The heroes crouched behind a line of scraggly bushes on the outskirts of the keep, the imposing structure silhouetted against the moonlit sky. Its high stone walls loomed ominously, guarded by watchful sentries whose torches flickered in the gentle night breeze. The faint sound of boots on stone carried through the still air.
Snowdara turned to Lorathon, her silver hair catching the pale light. “You stay here,” she said firmly. “My brother and I are experts in stealth. We have a better chance of succeeding without you.”
Lorathon folded his arms, raising an eyebrow. “You sure know how to make a guy feel wanted.”
Snowdara smirked faintly. “Don’t worry, if there’s ever a huge monster that needs chopping, I’ll be sure to call you. But for now, just stay here.”
Lorathon sighed, shaking his head. “Well, at least I’m not completely useless.”
Snowdara gave him a small, reassuring nod before turning to Silvarien. The two elves slipped away into the shadows, their movements as silent as a whisper. Lorathon watched them go, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, frustration and worry tugging at him in equal measure.
The elves crept toward the keep, their golden eyes gleaming in the darkness. Reaching the base of the wall, Silvarien pulled a grappling hook from his pack and expertly swung it upward. The hook caught on the edge of the battlements with a soft clink. Testing the rope, he nodded to Snowdara, and the two began their ascent, their movements fluid and deliberate. They paused at the top, pressing themselves flat against the cold stone as a pair of guards passed by, their torches bobbing in the gloom.
Once the coast was clear, the elves climbed over the wall and slipped into the shadows of the keep. The air inside was heavy with the faint scent of oil lamps and damp stone. They moved quickly but carefully, navigating the winding corridors toward the vault.
Reaching the heavy iron door, Silvarien knelt in front of the lock, pulling out a set of delicate tools. He began working on the mechanism, his brows furrowed in concentration. “Damnit,” he muttered under his breath. “This has got a really complex lock. It’s going to take a long time to break in.”
Snowdara tensed, her ears twitching as the faint sound of footsteps reached her. “Someone’s coming,” she whispered. “We have to hide.”
The two elves darted behind a large tapestry that hung from the stone wall, its faded colors depicting some ancient human battle. The footsteps grew louder, accompanied by the low murmur of voices.
“Can you believe our lord is seeing that woman?” one guard said, his voice tinged with admiration. “She’s a real looker.”
“Well, they do say beautiful women are attracted to powerful men,” his companion replied. “I’d give my left testicle to nail babes of that caliber.”
“You and me both, bud,” the first guard said with a chuckle. Then his tone turned sharp. “Wait… there’s someone behind that tapestry! Intruders!”
Snowdara and Silvarien tore down the tapestry, throwing it over the guards to entangle them before sprinting down the corridor. Shouts erupted behind them as the guards struggled to free themselves. The elves rounded a corner at full speed, only to skid to a halt. Ahead of them stood a group of guardsmen with crossbows already raised, their bolts gleaming ominously in the torchlight.
The guards’ captain stepped forward, his expression impassive. “You two had better just surrender, or you’re dead,” he said flatly. “Makes no difference to me—I get paid the same amount either way.”
Snowdara glanced at Silvarien, her golden eyes meeting his briefly before she nodded. The two dropped their weapons and raised their hands in surrender. The guards stepped forward, binding their wrists tightly before dragging them back toward the keep’s dungeons.
Meanwhile, Lorathon waited in the shadows near the outer walls, his eyes scanning the gates. When they creaked open, a line of guards poured out, their torches casting long beams of light across the surrounding area as they began searching the terrain.
Lorathon’s stomach sank as he realized what must have happened. “They’ve been captured,” he muttered to himself, his jaw tightening. Spurring his horse, he turned and galloped away into the night, his mind racing as he considered his next move.
Lorathon rode hard, the sound of hoofbeats echoing through the canyons. When he reached the bandit camp, he dismounted and strode directly toward Vazadon, his face set with grim determination. The bandit leader lounged by the fire, his expression amused as Lorathon approached.
“I got the amulet, I’ve hidden it,” Lorathon said, holding up a small pouch, “but my friends were captured. They’re going to be executed tomorrow in front of the whole town, so I want you and your bandits to rescue them. Otherwise, you can kiss the amulet goodbye.”
Vazadon’s smug grin widened as he leaned back lazily. “I’ve got a better idea,” he drawled. “Grab him.”
In an instant, several bandits seized Lorathon, yanking his arms behind his back. Vazadon stood and approached, his grin taking on a cruel edge. “Now you’re going to give us the amulet,” he said coldly, “or you’re going to die.”
