Time stretched like hot metal on an anvil as Erik, the merchant's son, and his companions formed a predatory circle around Mikhail and Anora. The festival lights cast their faces in amber and shadow, turning sneers into grotesque masks. A crowd gathered in a widening ring, conversations dying into an eerie hush. The music faded note by note until only the soft crackle of torches and the distant call of night birds broke the silence.
"Let go of my hand!" Erik roared, his ale-soaked breath visible in plumes as it met the cooling night air. The veins in his neck bulged like rope beneath skin, his face flushed crimson with drink and rage. His companions shifted their weight onto the balls of their feet, hands moving to the hilts of blades with the casual confidence of men accustomed to getting their way through force.
Mikhail's gaze darted between them, cataloging threats, mapping angles of attack. His fingers tightened around Erik's wrist, feeling the delicate bones grind together. A primal part of him longed for his spear—its familiar weight, its reach, the security it offered. Without it, he felt strangely naked despite his borrowed finery.
Every instinct screamed at him to pull Anora behind him, to shield her small frame with his body. But from the corner of his eye, he saw her stance—feet planted firmly, knife partially drawn, orange eyes bright with focus. She remembered his lessons. Pride flickered briefly through his fear.
"Look," Mikhail said, his voice carrying the forced calm of a man standing at the edge of violence. "We don't want any trouble. Just apologize, and I won't break your arm."
The merchant's son scoffed, spittle glistening on his lower lip. "Apologize? To a goblin?" Each word dripped with venom, his face contorting as if the very suggestion burned his tongue. "You're more pathetic than I thought. Defending that creature like it deserves respect."
"Her name is Anora," Mikhail replied, the steel in his voice matching the strength in his grip. "And she deserves more respect than you've earned in your entire pampered life."
A dangerous silence followed his words, heavy as storm clouds before lightning strikes. The festival's warm glow seemed to dim around them, as if the very lanterns held their breath in anticipation.
One of Erik's companions—a broad-shouldered man with a scar bisecting his left eyebrow—took a half-step forward. "You've picked the wrong night and the wrong company for your... peculiar tastes," he growled. Light glinted off the blade he now openly displayed. "Cedarcrest has traditions. Standards. Things that keep us civilized."
"Civilized?" Anora's voice cut through the tension like a silver bell, startling even Mikhail with its clarity and strength. She had never addressed strangers so boldly before. "Is this what passes for civilization? Threatening people for an accident?"
The gathered crowd murmured, some shifting uncomfortably at being directly challenged by the small goblin woman. Her blue silk dress shimmered in the torchlight, the knife at her waist now fully drawn, its polished surface reflecting flames in dancing patterns.
"It speaks," someone whispered from the crowd, the words carrying in the unnatural silence.
Erik wrenched his arm free with a sudden twist, stumbling back a step. His companions closed ranks, creating a barrier of flesh and steel between him and Mikhail. "This abomination has no place at our festival," he spat, rubbing his wrist. "And neither does anyone who would choose its company over his own kind."
Mikhail raises his balled fists in front of him. "We didn't come looking for a fight," he said evenly, "but we won't run from one either."
In that moment, he caught glimpses of faces in the firelight—a mother pulling her children away, an old man shaking his head in disgust, a young woman with her hand pressed to her mouth in shock. And somewhere in the shadows, barely visible at the edge of his awareness, a hooded figure whose stillness seemed somehow more purposeful than the others.
"Six against two," Erik sneered, confidence returning as he took in the odds. "Not very sporting."
Selene melted through the crowd like a shadow given form, her whispers flowing into eager ears like venomous honey. She moved with practiced grace, her face a forgettable mask that transformed with each new target. To a gray-bearded timber worker, she appeared as a concerned matron; to a group of young apprentices, a wide-eyed maiden; to weathered merchants, a fellow trader worried about precedent.
"He's a race traitor," she breathed to one, her words barely audible yet perfectly placed to ignite smoldering prejudice.
"Someone needs to teach him a lesson," she murmured to another, the suggestion settling like a seed in fertile soil.
"Protecting a goblin? What a disgrace," she hissed, her voice carrying just enough passion to feel authentic without revealing its calculated purpose.
The whispers spread like ripples in still water, each person adding their own venom before passing it along. Words transformed into conviction as they traveled through the crowd, growing stronger with each repetition until they returned to their source, unrecognizable yet precisely as intended.
