the first victory in what promised to be a long, dangerous game.
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The forest canopy offered shade and a sense of concealment, but Dreven's mind was a storm of calculations. Lisan had been a useful ally, but the blood bond between them hung like an invisible blade over their partnership. Sooner or later, questions would surface.
“Dreven,” Lisan said suddenly, her tone soft but heavy with intent. “Do you know why outworlders like you are hunted so ruthlessly here?”
He glanced at her, his expression guarded. “Why?”
“A world can only endure so much disruption before the people reject it, whether the change is good or bad.”
He smirked faintly. “Lisan, I’m not powerful enough to disrupt anything.”
Her brow furrowed. “But you are dangerous.”
Before he could answer, a figure appeared in the distance, standing in the middle of the path. Dreven felt his pulse quicken. The man wore the dark robes of the Inquisition, his silver emblem glinting ominously in the sunlight. The flail at his side swayed slightly with each movement, its spiked head betraying its brutal purpose.
“Inquisitor Markus,” Lisan muttered, her voice low.
Markus strode toward them, his gait measured and deliberate. The air around him seemed to hum with barely contained power. His gaze fixed on Lisan with cold intensity.
“I wasn’t fooled,” Markus said, his voice cutting through the forest's quiet. “Your lies were clever, Lisan, but not clever enough.”
Lisan stepped forward, her stance tense but composed. “Markus, I told you. Dreven is an elf from the north. Nothing more.”
Markus's lips curled into a sneer. “A northern elf? Do you take me for a fool? I’ve never seen an elf like him. Do you think the inquisition doesn’t teach us how to spot those who are not from Ultima?” He turned his gaze to Dreven, who instinctively braced himself.
“Step aside, Lisan,” Markus ordered. “This isn’t about you anymore. It’s about making sure a dangerous outworlder doesn’t roam free.”
“I can’t do that,” she replied, her voice firm.
Markus exhaled, his patience clearly fraying. “So be it.”
With a swift motion, Markus touched the emblem on his chest, muttering a prayer under his breath. A golden light surged around him, his weapons seeming to pulse with divine energy.
“Goddess of Order and Light,” he intoned, “guide my hand and strike down the unholy.”
He launched into action with terrifying speed, hurling a mechanical sphere from his belt. The device unfolded mid-air, sprouting razor-edged tendrils that whipped toward Dreven, aiming to ensnare him.
Dreven dove to the side, the tendrils slicing through the air where he had stood moments before. His hands surged with blood mana, crimson energy crackling like lightning around his fingers. With a flick of his wrists, he unleashed twin bolts of searing blood.
Markus moved like a predator, his short sword snapping up to deflect the projectiles with unnerving precision. Sparks flew as the bolts dissipated, leaving dark scorch marks on the blade.
Dreven barely had time to recover before Markus was upon him, the flail whistling through the air. He dodged the first strike, the spiked head slamming into the ground and sending shards of earth flying. The short sword followed in a fluid arc, forcing Dreven to pivot and parry with a dagger he’d drawn instinctively.
The clash of steel echoed through the forest. Markus pressed the attack with relentless precision, his movements a blend of martial discipline and divine power. Dreven countered with agility, his blood mana amplifying his speed and reflexes, but it wasn’t enough to gain the upper hand.
Markus's strikes were calculated, each one designed to probe for weaknesses. “You’re strong,” he admitted, his tone cold. “But strength without discipline is just chaos.”
Dreven growled, pushing back against the flail’s chain with his dagger before leaping backward to create distance. His mind raced. Markus wasn’t just a zealot; he was a hunter.
Lisan’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding. “Enough!”
She raised her hands, flames spiraling around her fingers. With a guttural incantation, she unleashed a torrent of fire. The searing blaze roared toward Markus, forcing him to leap back. The flames struck his chest, sending him sprawling to the ground. His weapons clattered away, and the golden light around him flickered like a dying ember.
Markus groaned, his robes scorched and his breathing labored, but his eyes still burned with defiance.
“He’s not dead,” Dreven muttered, his gaze narrowing. Markus was down, but far from defeated.
Lisan grabbed Dreven’s arm, her voice urgent. “We don’t have time to finish him. We need to go. Now.”
Dreven hesitated, his eyes lingering on Markus. Raising his hand he gave a swift strike to Markus’s head knocking him out.
“He’ll recover,” Dreven said, his tone grim. “And when he does, he’ll come for us again.”
“Then we’ll be ready,” Lisan snapped, pulling him toward the shadows of the forest.