Lorathon clenched his jaw, his blue eyes blazing with defiance. “I won’t betray my friends.”
Vazadon’s fist struck him across the face, the impact sending a jolt of pain through his skull. He staggered but remained standing. Vazadon hit him again, and Lorathon spat blood onto the dirt. “I’ll die first,” he said through gritted teeth.
The bandits drew their swords, their steel glinting in the firelight, but Vazadon raised a hand to stop them. “He means it, lads,” Vazadon said, chuckling. “Death before dishonor, isn’t that right?”
He sighed theatrically, shaking his head. “All right, we’ll rescue your friends for you,” he said, his voice dripping with mock generosity. “But if you don’t give me the amulet, you’ll never get your ingredients back. By the gods, I love bending people over a barrel.” He threw his head back and cackled with glee.
The next day, the town square was packed with townsfolk, their faces a mixture of curiosity and grim anticipation. A makeshift stage had been set up, and Lord Roboron stood at its center, his dark robes billowing in the breeze as he addressed the crowd.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
“For trying to steal my valuables and being enemies of the state, these elves are sentenced to die,” he proclaimed, his voice echoing through the square. The crowd murmured uneasily, their gazes fixed on the two prisoners. Snowdara knelt with her neck pressed against the rough wood of a chopping block, her silver hair gleaming in the sunlight. Silvarien stood bound beside her, his golden eyes glaring at their captors.
Roboron gestured, and an executioner stepped forward. The man’s face was obscured by a hood, and he held a massive axe that gleamed in the sunlight. He raised the weapon high above his head, its blade poised to strike.
The crowd gasped as an arrow whistled through the air, striking the executioner in the head. He toppled forward, his axe clattering to the ground. For a moment, silence reigned, broken only by the shocked cries of the townsfolk.
Then chaos erupted.
Bandits emerged from the crowd, their bows drawn as they fired at the soldiers. Arrows rained down, and the square descended into pandemonium. Lord Roboron cursed loudly, grabbing the hem of his robes as he ran for cover. The townsfolk scattered, screams filling the air as the soldiers clashed with the outlaws.
At the edge of the square, Lorathon stood beside Vazadon, watching the chaos unfold. Without hesitation, Lorathon broke into a sprint, weaving through the melee toward the stage. Reaching his friends, he quickly cut their bonds. “Come on!” he shouted, helping Snowdara to her feet.
The three raced toward their mounts, dodging arrows and swords as the battle raged around them. They were almost to safety when Vazadon stepped into their path, his dagger gleaming in the sunlight.
“If you don’t give me the amulet,” Vazadon snarled, “you’ll never brew your potion.”
Lorathon smiled faintly, a glint of triumph in his eyes. “I’m not as honorable as you think, Vazadon,” he said. “I picked your pocket while we were together.”
Vazadon’s eyes widened in shock as he frantically patted his pockets, finding them empty. “Damn you!” he roared, his face contorted with rage. “Kill them!”
The bandits raised their bows, arrows nocked and ready, as the heroes leaped onto their mounts. With a sharp command, they spurred their steeds forward, galloping away as a storm of arrows flew past them. The pounding of hooves and the howls of pursuit faded into the distance as the forest closed around them once more.
The heroes slowed their mounts as they reached a secluded clearing deep within the forest. The moonlight filtered through the canopy above, casting dappled patterns on the forest floor. The air was still and cool, a peaceful reprieve from the chaos they had narrowly escaped. The sound of panting breaths from the wolfsteeds mingled with the rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze.
Snowdara slid off Moonsong’s back, her silver hair cascading over her shoulders as she took a deep breath, her golden eyes glinting with a mix of relief and exhilaration. She turned to Lorathon, her lips curling into a smile. “Thank you, Sir Knight,” she said, her voice warm and sincere. “You’ve more than earned a reward for your valor.”
Before he could respond, she leaned in and kissed him, her lips soft against his. Lorathon froze for a moment, his eyes wide with shock, before melting into the kiss, his hands instinctively resting at her waist.
Silvarien, who had been tending to his wolfsteed nearby, whirled around at the sight. His golden eyes flared with anger. “What the hell are you doing, sister?” he demanded, his voice sharp.
Snowdara pulled back from the kiss, her cheeks flushed but her expression unapologetic. “Just expressing a little gratitude,” she said lightly. “You might want to try it sometime.”
Silvarien’s jaw tightened, his fists clenched at his sides. “Have you lost your mind?” he snapped. “What future do you think the two of you can have together?”
