The wind whipped through Anora's copper curls, transforming them into a living flame that danced against the afternoon sky. The ground sped beneath them in a blur of green and brown as Bakule's powerful legs devoured the distance, each stride sending them flying over the open road beyond Cedarcrest's western gate.

  "Faster!" Anora called out, her voice nearly lost in the rush of air. Her small green hands gripped the saddle horn, knuckles paling to a lighter shade of jade, but her face—her face was alight with pure, unbridled joy. She had practically begged for a gallop at full speed once they'd cleared the gate, and now, balanced perfectly before Mikhail, she stretched her arms outward like the wings of a soaring bird.

  Mikhail whooped and hollered, the sound erupting from somewhere deep within his chest. "Come on, Bakule! Show her what you can do!" he shouted, his voice carrying notes of boyish excitement that he hadn't felt in years. The magnificent elk needed no further encouragement; after days confined to the stable, the creature seemed as eager for freedom as his riders.

  With a flick of the reins and a gentle press of his heels, Mikhail urged Bakule to greater speed. The elk's muscles bunched beneath them, then uncoiled like springs, propelling them forward with breathtaking acceleration. The sudden burst of speed pulled a startled yelp from Anora that quickly transformed into a sound of pure exhilaration. Her body vibrated with excitement against his chest.

  "I've never—" Anora's words scattered in the wind like autumn leaves, but Mikhail didn't need to hear the rest. Her expression said everything—she had never felt this free.

  Mikhail couldn't help but laugh at the sight of her unbridled happiness. The transformation in her was nothing short of miraculous. The guarded, frightened creature he'd encountered in that mountain pass had slowly unfurled like a flower seeking sunlight. After the events in Sablewood, she had begun to open up, at least to him. But it was after they had first made love beneath that ancient oak that the final walls seemed to crumble.

  The memory of that afternoon brought heat to Mikhail's cheeks despite the cool wind battering his face, along with a stirring elsewhere that he tried to ignore. His arms tightened around her waist, pulling her more securely against him.

  A treacherous voice whispered in the back of his mind: What are you doing with her? What would his parents say when they discovered he had fallen in love with a half-goblin woman? Gunter's words still lingered like a persistent shadow: "She's a goblin, Mikhail." He pushed the thought away, as he always did. Those concerns were problems for another time. He still had seven years of pilgrimage ahead—seven years to spend with this beautiful oddity who sat before him, having the time of her life.

  After running down the western road for some time Bakule veered off the road at the same point as their previous journey, powerful hooves thundering across the open field. Ahead loomed the massive fallen log, its ancient trunk creating a natural barrier across their path. Mikhail felt Anora tense, but before he could warn her, Bakule gathered himself and leapt.

  Time seemed to slow as they soared through the air. Anora's startled cry rang out as her bottom left the saddle, her small green hands instinctively grabbing for Bakule's antlers, gripping them in terrified surprise. Mikhail's left arm tightened around her petite waist, pulling her back against him as gravity reclaimed them. The elk's hooves struck earth with a jarring impact, but Mikhail's firm grip kept Anora safely in place.

  The sudden commotion startled a flock of ground quail hidden in the tall grass. They exploded upward in a panicked cloud of feathers, their alarmed cries and coos filling the air. Anora twisted in the saddle, pointing excitedly at the fluttering birds, her orange eyes wide with wonder. Mikhail couldn't help but smile at her childlike amazement, his heart swelling with affection.

  By now, Bakule had begun to slow, his sides heaving with exertion, great plumes of steam rising from his nostrils in the cooling afternoon air after running hard for several miles. The elk's pace gradually descended from gallop to trot to walk, his massive body trembling slightly beneath them from the extended run.

  Anora looked back at Mikhail, her face split by the widest grin he'd ever seen. Her orange eyes sparkled like twin sunsets, freckles standing out against her flushed green skin. By Aran, she is beautiful, he thought for the millionth time, leaning forward to place a gentle kiss on her forehead. Surprise flickered across her features before melting into contentment. She turned forward again and leaned back against his chest, pulling his left arm tighter around her waist.

  They rode in comfortable silence, the only sounds the rhythmic clop of Bakule's hooves, the rustle of grass in the gentle breeze, and the distant calls of birds preparing for evening. After what felt like an eternity of bliss, the familiar tree beside the stream came into view—the place where they had first shared their bodies and hearts just days before.

  The sun had begun its descent toward the western horizon, painting the landscape in hues of gold and amber as Mikhail pulled back on the reins, bringing Bakule to a complete stop. He thrust his spear down into the ground then swung his leg over the elk's back and dropped to the ground, wincing slightly as his feet absorbed the impact. Turning back, he reached up to help Anora down, his hands spanning her waist as he lifted her effortlessly from the saddle.

  Once her clawed feet touched earth, she looked up at him, her face radiant with joy. "That was fun!" she exclaimed, practically bouncing on her toes.