"Race traitor!" "Disgrace to his own kind!" "Put them both in their place!"
The festival atmosphere curdled like milk in summer heat, transforming celebration into something primal and hungry. Eyes that moments ago had watched wood-carving competitions with appreciation now gleamed with bloodlust, the ancient human hunger for spectacle overriding reason.
The first attack came from the left—a blur of motion and intent. The burly man with the scar bisecting his eyebrow lunged forward, his knife describing a vicious arc through torchlit air. The blade caught fragments of festival light, transformed from tool to weapon in the space of a heartbeat.
Mikhail pivoted smoothly, years of spear training guiding his body through practiced motions. His forearm connected with his attacker's wrist, deflecting the deadly path of the blade while his other hand simultaneously pushed Anora clear of immediate danger. The blue silk of her dress swirled like disturbed water as she stumbled backward, the knife at her waist now fully drawn, its polished surface reflecting the ring of hostile faces surrounding them.
The crowd's reaction was immediate—they flowed outward like water around stone, forming a perfect circle around the combatants. Their festival joy transmuted into something darker, more primal. Children were lifted onto shoulders for better views, drinks were clutched in white-knuckled anticipation, and the music that had filled the night with celebration now seemed a distant memory.
"Get him!" "Teach him respect!" "Show the greenskin her place!"
The shouts rose like carrion birds over a battlefield, each voice emboldening others until the individual was lost in collective frenzy. The torchlight painted their faces in stark relief—mouths opened in shouts of encouragement, eyes wide with the raw excitement of witnessing bloodshed without risking their own skin.
From the back of the crowd, Selene watched with cold satisfaction. Her hood shadowed her features, masking the calculated pleasure that would have betrayed her role in orchestrating this chaos. Each shout, each surge of the crowd's bloodlust, was confirmation of her perfect understanding of human nature. The couple's love, so evident in their protective stances and desperate glances, would soon be their undoing—for nothing attracted violence like defiance of established order.
Her fingers caressed the ornate mirror in her pocket, its surface cool against her skin despite the heat of so many bodies pressed together in anticipation. Lady Veldrin would be pleased with tonight's work. The first strands of her web had been perfectly placed; now she need only wait for her prey to entangle themselves further.
As if orchestrated by some unseen conductor, the remaining men surged forward as one—a deadly symphony of flesh and steel. The festival lights caught their blades in amber arcs, transforming ordinary townsmen into something feral and ancient. Their faces, once merely hostile, now bore the primal mask of the hunt, eyes wide with bloodlust and mouths twisted in silent snarls.
Mikhail's body responded before his mind could follow, muscle memory carrying him through the dance of violence with terrible grace. He blocked a wild swing, the impact jarring up his forearm like thunder, before countering with a sharp jab to his attacker's solar plexus. The man's breath escaped in a single explosive gasp, face contorting as his lungs fought desperately for air that wouldn't come. His knees buckled on cobblestones worn smooth by generations of celebration.
Beside him, Anora moved like liquid flame, her blue silk dress flowing around her small form as if alive with its own purpose. She ducked beneath a grasping hand, her pointed ears nearly brushing the attacker's outstretched fingers. The festival lights caught her red curls as she spun, transforming them into a copper halo that trailed her movement like an afterimage. Her blade flashed—a silver whisper in the torchlight—and carved a thin line of crimson across her assailant's forearm.
The man howled, more from shock than pain, stumbling backward as he clutched his wounded arm. Blood welled between his fingers, each droplet catching the light like dark rubies before pattering onto the stones below.
"She's got a blade!" Someone shouted from the crowd, voice cracking with outrage and fascination. "The goblin has drawn blood!"
The warning rippled through the gathered onlookers, transforming their collective mood from eager anticipation to something hungrier, more dangerous. Children were hurriedly pulled back from the front lines, yet no one retreated fully—the spectacle too compelling, too primal to abandon.
The sight of blood ignited something in Erik's eyes—a cold fury that transformed his handsome features into something reptilian and calculating. His hand emerged from within his tunic, producing a gleaming dagger whose jeweled hilt caught the torchlight in fractured rainbows. The weapon was clearly more ornament than practical tool, its blade too slender for honest work, designed instead for the single purpose it now served: to threaten and harm.