Snowdara shrugged, her gaze defiant. “That’s a problem for tomorrow,” she said with a mischievous smile. “Right now, I feel fantastic, and I want to celebrate.”
Silvarien let out a frustrated growl, throwing his hands up in exasperation. Without another word, he turned and stalked off into the trees, his golden hair disappearing into the shadows.
Lorathon stared after him, then turned back to Snowdara, his expression a mix of awe and surprise. “If I knew you’d be so appreciative,” he said with a wry grin, “I would have saved your life a lot sooner. Why the change of heart?”
Snowdara tilted her head, her eyes sparkling with playful intensity. “I’m an elemental, capricious woman, my knightly friend,” she said. “I act on my feelings, and right now, all I feel is gladness that I’m alive… and wild desire.”
Lorathon chuckled, his grin widening. “I’m just glad to be the recipient of your desire.”
She stepped closer, her hands resting on his chest as she leaned in, her voice dropping to a sultry whisper. “I’ll give you something to be grateful for.”
Their lips met again, this time with unrestrained passion. Lorathon wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close as the kiss deepened. The forest seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them in that moment, their shared relief and triumph blossoming into something deeper.
The heroes sat around a small, crackling fire, its light casting flickering shadows on the surrounding trees. The cool night air carried the soft hum of crickets and the distant rustle of leaves. Snowdara had fallen asleep, her silver hair spilling over her shoulders as she rested against Moonsong, the wolf’s steady breaths matching the rhythm of her own.
Silvarien sat across the fire, his golden eyes fixed on Lorathon, who stared pensively into the flames. Breaking the quiet, Silvarien spoke, his tone low but firm. “This thing you crave,” he said, “it can never happen.”
Lorathon looked up sharply, his brow furrowing. “Why not?” he asked. “We both care about each other.”
Silvarien’s gaze hardened, his voice tinged with frustration. “If you think you’re in love, you’re a fool,” he said bluntly. “It’s sexual attraction, nothing more. Find another girl—a human girl.”
“You’re wrong,” Lorathon replied, his voice quiet but resolute. “It’s more than just lust. I think… I think I love her.”
“You think?” Silvarien scoffed, his lips curling into a faint sneer. “Besides, what does love have to do with it? What do you think your people will do when they discover her?” He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a cold whisper. “I’ll tell you what—they’ll execute her like a criminal. Is that what you want for her?”
Lorathon’s face paled, his expression stricken. “No,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “Of course not.”
“Good,” Silvarien said, his tone softening slightly but remaining firm. “Then break it off with her before this love ever ripens. Let it die stillborn.”
For a long moment, Lorathon said nothing, his gaze dropping to the ground. The weight of Silvarien’s words seemed to crush him, and his shoulders slumped in defeat. “Very well,” he said finally, his voice heavy with sorrow. “I will do what you say. I will kill the rose before it ever blooms.”
Silvarien studied him for a moment, his sharp features softening slightly. “Good,” he said at last. “Maybe you’re not a complete fool after all. You have earned my respect, human. Just remember—if you ever feel tempted to renege, think of what the consequences for her will be. If you truly love her, as you say, you won’t subject her to that.”
Lorathon rose slowly, the firelight casting long shadows across his face. Without a word, he turned and walked away, his figure disappearing into the darkness beyond the camp.
Silvarien sighed, his gaze dropping to the embers at his feet. He shook his head, his thoughts heavy. The soft crackle of the fire was the only sound that filled the silence left in Lorathon’s wake.
Vazadon knelt before Lord Detheon, his wrists bound tightly with rough rope. The lord stood tall, his imposing figure draped in a dark cloak edged with silver trim. His piercing gaze bore down on the bandit with a mixture of curiosity and disdain.
“I know who you are, bandit,” Detheon said coldly. “What are you doing in my lands?”
Vazadon grinned despite his predicament, his cocky demeanor undiminished. “I’m hunting two elves and a knight,” he said.
“Is that right?” Detheon asked, his tone skeptical. “Why?”
Vazadon’s grin widened, his eyes gleaming with a hint of mischief. “If I tell you, will you let me go?”
Detheon’s lips curled into a faint sneer. “Why should I?”
“Because,” Vazadon replied smoothly, leaning forward slightly despite the ropes binding him, “a man with this knowledge can rise high on the chain of command. You might even become king.”
Detheon’s brow arched at the audacity of the statement, his interest piqued. He studied Vazadon for a long moment, the flickering torchlight casting shifting shadows across his face.