  Mikhail laughed, patting her affectionately on the head. "Yeah. That was fun, huh? We are definitely going to have to do more of that in the future." He reached for his spear where he had stuck it in the ground before helping her down. The silver weapon gleamed in the late afternoon light as he twirled it deftly between his hands. "Now, are you ready to learn how to use this?"

  Anora nodded eagerly, her copper curls bouncing around her pointed ears. Together they moved toward the shade of the massive oak tree, leaving Bakule free to drink from the stream and graze on the lush grass nearby.

  "First thing you need to know is how to hold it properly," Mikhail explained, demonstrating the correct grip. "Too tight, and you'll tire quickly. Too loose, and you'll lose control at the first impact."

  Anora watched with intense concentration, her orange eyes following every movement of his hands. When he passed the weapon to her, her small green fingers wrapped around the shaft, adjusting and readjusting until it felt right.

  "Like this?" she asked, looking up for confirmation.

  "Almost." Mikhail stepped behind her, his larger hands covering hers, guiding them into the proper position. "There. Feel the balance? The weight should distribute evenly when you hold it here... and here."

  The warmth of his body against her back made concentration difficult for both of them, but Mikhail forced himself to remain focused on the lesson. Over the next hour, he taught her the basic stances, the mountain stance for stability, the river stance for fluidity, the wind stance for quick movements, and several simple thrusts.

  Throughout it all, Anora smiled and giggled, clearly enjoying herself despite the demanding nature of the training. Her natural agility served her well, allowing her to pick up the basics with surprising speed despite that the spear was twice her height. Mikhail found himself constantly distracted by the scent of her copper curls when they brushed against his face, by the way her hips and small but filling-out rump kept bumping into him as she executed the movements. Each time their bodies connected, she would glance back at him with a playful, mischievous smile that sent heat coursing through his veins.

  "You're doing it on purpose," he accused after a particularly lingering contact.

  "Doing what?" she asked, all wide-eyed innocence, though the smirk playing at the corners of her mouth gave her away.

  As the day's heat began to fade and the sun dipped further toward the western horizon, they finally set the spear aside. Their bodies ached pleasantly from the exercise as they settled beneath the ancient oak tree, its massive branches providing shelter from the cooling evening air. Mikhail leaned his back against the rough bark, stretching his legs out before him. Anora nestled between them, her slender form fitting perfectly against his chest as his arms encircled her.

  Together they watched the sunset paint the sky in brilliant oranges and purples, the colors deepening with each passing moment. Bakule grazed contentedly nearby, occasionally raising his massive head to check on them before returning to his meal.

  After a long, comfortable silence, Anora's soft voice broke the spell. "What was your mother like?"

  The question caught Mikhail off guard. They had shared so much, yet had spoken little of their families. He considered for a moment, searching for the right words to describe the woman who had shaped so much of his early life.

  "She's small," he began, a fond smile crossing his face. "Small but fierce. Everyone in our village respects her, even the elders seek her counsel when they're troubled. She's the village healer, you see, but she doesn't just cure bodies. She has a way of knowing what ails the spirit as well."

  Anora shifted slightly, tilting her head to better hear his words. The last rays of sunlight caught in her copper curls, setting them ablaze against her green skin.

  "When I was eight," Mikhail continued, "I fell from a tree I'd been climbing. Broke my arm in two places." He lifted his right arm, unconsciously running his fingers over the spot where the bone had once protruded through his skin. "I remember screaming with pain, but when my mother arrived, everything changed. She didn't panic. She just knelt beside me, her face calm as still water, and said, 'Mikhail, I need you to be brave now.' And somehow... I was."

  He smiled at the memory, feeling Anora's small hand cover his where it rested on her waist. "She set the bone right there, beneath that tree. I didn't cry again, not because I wasn't in pain, but because I couldn't bear to disappoint the look in her eyes. Afterward, she carried me home herself, though I was already almost as big as she was."

  Anora remained silent for a long moment after he finished. When she finally spoke, her voice carried a brittle quality that made Mikhail's heart clench.

  "My mother never touched me except to punish me," she said softly, her eyes fixed on the darkening horizon. "She couldn't bear the sight of me—said my orange eyes and red hair were constant reminders of her shame. The other goblin women would hold their children, sing to them at night. But never her. Never me."

  Mikhail tightened his arms around her, pressing his cheek against her hair, but remained silent, sensing she needed to speak these words that had been trapped inside her for so long.

  "I used to dream that my human father would come and take me away," Anora continued, her voice barely above a whisper. "I imagined he must be handsome and kind, with hair the color of mine. One day, I gathered my courage and asked my mother about him." Her small body trembled slightly at the memory. "She beat me so badly I couldn't move for three days. I… I never asked again."

  The confession hung in the air between them, heavy with pain and unspoken grief. Mikhail's throat tightened with emotion, rage at her treatment warring with profound sorrow.

  "That must have been awful," he finally managed, his voice rough with feeling. "I'm sorry you had to go through that, Anora." He wrapped his arms tighter around her, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head. Inwardly, he made a solemn vow that he would do everything in his power to make her feel loved, regardless of what anyone might say.