"I'm gonna carve those pretty eyes from your skull," he growled, the words slurring slightly as ale and adrenaline tangled on his tongue. He advanced on Anora with predatory focus, his boots scraping against cobblestones in a slow, deliberate rhythm.
The threat sent ice cascading through Mikhail's veins, freezing thought and reason beneath a sudden avalanche of primal rage. The world narrowed to a single point of focus: Anora's small form backed against the wall of hostile spectators, her orange eyes wide with a fear he had sworn she would never feel again.
Something inside him snapped—a tether of restraint severed by words that promised harm to what he held most precious. He drove his elbow into his current opponent's face with savage force, feeling cartilage give way beneath the impact with a sickening crunch. The man dropped without a sound, blood streaming from his shattered nose as Mikhail spun toward Erik.
A roar tore from Mikhail's throat—not words but pure animal fury given voice. He launched himself forward just as Erik raised his blade toward Anora's face. Their bodies collided with devastating force, Mikhail's momentum carrying them both to the hard cobblestones with bone-jarring impact. Erik's jeweled dagger clattered across the stones, spinning away into the forest of legs that formed their arena.
The crowd reacted with an audible gasp, the collective intake of breath like wind through autumn leaves. Anora stepped back, her small green hand pressed to her mouth in shock as her attacker disappeared beneath Mikhail's larger form.
Rage consumed Mikhail like wildfire, burning away reason and restraint until nothing remained but the need to destroy what had threatened his love. His fists rose and fell in a terrible rhythm, each impact sending shockwaves up his arms. Erik's attempts at defense grew increasingly frantic, his hands batted aside with contemptuous ease as Mikhail's knuckles found flesh again and again.
Blood bloomed on Erik's aristocratic features—from split lip, from broken nose, from a gash where skin had split against his own teeth. His fine festival clothes, already stained with ale, now bore darker patterns that spread with each savage blow.
The methodical violence of Mikhail's assault transformed into something more primal as his hands found Erik's throat. Strong fingers, calloused from forge work and weapons training, closed around the vulnerable column with terrible purpose. Erik's eyes bulged, his face darkening as precious air was denied to desperate lungs.
"YOU DON'T TOUCH HER!" Mikhail screamed, his face inches from Erik's purpling features, spittle flying with each word. "YOU DON'T LOOK AT HER! YOU DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT HER!"
The words echoed across the suddenly silent festival grounds, bouncing off cobblestones and cedar trunks like physical things. The crowd, moments ago baying for blood, now watched in mute horror as entertainment became potential murder before their eyes.
Erik's hands scrabbled weakly at Mikhail's wrists, his jeweled rings catching the light as his struggles grew increasingly desperate. The wet, choking sounds of his attempts to breathe cut through the unnatural silence like knives through silk.
As Erik struggled to pull Mikhail's hands from his throat, the crowd fell into a horrified silence—the collective breath of dozens held in anticipation of witnessing death during what should have been celebration. The festival lights caught the desperate scene in amber relief: Mikhail's rage-contorted face, Erik's purpling features, fingers scrabbling against wrists like pale spiders on tree trunks.
"ENOUGH!"
The command shattered the terrible tableau like thunder breaking a drought. Eliath materialized from the crowd, his half-elven heritage evident in the fluid grace with which he moved despite his urgency. His ancient eyes blazed with authority as he seized Mikhail from behind, powerful arms locking around the younger man's chest, forcibly dragging him from atop Erik's prostrate form.
Mikhail thrashed against the restraint, lost in the crimson haze of bloodlust that had consumed him. His borrowed tunic tore at the shoulder, the sound of ripping fabric punctuating his struggles. Every muscle in his body strained against Eliath's grasp, tendons standing out on his neck like cords beneath skin slick with sweat and spattered blood.
"LET ME GO!" he raged, voice stripped raw with fury. Spittle flew from his lips as he lunged forward, only to be hauled back by Eliath's unwavering strength. "I'M GONNA KILL HIM!" The words echoed across the festival grounds, bouncing off cedar trunks and cobblestones like physical things.
"NO! CALM YOURSELF, BOY!" Eliath's voice carried centuries of command, each syllable striking like a hammer on hot iron. His grip remained unbreakable, arms locked across Mikhail's chest in a restraint as old as conflict itself. "The guard comes. Would you hang for this worthless cur?"
