Dreven woke before dawn, his gaze immediately shifting to Lisan. She was still asleep, sprawled in a position that seemed anatomically impossible. One arm was draped limply over her head, the other twisted beneath her, while her legs bent at awkward angles. He frowned, silently marveling at how she could sleep like that without waking up in pain.
After a moment, he stood and pulled on a shirt. Crossing the room, he faced the tarnished mirror on the wall. His reflection stared back, a stark reminder of his nature. The faint pallor of his skin, the unsettling crimson hue of his eyes—traits that only his elven features managed to soften. He supposed it was his heritage that allowed him to pass for an unusual, albeit acceptable, anomaly.
Raising his hand, Dreven focused on the blood flowing within him. A small orb of crimson formed in his palm, shimmering faintly as it hovered. Blood magic was second nature to him, but in this world, such techniques were foreign. Conversations with Lisan had introduced him to the concept of "Magic Crafting," a structured, almost artisan approach to magic. The notion amused him. If blood magic was a craft, then Sanguinari must be its master crafters.
He flattened the orb into a thin disk, letting it shimmer for a moment before allowing it to reabsorb into his skin.
“What kind of magic is that?”
The voice startled him. Turning, he saw Lisan propped up on her elbows, her vibrant green eyes curious despite her groggy expression.
“It’s blood magic,” he explained, his tone matter-of-fact. “Or, as you might call it here, blood craft.”
Lisan sat up, stretching before beginning to braid her hair. “Can you teach me?”
Dreven hesitated, his crimson eyes narrowing slightly. “No. Blood magic requires Sanguinari physiology to wield efficiently, if at all. Although,” he added, “I could change that.”
She stopped mid-motion, looking at him warily. “Change it? How?”
“It’s simple,” he replied. “Sanguinari can transform others into one of us. How do you think we reproduce? By turning humans—or other races—into creatures like myself.”
Her brow furrowed as she tied off her braid. “So, you don’t have children? Your kind just… converts people?”
“It’s possible for us to have children, but rare,” he admitted. “Our bodies aren’t exactly designed to nurture life. That’s what my mistress believed, anyway.”
This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.
Lisan grabbed her staff and bag, clearly dismissing the idea. “Thanks, but I’ll pass on the transformation. I like being human. Now, don’t forget anything—we’re leaving town as soon as I finish resupplying at the guild.”
----------------------------------------
The morning air was sharp and crisp as they stepped out of the inn. Brightwood was already stirring, its cobbled streets filling with merchants setting up stalls and townsfolk beginning their routines. Adventurers mingled in the crowd, their mismatched armor and weapons a testament to their varied backgrounds.
Humans dominated the scene, their numbers outstripping every other race. Dwarves trudged along with resolute determination, their eyes gleaming with an eagerness for work—or trouble. Elves moved gracefully through the throng, their ethereal beauty drawing attention. Beastkin of all kinds were scattered among the crowd, their animalistic traits blending seamlessly with human forms, each radiating an aura of natural ease.
“Norran is a human kingdom,” Lisan remarked as they wove through the streets. “Most other races are travelers or adventurers here. The further south we go, the more human-centric it becomes.”
Dreven absorbed her words silently, noting the dominance of humans even in this bustling town. It was the same in every world—humans spreading and thriving, always at the center of power.
As they neared the guild hall, a figure stepped into their path.
“Hold.”
The voice was cold, commanding.
Dreven’s gaze landed on a man in dark robes, silver trim glinting faintly in the morning light. The emblem on his chest—a crossed sword and quill—marked him as an Inquisitor.
“That’s Markus,” Lisan whispered, her tone tense. “One of Brightwood’s Inquisitors.”
Markus’s sharp eyes were fixed on Dreven as he spoke. “Lisan Emberton. You returned early from your expedition, I hear. And with... interesting company.”
Lisan stepped forward, smiling politely. “Yes, Markus. My companion here was injured, so we had to cut things short. This is Dreven, an elf from the far north.”
Markus raised an eyebrow. “An elf? He doesn’t look like any elf I’ve seen.”
Lisan’s smile didn’t falter. “He’s from a very isolated region. His appearance was affected by a hex, which we intend to remedy in the capital.”
The Inquisitor’s skepticism was clear. “Fascinating. May I speak with him directly? I’d like to know how he came to Norran.”
Lisan didn’t miss a beat. “He doesn’t speak Common. I’m translating for him.”
Before Markus could press further, a deep voice interrupted.
“Markus, are you pestering my adventurers again?”
The guild master, Han, approached, his towering presence immediately commanding attention. He crossed his arms, staring down at the Inquisitor.
“Lisan’s word is good enough for me,” Han said firmly. “If she vouches for him, I trust her judgment.”
Markus’s lips thinned, but he relented. “Very well. But I’ll be watching.”
As Markus walked away, Lisan let out a breath. “Thanks, Han. That could’ve gotten messy.”
Han clapped her shoulder. “You’re one of my best. Just keep your friend out of trouble.”
Dreven gave a faint smirk. “Trouble has a way of finding me.”
Han chuckled before leaving.
Lisan turned to Dreven, her voice low. “We need to be careful. Markus won’t let this go.”
Dreven’s eyes followed the Inquisitor’s retreating form. “Let him try. He won’t find anything.”
“I hope you’re right,” she murmured as they stepped into the guild hall.