  "I don't know what fate brought you into my life, Anora," he said, the words coming straight from his heart. "But I promise that as long as I'm around, you won't experience that ever again."

  Anora remained silent, but Mikhail felt warm tears falling onto his forearms where they encircled her. Concerned, he gently tilted her head back until her tear-filled orange eyes met his.

  "Hey," he said softly, "what's wrong?"

  She didn't answer immediately, her gaze searching his face as if looking for something vital. When she finally spoke, her voice trembled with vulnerability.

  "Is this what it feels like to be loved? To be cherished?" She finally said.

  The simple question broke something open inside Mikhail. He turned her fully in his arms, cupping her left cheek with his right hand, his thumb rolling her earlobe gently between his index finger and thumb, a gesture that had become uniquely theirs. Then he pulled her into a tender kiss that spoke more eloquently than words ever could.

  When they broke apart, he searched her eyes, marveling at the depth of feeling he found there. "Yes, Anora," he whispered against her lips. "This is what it's like to be loved and cherished.”

  Their mouths met again, this time with growing passion as night fell around them like a velvet cloak. Stars emerged one by one in the darkening sky, witnessing their devotion. Though both knew they should return to Cedarcrest, they lingered beneath their special tree, lost in each other's arms.

  With gentle hands and whispered endearments, they undressed each other slowly, rediscovering the landscape of each other's bodies as if for the first time. The night air kissed their bare skin, but neither felt the chill, wrapped as they were in the warmth of desire. Mikhail laid her down on their discarded clothes, his eyes drinking in the sight of her green skin bathed in starlight.

  "Beautiful," he breathed, trailing his fingers along the curve of her hip, the dip of her waist, the swell of her breast.

  Anora reached for him, her small hands pulling him down to her. Their bodies joined with practiced ease, finding the rhythm that brought them both pleasure. Above them, the ancient oak's branches swayed gently in the night breeze, sheltering the lovers from the world's judgment.

  Later, wrapped in each other's arms, their skin cooling in the night air, Anora whispered against Mikhail's chest, "We should go back."

  "Mmm," he agreed without moving, his fingers tracing lazy patterns along the curve of her spine. "We should."

  Neither made any effort to rise, content to remain entwined in their private sanctuary for a few moments more, postponing their return to a world that might never understand what they had found in each other's arms.

  Selene crouched upon the slate-tiled roof across from the Axe and Fiddle Inn, her dark cloak melding with the deepening twilight like ink spreading through water. The western sky still burned with the last embers of sunset, painting Cedarcrest's weathered buildings in hues of amber and gold that belied the shadows gathering in narrow alleys and forgotten corners.

  Her fingers absently caressed the ornate mirror nestled within an inner pocket, it's cold metal warming slightly at her touch. Lady Veldrin would be expecting a report soon, and Selene had precious little progress to share. The elk rider and his goblin companion had proven more resilient than anticipated, their bond strengthening rather than fracturing under the pressures she had so carefully arranged.

  The evening breeze carried fragments of conversation and laughter from the streets below, punctuated by the occasional shout of a merchant closing shop for the day. But Selene's attention remained fixed on the western road, awaiting the return of her quarry from their afternoon ride. Her patience was legendary among her kind—she had once waited three days without food or rest to eliminate a particularly cautious target in the Eastern Kingdoms.

  "Who are you, and what do you want with Mikhail and Anora?"

  The voice materialized behind her like frost forming on glass, quiet, precise, and carrying an ancient power that made the hair on Selene's neck rise. She spun with preternatural speed, one hand drawing the slender blade concealed along her forearm while the other reached for the poisoned darts nestled in her belt.

  Standing mere feet away was the half-elf, Eliath, his silver-streaked hair catching the dying light like polished metal. His face betrayed no emotion, yet his eyes, God, his eyes, held the weight of centuries and knowledge no mortal should possess. Most disconcerting was his sudden appearance; she had heard nothing, sensed nothing, until he had chosen to reveal himself.

  "How clever of you to find me," Selene replied, her voice a careful study in nonchalance despite the ice forming in her veins. "Though I believe you've mistaken me for someone with nefarious purposes."

  "I've made no such claim," Eliath observed, his melodic voice carrying undertones of steel. "Yet your denial speaks volumes." He took a single step forward, his movements fluid as water flowing over stone. "The crow sees.The crow remembers."

  Confusion flickered across Selene's features, quickly masked by practiced neutrality. The half-elf's words about a crow made no sense—she had noticed no bird, magical or otherwise, tracking her movements through Cedarcrest. Had she overlooked something so fundamental, or was this some ploy to unbalance her?

  "The crow sees. The crow remembers," Eliath had said, his ancient eyes watching her with unnerving intensity.

  A cold realization washed through her veins. If there had been a watching crow—one she had failed to detect despite her years of training—what else had she missed? The possibility that her activities had been observed, perhaps for days, sent a rare tremor of uncertainty through her typically unshakable confidence.