As if summoned by his words, town guards pushed through the spectators, their ceremonial armor transformed from festival decoration to symbols of authority. They moved with practiced efficiency, subduing Erik's companions with swift commands and, where necessary, the convincing presence of steel.
Two guards helped Erik to his feet, his fine festival garments now stained with blood and dirt, his aristocratic features swollen into barely recognizable lumps of flesh. Each breath he drew wheezed through a throat bruised by Mikhail's fury, the sound somehow obscene against the festival's background music that had begun to tentatively resume at the edges of awareness.
The remaining guards began dispersing the crowd, their voices carrying practiced authority. "Move along! Festival's continuing elsewhere! Enjoy your evening, good citizens!" Their words were pleasant, their expressions less so—hands resting meaningfully on sword hilts as they herded spectators away from the scene of violence.
Gradually, Mikhail's struggles subsided, though the rage still simmered beneath his skin like banked embers awaiting fresh fuel. His breath came in ragged gasps, chest heaving against Eliath's restraining arms. Blood dripped from split knuckles onto the ancient cobblestones—some his, most not. His gaze remained locked on Erik as the merchant's son was led away, hatred arcing between them like lightning seeking ground.
He spat a mouthful of blood onto the stones, the crimson splash stark against weathered gray—whether from a blow he'd taken or from biting his own tongue in fury, he couldn't say. The metallic taste coated his mouth, a visceral reminder of how close he'd come to taking a life.
Anora approached cautiously, her knife now sheathed at her waist, its brief deadly purpose served and set aside. The blue silk of her dress caught the torchlight, transforming bloodstains at its hem into abstract patterns of darkened shadow. Her orange eyes searched Mikhail's face, concern evident in their amber depths.
"Are you all right?" she asked, her voice barely audible above the distant resumption of festival sounds.
So focused was he on Erik's retreating form that her words barely registered, filtering through the residual rage like light through murky water. "Huh? Yeah. I'm fine." The automatic response gave way to sudden concern as his attention fully shifted to her. "Are you okay?" His eyes scanned her for injuries, heart clenching at the thought of harm coming to her through his failure to protect.
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Anora nodded, one small green hand touching the tear in her beautiful blue dress. The silver embroidery had separated along the seam, exposing a flash of green skin beneath. "I'm okay. I tore my dress though." The simple statement carried a world of disappointment—this dress, her first true possession, damaged in its inaugural wearing.
"I'm sorry," Mikhail said softly, the words encompassing far more than fabric. Remorse flooded him, washing away the last embers of rage. "I ruined the night."
Anora shook her head, copper curls catching the light as they spilled from beneath the blue ribbon. She stepped forward, wrapping her arms around his waist, her face pressing against his chest. Through the borrowed tunic, he could feel the warmth of her, the impossible miracle of her continued presence in his life despite everything.
"No. They did," she told him, her voice muffled against the fabric but no less certain for it.
Mikhail's arms encircled her small frame, drawing her closer as if she might dissolve into festival smoke should he loosen his grip. His chin rested atop her head, fitting there as naturally as if the space had been crafted solely for this purpose. For a moment, the world contracted to just the two of them—the soft rhythm of shared breath, the subtle trembling that passed between their bodies like a current, the unspoken relief of finding each other whole after chaos.
The intimate moment shattered as Eliath returned from conferring with the guards, his ancient face carved with lines of disapproval. "You foolish boy!" he snapped, voice sharp with concern disguised as anger. "What possessed you to start a fight with Fredrick's son?"
The half-elf's eyes blazed with an intensity that belied his outward calm, centuries of wisdom momentarily overshadowed by genuine worry. His gaze swept over them both, cataloging injuries visible and hidden with the practiced eye of a healer. Behind the stern facade, something deeper lurked—a fear that spoke of connections to events beyond their understanding.
Mikhail's eyebrows shot up, genuine surprise momentarily replacing the lingering rage in his blood-flushed face. "That's the blacksmith's son?" he asked, his voice rough from shouting. The festival torches caught the incredulity in his eyes, transforming blue to amber as he processed this revelation.
A bark of laughter escaped him, dripping with scorn. "Pretty soft for a smith's son." The words hung in the night air like a challenge, his chin tilting upward with the arrogant pride of youth that has tasted victory and found it intoxicating.