  "Your riddles don't interest me," she replied, voice carefully calibrated to project boredom rather than the sudden unease coiling in her stomach. "Nor do I know what bird you speak of, old one." The lie came easily to lips long practiced in deception, but something in the half-elf's knowing gaze suggested he wasn't fooled.

  Fury at this potential oversight—and at the stranger who had somehow located her so precisely—flared bright within her chest. Lady Veldrin tolerated many things, but incompetence was not among them. If this half-elf had indeed been tracking her through some avian familiar, the consequences would be... unpleasant.

  "What I want is no concern of yours, old one," she hissed, dropping all pretense as her blade caught the fading sunlight. "Step aside, and I'll consider sparing your remaining years."

  Eliath's lips curved into what might have been a smile on a faceless ancient, less knowing. "Remaining years," he echoed, as if savoring a private joke. "How generous."

  The air between them seemed to thicken, pressure building like the moment before a storm breaks. Selene struck first, her blade tracing a lethal arc through the twilight air. Simultaneously, she whispered words that should never be spoken by human tongue—a minor cantrip that would momentarily blind her opponent.

  Both attacks met nothing but empty air.

  Eliath stood three paces to her left, having moved with a speed her trained eyes could barely comprehend. "Interesting technique," he commented, as casually as one might discuss the weather. "Eastern Kingdom assassination style, with a touch of forbidden magic. Your teachers would be proud."

  Rage and fear twisted through Selene's chest in equal measure. She had not survived this long by underestimating opponents, yet somehow she had done precisely that. With a snarl, she unleashed a flurry of strikes, her blade singing through the air as she incorporated movements from a dozen different fighting styles.

  Eliath moved like smoke, never quite where her attacks anticipated, his steps forming intricate patterns across the rooftop that seemed to correspond to some ancient geometry. As they danced their deadly waltz, he spoke between her increasingly desperate attacks.

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  "Who sent you?" A simple sidestep that made her overextend, leaving her briefly vulnerable.

  "What do they want with them?" A gentle redirection of her thrust that nearly sent her blade into her own thigh.

  "Why the shadow demons?" A fluid spin that placed him behind her, close enough that she felt his breath on her neck before she whirled to face him.

  That last question froze her blood. He knew about the shadow demons—knowledge that should have been impossible for anyone outside Lady Veldrin's inner circle. Sensing her momentary distraction, Eliath's hand shot out, palm striking her chest with enough force to send her skidding backward to the roof's edge.

  Selene teetered precariously, the street below suddenly very distant. Before she could regain her balance, Eliath closed the distance between them, his hand now gripping her throat with gentle yet immovable pressure.

  "Last chance," he said softly, his ancient eyes boring into hers with uncomfortable intensity. "The truth, assassin."

  Genuine fear blossomed in Selene's chest—a sensation so unfamiliar she almost didn't recognize it. In that moment of clarity, she made her decision. With her free hand, she grasped the ornate mirror and whispered a single word of power.

  The air around them grew unnaturally cold as shadows deepened and coalesced. From the darkness between chimney stacks and the lengthening shadows cast by Cedarcrest's buildings, two forms emerged—not quite solid, not quite vapor, but something that existed in the terrible space between states of being. Their edges rippled like heat distortion, eyes like obsidian pools reflecting nothing.

  "Shadow demons," Eliath breathed, releasing Selene to face this new threat. A word of power formed on his lips, his hand tracing a complex sigil in the air that briefly gleamed silver before fading. He felt the power burn at the edges of his soul. "I had hoped I was mistaken."

  Selene seized the opportunity, rolling away from the roof's edge and sprinting toward the adjacent building. Behind her, she heard the distinctive sound of steel clearing a scabbard—Eliath had drawn a sword she hadn't even noticed him carrying. Its blade caught the last rays of sunlight, seeming to hold the glow far longer than natural laws should allow.

  One of the shadow demons lunged toward him, its form elongating impossibly as claws of pure darkness extended toward the half-elf's throat. Eliath moved with practiced precision, his blade cutting a perfect arc through the creature's midsection. Where the sword passed, light followed, leaving a glowing wound that leaked darkness like blood.

  The demon shrieked—a sound that existed more in the mind than in the air—and recoiled, its wounded form rippling as it sought to reconstitute itself. The second demon circled warily, learning from its companion's mistake.

  Selene reached the edge of the roof, preparing to leap to the next building. A final glance back showed Eliath holding his own against both creatures, his sword leaving trails of light that lingered in the air like physical things. His face remained calm, almost detached, as he fought abominations that would drive most men to madness at the mere sight.

  As she prepared to jump, a blinding flash of light erupted behind her, so intense she instinctively raised an arm to shield her eyes. When the spots cleared from her vision, she beheld a sight that defied comprehension.

  The old woman—the same crone she had seen in the Axe and Fiddle earlier—stood beside Eliath. Except she wasn't old anymore, and she certainly wasn't human. Her form radiated light that seemed to bend reality around it, her eyes like twin stars burning with ancient knowledge. In her hands, she wielded twin swords that cut through the twilight with edges that seemed to separate light from darkness at a fundamental level.

  "Daughter of the Divine," Selene whispered, recognizing the being for what it truly was—an angel, one of the Creator's first children, ancient beyond human reckoning.

  The shadow demons recoiled, their formless bodies writhing in agony at the mere presence of such purity. They hissed and screeched, a cacophony of sounds that existed both within and beyond normal hearing.

  The angel moved with Divine purpose, her swords tracing patterns that seemed to cut through the very fabric of reality. Where they passed, the shadow demons' darkness boiled away like mist before the morning sun. The first demon dissolved entirely under her relentless assault, its essence burning away into nothingness.

  The second creature attempted to flee, its form stretching thin as it sought escape. The angel's sword flashed once, twice, and the demon's darkness ignited like paper thrown into flame, consumed from within by the light it so despised.

  Selene didn't wait to see more. Using the distraction, she leapt to the adjacent rooftop, her training taking over as she rolled to absorb the impact. Within moments, she had disappeared into the labyrinth of Cedarcrest's back alleys, her mind reeling from what she had witnessed.

  Back on the rooftop, the angel sheathed her twin blades, her radiance dimming as she resumed the form of an elderly woman. The transformation was seamless, divine power folding in upon itself until only hints remained in the unusual clarity of her aged eyes.

  "I had them, you know," Eliath said mildly as he sheathed his own blade, the metal singing softly as it slid home.

  "I'm sure you did, deary," the old woman replied, her voice once again that of a grandmother rather than an immortal warrior. "But I couldn't help myself. Those atrocities had to be gotten rid of."

  Eliath raised a silver eyebrow. "I thought you weren't supposed to interfere."

  "Well, I can't," she agreed, smoothing down her simple dress with gnarled hands that had moments before wielded celestial weapons. "Unless those I'm tasked to watch over are in grave danger, and honey, if you hadn't killed those abominations then my charges would have been. So I... helped." She delivered the last word with such matter-of-fact certainty that Eliath couldn't help but smile.

  He sheathed his sword completely and turned to look down at the Axe and Fiddle Inn, where lights had begun to glow in the windows as evening settled fully over Cedarcrest. "It seems that those two have some dark forces after them. Why?" he mused, his ancient eyes troubled as he contemplated the implications.

  When he looked back up, the old woman had vanished as completely as if she had never existed. The rooftop was empty save for himself and the lingering scent of something indefinable—perhaps sunshine on fresh snow, or the first breath of spring after a long winter.

  "I hate when she does that," Eliath muttered, though there was fondness beneath his exasperation.

  Below, the streets of Cedarcrest continued their evening rhythms, merchants closing shops, taverns filling with workers seeking respite after the day's labors, families gathering for evening meals. None were aware of the battle between light and darkness that had just played out above their heads, or the forces gathering around two unlikely lovers who had somehow become the focus of powers beyond mortal comprehension.

  The silver light of an almost-full moon bathed the landscape in ghostly luminescence as Mikhail and Anora made their way back toward Cedarcrest's western gate. Anora held Bakule's reins with newfound confidence, her small green hands guiding the massive elk along the moonlit road. Her orange eyes, naturally attuned to darkness, gleamed like twin lanterns in the gathering night.

  "You're doing great," Mikhail murmured, his chest pressed against her back, arms loosely encircling her waist. "He responds well to you."

  Pride swelled in Anora's chest at the compliment. Beneath them, Bakule moved with unhurried grace, his powerful legs carrying them at a steady trot. The rhythm of his hooves against the packed earth created a soothing cadence that matched the beating of their hearts. Despite the tiring evening of training with a spear and enjoying the love of Mikhail, Anora giddy and happy as she held Bakules' reigns.

  A mile from Cedarcrest's gates, the road curved between two dense copses of trees. Shadows deepened here, the moonlight struggling to penetrate the thick canopy overhead. Anora's ears twitched, catching sounds beyond human perception—the whisper of leaves, the skittering of nocturnal creatures, and something else... something that didn't belong.

  "Mikhail," she began, a note of warning in her voice.

  Before she could finish, dark shapes burst from the tree line. The thunder of hooves shattered the night's tranquility as several mounted figures charged toward them. Anora barely had time to tighten her grip on the reins before a horse slammed into Bakule's side with devastating force.

  The impact sent them flying. Anora felt Mikhail's arms tear away from her waist as they were both thrown from the elk's back. The world spun in dizzying arcs before she struck the ground, pain exploding through her shoulder and hip. The breath rushed from her lungs in a violent exhale as she rolled across the hard-packed road.

  Disoriented, she pushed herself to her knees, copper curls falling in a wild tangle around her face. Through the curtain of her hair, she saw dark figures dismounting—five, maybe six of them—their faces obscured by the night. Two rushed toward her while others converged on Mikhail, who had landed several feet away.