Eliath's face darkened, blood rushing beneath his skin until it nearly matched the vibrant cedar banners hanging overhead. The half-elf's ancient eyes flashed with a fury that made even the festival lights seem dim by comparison.
"This is no time to be arrogant, boy!" he snapped, centuries of carefully cultivated patience fracturing beneath the weight of Mikhail's recklessness. "Yes, that's his son, you blooming idiot."
Eliath's slender fingers pressed against his temples, as if physically trying to contain the storm of thoughts behind them. The lines in his ageless face deepened, etched by worry rather than time. His breath emerged in a ragged sigh that carried the scent of herbs and ancient wisdom.
"What's more is that he's the son of one of the most powerful men in town," he continued, each word deliberately weighted with significance. "A man who isn't fond of other races, especially goblins."
He stepped closer to Mikhail, their faces mere inches apart. Torchlight danced in the space between them, casting shifting shadows across features hardened by confrontation. Eliath's eyes locked with Mikhail's in a battle of wills as palpable as the physical altercation that had preceded it.
"And now that man has reason enough to make your life here hell," he added, punctuating each word by thrusting a finger into Mikhail's chest. The impact was gentle but carried the weight of prophecy behind it.
Silence stretched between them like an unsheathed blade, the distant sounds of resumed celebration serving only to emphasize the gravity of their isolated confrontation. The night air grew heavy with unspoken warnings and stubborn defiance, scented with cedar smoke and the metallic tang of spilled blood.
Mikhail held Eliath's gaze unflinchingly, his jaw set in lines of determination that transformed his youthful features into something harder, older. When he finally spoke, his voice had shed its arrogance, revealing the steeled core beneath.
"I didn't start the fight, Eliath," he said, each word precisely measured. "He did." The statement hung between them, unadorned by justification or excuse. Then his voice dropped lower, resonating with a promise that sent shivers through those close enough to hear: "And I sure as hell was going to finish it."
He stepped forward, eliminating what little space remained between himself and the ancient half-elf. They stood chest to chest, breath mingling in the cooling night air. "And if he threatens Anora ever again," Mikhail whispered, the quiet delivery making the words more chilling than any shout, "I will kill him."
The declaration wasn't heated or passionate—it was cold, certain, immutable as mountain stone. It wasn't a threat but a simple statement of fact, like describing the rising of the sun or the changing of seasons.
Before Eliath could respond, Mikhail turned away, his hand finding Anora's with unerring accuracy, as if some invisible tether connected them regardless of distance or circumstance. Their fingers intertwined—green against sun-darkened white—a living symbol of the union that had nearly cost blood this night.
Together they walked away, leaving Eliath standing amidst the aftermath of violence. The blue silk of Anora's dress caught the festival lights as they moved, torn fabric fluttering like a wounded butterfly's wing. The knife at her waist gleamed occasionally, a reminder that beauty and danger often walked hand in hand.
Anora's orange eyes lifted to Mikhail's profile as they made their way back toward the Axe and Fiddle Inn, the festivities they'd so eagerly anticipated now abandoned behind them. In the hard lines of his jaw, the determined set of his shoulders, she saw something that transcended the simple affection they'd shared before this night.
Her heart swelled with emotions too complex for simple naming—love certainly, but also respect, awe, and the solemn recognition that this man had been willing to kill for her. The realization should have frightened her, perhaps, but instead wrapped around her like armor against a world determined to deny their right to exist together.
As they disappeared into the labyrinth of Cedarcrest's streets, the festival sounds faded behind them, replaced by the quieter music of their synchronized footsteps on ancient cobblestones.
After their brief and silent journey through Cedarcrest's dimming streets, they reached the Axe and Fiddle without further incident. The tavern's weathered door creaked open to reveal an empty common room—the regulars presumably still enjoying the festival's revelries. Oil lamps burned low, casting long shadows across worn floorboards that had witnessed countless nights of homecomings, both triumphant and broken.
Mikhail exhaled with relief, the absence of prying eyes a balm to his raw nerves. His borrowed tunic clung uncomfortably to his skin where blood had dried, the fine fabric torn and stained beyond salvation. Each step toward the staircase sent dull aches radiating through his body—the delayed price of violence now demanding payment in full.
As they approached the stairs leading to the second floor, Anora gently disengaged her hand from his. The sudden absence of her touch left his fingers feeling strangely hollow.
"Where are you going?" he asked, concern etching new lines across his already troubled features. Festival lanterns from the street outside filtered through the tavern's windows, painting half his face in amber light while leaving the other side cloaked in shadow—a visual echo of the evening's duality.
Anora gestured at him, her orange eyes taking in the full extent of his battered state with tender assessment. "Look at you. Your wounds need tending to." Her small green hand swept through the air between them, encompassing his injuries with the practiced eye of one who had known much of pain and its aftermath. "I'm going to get some water and rags to clean them."
"But I'm not—" he began, the automatic denial dying on his lips as he glanced down at his raw knuckles. The skin had split across each knuckle, dried blood crusting in the valleys between swollen joints. His gaze traveled further, noting the cuts and gashes that had transformed the red tunic into a tattered mosaic of fabric and injury.
He looked up to find Anora watching him, one eyebrow arched in silent challenge, her expression clearly communicating 'oh really?' without needing words.
"Very well," he conceded, summoning a weary smile that pulled at his split lip. "I'll meet you in the room."
They parted ways, her blue silk dress disappearing down the hallway toward the kitchen as he climbed the creaking stairs. Each step awakened new discomforts—ribs protesting, shoulders aching from tension, muscles stiff from the explosive expenditure of rage.
Minutes later, Mikhail stood alone in their room, the familiar space suddenly strange in the aftermath of violence. The simple furnishings—the bed they had shared in passion, the chair where he'd watched her sleep, the small window that framed stars they'd named together—all seemed to belong to a different life, one untouched by the bloodshed of the evening.
His eyes found his spear where it rested against the wall, exactly where Anora had placed it earlier. The weapon called to him with silent urgency. He crossed the room in three long strides, fingers wrapping around the familiar shaft with almost desperate need. The weapon's heft and balance brought immediate comfort, grounding him in remembered certainty.
"If only I had you tonight," he whispered, voice barely disturbing the quiet air. The polished silver metal seemed to warm beneath his touch, the connection between warrior and weapon transcending mere utility. He made a silent vow, etched in the still-burning embers of the evening's rage: never again would he venture without his spear, never again would Anora face threat with him inadequately armed.
With practiced ease, he twirled the weapon, its perfect balance transforming the simple movement into something graceful despite his injuries. The familiar motion centered him, slowing his still-racing heart. After a final reverent touch, he returned the spear to its resting place against the wall.
The mirror above the washstand caught his attention, offering the first full accounting of the evening's cost. His reflection stared back—a stranger wearing his face, transformed by conflict. Cuts and early bruises bloomed across his features like sudden storms, each one a vivid reminder of blows given and received. His left eye was beginning to swell, a crescent of purple darkening beneath it. His lip had split at the corner, the small wound still seeping blood when he tested it with his tongue.
He lifted the ruined tunic with a wince, revealing more of the same across his torso. Angry red marks promised tomorrow's deeper bruises, while several shallow cuts mapped the path of blades that had come too close. Nothing seemed life-threatening, but infection remained a silent enemy that could transform minor wounds into mortal dangers.
After a long, silent study of his battered form, the door opened with a soft creak. Anora entered, carrying a cedar wood tray with careful concentration. Her dress, still torn along one side, whispered against the floorboards as she crossed the threshold.
Mikhail moved instinctively to help her, but she shook her head. "I've got it," she insisted, her tone brooking no argument. "Sit down."
He raised his hands in mock surrender, backing toward the bed and settling onto its edge with a poorly disguised grimace. The mattress yielded beneath his weight, the subtle movement sending fresh complaints from his abused muscles.
Anora set the tray on the wooden table beside the window. Moonlight spilled across its contents—a bowl of clean water, several folded rags of varying sizes, neat strips of bandages, and a small clay pot that contained a greenish paste. The poultice's herbal scent reached him even from across the room, sharp yet soothing, suggesting Anora had prepared it from Marta's kitchen herbs with knowledge born of necessity.
"Take off your shirt." Anora's voice carried quiet authority, her orange eyes fixed on Mikhail's battered form with a healer's assessment rather than a lover's appreciation.