  Rough hands seized her arms, yanking her upright with bruising force. Anora thrashed against their grip, her sharp teeth snapping at fingers that came too close to her face. A torch flared to life nearby, its sudden brilliance momentarily blinding her.

  In its dancing light, Anora saw Mikhail struggling against two men who held his arms behind his back, forcing him to his knees. Blood trickled from a gash above his eyebrow, dark against his pale skin. His silver spear lay just beyond his reach, gleaming accusingly in the torchlight.

  A figure stepped into the circle of light, and Anora's blood turned to ice. Erik's swollen face seemed more monstrous than human in the flickering illumination, the injuries Mikhail had inflicted transformed into a grotesque mask of hatred. One eye remained completely closed, while the other burned with malevolent intent.

  "Well, well," Erik drawled, his voice carrying the slurred cadence of someone who'd fortified himself with drink before violence. "Look what we found on the road. A goblin and her pet traitor."

  He circled Mikhail like a predator, savoring the moment. Without warning, his fist lashed out, connecting with Mikhail's jaw in a sickening impact. Mikhail's head snapped sideways, fresh blood spraying from his split lip.

  "That's for my face," Erik snarled, following with another blow to Mikhail's stomach that doubled him over, gasping for breath. "And that's for my pride."

  "Let him go!" Anora screamed, renewing her struggles against the men who held her. Their grips tightened painfully, fingers digging into the tender flesh of her upper arms.

  Erik ignored her, continuing his methodical beating of Mikhail, alternating between face and body. Each impact drew grunts of pain from Mikhail, though he refused to cry out.

  "You know," Erik said conversationally, pausing to shake out his hand, "I can do whatever I want in Cedarcrest. My father practically owns this town." He leaned down until his face was inches from Mikhail's battered one. "The council, the guards, even that pompous half-elf—they all answer to him in the end."

  Mikhail spat a mouthful of blood onto the dirt. "If that were true," he rasped, "you wouldn't need to ambush us in the dark."

  Erik's expression darkened at the defiance. He straightened, turning toward Anora with calculated deliberation. The torchlight caught the cruel twist of his lips as he assessed her with naked contempt.

  "I can't believe you share your bed with this filthy wench," he said, his voice pitched to carry to his companions. "Fucking goblin lover."

  Laughter erupted around them, ugly and mean-spirited. The men holding Anora tightened their grip as Erik approached her, his one good eye traveling over her small form with insulting thoroughness.

  "Maybe after I'm done with you," he said to Mikhail while staring at Anora, "I'll see what all the fuss is about." He reached out to touch her face.

  "If you touch one hair on her head," Mikhail growled, his voice transformed by fury, "I will kill you."

  The simple declaration hung in the night air, devoid of bluster or exaggeration—merely a statement of fact delivered with absolute certainty. Something in his tone silenced the laughter, the atmosphere shifting subtly as unease rippled through Erik's companions.

  Erik recovered quickly, his laugh incredulous. "Kill me? I'm afraid you don't appreciate the situation you're in." He pulled a wicked-looking knife from his belt, its serrated edge catching the torchlight as he turned back toward Anora. "I'm gonna gut this filthy creature right in front of you. And there’s nothing you can do to stop it."

  He stepped closer to Anora, grabbing a torch and raising it high to better illuminate his work. The firelight painted his damaged face in hellish hues, transforming his hatred into something elemental and terrifying.

  "Stop! Let her go!" Mikhail shouted, desperation cracking through his voice as he strained against his captors.

  The men behind Anora tightened their grip, one moving his hands to her shoulders while the other wrapped an arm around her waist, lifting her slightly off the ground. Her legs dangled uselessly as Erik advanced, knife extended, satisfaction gleaming in his visible eye.

  Anora's entire body tensed, muscles coiling like springs. In one explosive movement, she swung her legs upward, using the restraining arm around her waist as a pivot point. She brought her bare feet backwards into the groin of the man on her right, her heels crashing into his testicles. The man let out a groan and released his grip on her arm as he moved to cup them in his hands. The motion threw the other man off balance and gave Anora the opportunity she sought to get free.

  She dropped to the ground and quicker than Erik could react, she rolled between his legs and was up and running toward Mikhail, pulling her Rawls…no her Knife from its sheath and yelling "BAKULE!" her voice carrying the desperate power of a battle cry.

  The name seemed to pierce the night like a silver arrow. From the shadows came the thunder of hooves as the massive elk, recovered from the initial attack, charged toward the group. Antlers lowered like deadly lances, Bakule slammed into one of Mikhail's captors, sending the man flying through the air with a shriek of terror and pain as the antlers had cut through his arm.

  The distraction was all Mikhail needed. With a roar that seemed to erupt from the very core of his being, he wrenched himself free of the remaining captor's grasp. His fist connected with the man's temple in a devastating blow, dropping him to the ground in a boneless heap.