Mikhail obeyed, wincing as the fabric peeled away from places where blood had begun to dry. The ruined red tunic surrendered reluctantly, clinging to wounds as if reluctant to reveal the full extent of damage beneath. Anora's small green hands helped guide the garment over his head, her touch featherlight where bruises had already begun to bloom.
The moonlight streaming through their window painted Mikhail's torso in stark contrasts—alabaster skin interrupted by darkening archipelagos of purple and blue where fists had found their mark. A particularly angry bruise spread beneath his left ribs, its edges already deepening from crimson to violet like a storm gathering beneath his skin.
"That's gonna hurt in the morning," he joked weakly, his attempt at levity undermined by the sharp intake of breath that followed. He looked up at Anora standing before him, her torn festival dress transformed in the intimate lighting of their room. "Anora, I'll be fine. I don't need all of this."
She fixed him with a look that brooked no argument, her copper brows drawing together in a stern expression that somehow managed to be both formidable and endearing on her delicate features. "Yes, you do. Just like the fight with the slave traders. You got hurt then." Her small chin lifted with determination. "Now sit still."
She wrung out a cloth in the basin, water trickling between her fingers like liquid silver in the moonlight. The wet cloth approached his skin with purpose, and Mikhail couldn't help but hiss when it made contact with a particularly deep cut along his collarbone. The water in the basin gradually darkened as she worked, carrying away the evening's violence in crimson swirls.
Her touch held a curious duality—clinical in its assessment yet intimate in its care. Each stroke of the cloth seemed to wash away more than just blood and grime; it cleansed the rage that had possessed him in the festival square, leaving behind something quieter and more profound in its wake.
Neither spoke as she tended to him. The only sounds were their synchronized breathing, the soft splash of the cloth returning to water, and the occasional sharp intake of breath when she discovered a wound deeper than it first appeared. The ritual held its own language—her careful ministrations speaking of devotion more eloquently than words ever could.
As she cleaned his split knuckles, her thumb traced the ridge of bone between wounds with unexpected tenderness. Their eyes met briefly over his outstretched hand, and something passed between them—recognition of how far they had come from that first terrified meeting in the mountain pass, acknowledgment of how fiercely they would now fight to protect what they had found in each other.
She applied the herb-scented poultice to his wounds with practiced fingers, the green paste cool against his inflamed skin. The sharp, clean scent of healing herbs filled the small room, mingling with the lingering traces of festival smoke that clung to their clothing and hair. When she wrapped bandages around his hands, her movements carried an efficiency that spoke of having dressed wounds before—perhaps her own, in those lonely years before they met.
Task completed, Anora surprised him by climbing onto his lap, her legs straddling his as she settled her weight carefully to avoid his injuries. Her dress—that magnificent blue silk now torn and stained—billowed around them like water. She draped her arms over his shoulders, her small hands linking behind his neck, bringing their faces to perfect alignment.
Without hesitation, she pressed her lips to his in a kiss that carried none of the hesitation of their earlier embraces. This was the kiss of a woman who had witnessed the lengths to which her lover would go to protect her, who had herself drawn blood in their mutual defense. The depth of emotion behind it stole Mikhail's breath more effectively than any punch he'd taken that night.
They remained locked together for a long minute, the passion between them building like a slow-burning flame. When they finally broke apart, both gasping slightly for air, Mikhail couldn't help the mischievous grin that spread across his face despite his split lip.
"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice rougher than he'd intended, carrying echoes of both pain and desire.
Anora leaned back slightly, her weight shifting in his lap as one corner of her mouth lifted in a playful smile that illuminated her entire face. The moonlight caught her copper curls, setting them ablaze against the darkness of the room. "Just taking your mind off the pain," she answered, her orange eyes gleaming with a mixture of innocence and knowing that was uniquely hers.
Their gazes held, blue meeting amber in the intimate space between their bodies. The shared adversity of the evening had forged something new between them—a bond tempered in danger and quenched in care. In her eyes, Mikhail saw not just desire but profound trust; in his, Anora found not just protection but true partnership.
"Well," Mikhail replied, his hands finding her waist, careful of the tear in her precious dress, "it's working."
Their lips met again, the kiss deeper this time, carrying promises that transcended the simple comfort of physical touch. Outside their window, the sounds of the festival continued in distant echoes, but within the sanctuary of their room, they created their own celebration.
Selene stood atop the roof of the building across from the Axe and Fiddle Inn, her silhouette a darker shadow against the star-strewn canvas of night. The distant sounds of the continuing festival floated to her on the cool air—music and laughter now untainted by violence, like a river that had briefly churned with rapids before resuming its peaceful flow.
A satisfied smile curved her lips, pale as frost in the moonlight. The first part of her plan had unfolded precisely as anticipated, each reaction a perfect validation of her understanding of human nature. The seeds of discord had been planted in fertile soil; now she needed only to nurture their growth with careful tending.
"So predictable," she whispered to herself, the words dissipating into the night like smoke. "Like puppets dancing on strings they cannot see."
The cold satisfaction of manipulation warmed her more effectively than any hearth. She had orchestrated chaos with nothing more than whispered suggestions, turning celebration into violence with the ease of a conductor leading a well-rehearsed orchestra. The merchant's son's hatred, the crowd's bloodlust, the young man's protective rage—all instruments playing their parts in her dark symphony.
The air behind her thickened, congealing into something that defied natural law. Temperature plummeted in an instant, her breath suddenly visible in clouds that hadn't existed moments before. The very stars seemed to dim, as if reluctant to witness what emerged from the void between worlds.
A shadow demon shimmered into form at her back, its presence an absence more substantial than mere darkness. It brought with it the scent of ancient crypts and forgotten fears, its form rippling like black flame given impossible substance. The creature's edges never quite settled, perpetually melting and reforming in patterns that hurt the eye and mind to follow.
Selene didn't turn to acknowledge it, her eyes remaining fixed on the window of the lovers' room. The golden glow of lamplight framed what appeared to be an intimate scene—shadows merging in ways that suggested healing had given way to passion. Their vulnerability in this moment of connection sent a thrill of power through her veins.
"Proceed with the next part of the plan," she instructed the demon, her voice betraying no hesitation despite the unnatural cold that threatened to crystallize her very breath. "Use her visage. Break and steal. Make sure the townspeople see you."
The words fell into the night with the weight of command, each syllable carrying the implicit threat of Lady Veldrin's displeasure should they be disregarded. Behind her, the demon's form pulsed in acknowledgment—a movement more sensed than seen.
"It will be as you command," it whispered, its voice like dry leaves skittering across ancient graves. "The seeds of hatred you have planted will flower under moonlight."
With that, the shadow demon shimmered out of existence, the temperature rising in its absence as if the night itself exhaled in relief. It would reappear elsewhere in Cedarcrest, wearing the face of the goblin woman, leaving a trail of evidence too compelling for any to dismiss.
Selene's smile deepened, an expression of predatory satisfaction rarely witnessed by living eyes. She allowed herself a soft chuckle, the sound swallowed by the vastness of the night sky above her. The young couple, so wrapped in their passion and belief in their love's strength, would never see the noose tightening around them until it was too late.
By the end of the month, the goblin woman would be vilified throughout Cedarcrest, the object of fear and hatred beyond any hope of redemption. The human man would face an impossible choice, to abandon her or to face the town's collective wrath alongside her. Either way, they would be driven toward Greland, exactly as Lady Veldrin desired.
And Selene would collect the remainder of her payment—wealth enough to disappear into luxury for years to come.
Below, the window of their room darkened as the lamp was extinguished. Selene imagined them nestled together in the aftermath of passion, whispering promises of tomorrow, unaware that forces beyond their comprehension were already reshaping that future into something unrecognizable.
Selene melted back into the deeper shadows of the rooftop. The night embraced her like an old friend, its darkness a familiar cloak that had sheltered her through countless missions. As she moved with practiced silence across the shingled surface, her thoughts turned to the life that awaited her after this final task, a life purchased with the destruction of what lay in that darkened room below.
For a fleeting moment, something almost like regret brushed against her consciousness, but she banished it with practiced ease. Sentiment was a luxury she had abandoned long ago, alongside mercy and the foolish belief in love's enduring power.
By morning, the shadow demon's work would be discovered, and the town would awaken to fear and outrage. By evening, that fear would crystallize into purpose, the elimination of a threat they had fabricated but would believe with absolute conviction.
And through it all, Selene would watch, the architect of destruction who built her triumph on the ashes of others' happiness.
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