  Mikhail dove for his spear, fingers closing around the familiar shaft as he rolled to his feet in one fluid motion. The weapon hummed through the air as he spun to face the remaining attackers, blood from his split lip spattering across the dirt in crimson droplets.

  Anora reached the man who had been holding Mikhail but had gotten his arm cut from Bakukle’s antlers, her knife already drawn. With a feral growl, she launched herself onto his front, grabbing his tunic and using her clawed feet to hold herself up. Her small form collided with his larger one with enough force to cause him to stagger backwards. Before he could recover, her blade plunged downward, finding the juncture where neck met shoulder. Blood fountained upward, black in the moonlight, as the man's scream transformed into a wet gurgle.

  "You won't hurt Mikhail!" she screamed, stabbing again and again with savage precision. "You won't hurt him!"

  The remaining attackers, now recovered from the initial shock of the counterattack, drew their swords. Steel rasped against leather as blades cleared scabbards. In the fading torchlight that continued to smolder where Erik had dropped it, their faces were masks of fury and fear.

  They were no match for Mikhail and his silver spear though. No match for years of intense practice with his weapon of choice.No match for a weapon that gave him so much reach and distance.

  He moved like quicksilver, the weapon an extension of his body as he flowed from stance to stance with lethal grace. The mountain stance provided solid footing as he blocked a wild swing, then transitioned seamlessly to the river stance, letting the force of the attack flow past him before countering with a thrust that found its mark between ribs.

  The man fell without a sound, eyes wide with shock.

  Two more attacked simultaneously, trying to flank him. Mikhail spun into the wind stance, his spear describing a perfect arc that intercepted both blades. The metallic clash echoed through the night as he redirected their momentum, causing one attacker to stumble into the other.

  Before they could recover, Mikhail had already transitioned back to the mountain stance. His spear thrust forward with devastating speed, impaling the first man through the chest. As the second struggled to regain his balance, Mikhail wrenched his weapon free and executed a perfect spinning thrust that caught the attacker under the jaw, the silver tip emerging from the top of his skull.

  Blood sprayed in a fine mist as Mikhail retracted his spear, letting the body crumple to the ground. He turned, breath coming in controlled pants, to find only Erik remaining.

  The blacksmith's son had drawn his sword and stood in a clumsy approximation of a fighting stance, his face ashen beneath its bruises. Fear and hatred warred in his expression as he slowly circled, keeping distance between himself and Mikhail's deadly spear.

  "You race-traitor," Erik spat, voice trembling with equal parts terror and rage. "My father will have your head for this."

  "You should have left us alone," Mikhail replied, his voice eerily calm despite the carnage surrounding them. "You still can. Drop the sword, Erik. Go home."

  For a moment, it seemed Erik might actually consider the offer. His one good eye darted between Mikhail, Anora, and the bodies of his friends scattered across the moonlit road. Then his gaze hardened, mouth twisting into a snarl of pure hatred.

  "Never," he growled, lunging forward with unexpected speed, sword extended.

  Mikhail sidestepped the clumsy attack, his spear twirling in a blurred circle that knocked the weapon from Erik's hand. The sword spun away, disappearing into the darkness beyond the road.

  Weaponless and exposed, Erik froze. His eye widened as Mikhail's spear reversed direction, its silver point driving forward with unstoppable momentum. The blade pierced Erik's chest, sliding between ribs to find his heart. Blood bubbled from his lips as he stared at Mikhail in shock.

  "You should have left us alone," Mikhail repeated, voice hollow with the weight of what he had done—what he was about to do.

  With a sharp twist, he withdrew the spear. Before Erik's body could begin its collapse, Mikhail spun in a perfect execution of the wind stance, the spear's blade whistling through the air. A clean arc of red sprayed across the moonlit road as Erik's head separated from his shoulders, rolling away into the darkness like discarded refuse.

  Silence descended, broken only by their ragged breathing and the soft nickering of horses that had retreated to the tree line during the violence. Bakule approached cautiously, his massive antlers gleaming silver in the moonlight, stepping carefully around the bodies that littered the road.

  "Anora?" Mikhail called, his voice cracking with concern. "Are you hurt?"

  She stood a few paces away, her small form silhouetted against the forest's edge. Blood coated her hands and forearms, dark against her green skin, and spattered across her dress in macabre patterns. Her knife hung loosely from her fingers, its blade catching moonlight in wicked glints.

  "Anora?" Mikhail called, his voice cracking with concern. "Are you hurt?"

  She stood a few paces away, her small form silhouetted against the forest's edge. Blood coated her hands and forearms, dark against her green skin, and spattered across her dress in macabre patterns. Her knife hung loosely from her fingers, its blade catching moonlight in wicked glints.

  "I'm not hurt," she replied, her voice strangely distant. "Are you?"

  Mikhail took inventory of his injuries—split lip, bruised ribs, various cuts and scrapes from the fall and subsequent fight. Nothing life-threatening. "I'll be fine."

  As he moved closer, he noticed the way Anora's gaze had fixed on her blood-soaked hands. The moonlight transformed the crimson stains to black ink, flowing between her fingers and seeping into the creases of her palms. Her breathing had changed, growing shallow and rapid as her eyes widened with dawning horror.

  The adrenaline that had carried her through the fight was ebbing now, leaving her trembling in its wake. Her knife slipped from her grasp, landing with a dull thud in the dirt at her feet.

  "I killed him," she whispered, holding her hands away from her body as if they belonged to someone else. "I felt his life leave... I felt it go out... like a candle in the wind." Her voice cracked, rising in pitch. "There was so much blood, Mikhail. So much blood."

  Her small frame began to shake violently, tears welling in her orange eyes as the reality of what had transpired crashed over her. The man whose life she had taken—whose blood now stained her skin, her clothes, her very being—had been someone's son, perhaps someone's brother or husband. A life extinguished by her hand.

  "I can still feel his heart beating against the knife," she gasped, words tumbling out in fragmented bursts. "And then... and then it just... stopped. And I kept... I kept..." She looked down at her bloodied dress, at the darkening spatters that told the story of frenzied strikes long after her victim had ceased to struggle.

  Mikhail crossed the distance between them in three swift strides, gathering her into his arms despite the blood that covered her. Her entire body convulsed against him, torn between the instinct to cling to his warmth and the desperate need to escape the horror of what had happened.

  "Shh," he soothed, one hand cradling the back of her head, fingers tangling in her copper curls. "You did what you had to do, Anora. They gave us no choice."

  His voice, steady and certain, became an anchor in the storm of her emotions. He held her firmly, unmoved by her attempts to pull away, to spare him from the blood that stained her.

  "But I—" she began, her words dissolving into a broken sob.

  "They would have killed us," Mikhail interrupted gently but firmly. "They would have killed me and done worse to you. What you did was necessary." He pulled back enough to lift her chin, forcing her tear-filled eyes to meet his. "We can't undo what's happened. We can only move forward."

  Anora's gaze searched his face, seeking reassurance, absolution, something to ease the crushing weight of what she had done. "How do you bear it?" she asked, her voice small and fragile. "The killing?"

  Mikhail's expression softened, though something in his eyes hardened simultaneously—a contradiction that spoke of lessons learned through blood and necessity.

  "You close your heart to their suffering," he told her, his voice low and intimate in the space between them. "You remember that they made their choice when they decided to hurt what belongs to you. When they threatened what you love." His thumb brushed away a tear that had tracked through the blood on her cheek. "The world isn't kind, Anora. Sometimes we can't afford to be either."

  She nodded slowly, drawing a shuddering breath that seemed to steady her. The trembling in her limbs began to subside, though her eyes remained haunted by what they had witnessed—what they had done.

  Mikhail wrapped an arm around her shoulders as reality began to assert itself. Six bodies lay scattered across the road, their blood soaking into the dirt—six sons of noble houses, including Frederick's heir. The enormity of what had happened—what they had done—settled over them like a physical weight.

  "Mikhail," Anora whispered, her orange eyes wide as they swept over the carnage, "what do we do now?"

  The question hung between them, heavy with implications. This wasn't like Sablewood, where they could simply flee into the night, leaving no witnesses. This was the son of the most powerful man in Cedarcrest, along with companions from families of similar standing. There would be search parties, investigations, bounties.

  But Mikhail couldn't bring himself to run—not again. Cedarcrest had become more than just another stop on his journey. He had found work he enjoyed with Thorgar, made connections, begun to build something resembling a life. The thought of abandoning it all filled him with unexpected anguish.

  "We need help," he said finally, his voice steadying as resolve crystallized within him. "We need to get back to town."

  Anora nodded, sheathing her knife with hands that trembled slightly. Together, they gathered the horses that had belonged to their attackers, tying them in a line behind Bakule. It seemed wrong to leave the animals to wander, and they might prove useful in explaining what had happened.

  With grim determination, they mounted Bakule, Mikhail taking the reins this time. Neither looked back at the bodies they left behind, illuminated by moonlight and the dying embers of the fallen torch. The night seemed to hold its breath as they rode toward Cedarcrest's gates, each lost in their own thoughts about what awaited them.

  Mikhail knew exactly where they needed to go first. Not to the town guard, who might arrest them on sight due to all of the blood on them. Not to the Inn, which couldn't provide the protection they would need. No—there was only one person in Cedarcrest with both the wisdom and strength to guide them through the storm that was about to break.

  "Thorgar," he muttered, as the first glimpse of the town's torchlit walls appeared on the horizon. "We need to get to Thorgar."

  Discord, please feel free to join and say hello, chat, ask me questions, and discuss the story.

  Patreon, If you wish to support the story and help me quit my day job then consider joining. There you will get access to lore on the world of Velthorn and it's various places and characters. Starting soon I will be releasing a second Title in the Cozy Fantasy genre about a Were-moose Barbarian who retires from his adventuring party and wishes to open up his own Tavern. It will be a Patreon Exclusive.

  How do you think this event will change Anora?