As Joran looked at her through slightly blurry vision, he recognized her from some of the books he’s read. Many years ago, there was a mercenary whose name alone struck fear into those who heard it. Druna Myclerva. Among the ranks of killers, warlords, and sellswords, she stood apart—not just for her legendary speed, nor merely for her unmatched precision in battle, but for her presence, or rather, the way she seemed to lack one entirely. They called her the Silver Phantom, a name whispered in dim-lit halls and war camps, carrying both reverence and dread. To see her was to glimpse death itself. If you were lucky, you wouldn’t see her at all.


    She could slip through fortified castles, past layers of enchanted defenses, evading the keenest of sentries as though she were never there. Her blade had ended the lives of merciless raiders and tyrants alike. Some spoke of how she had singlehandedly slain an entire company of knights to get to a single noble, while others claimed she wiped out a family of rulers, causing the collapse of a kingdom overnight. The most chilling tale of all whispered of how she stood alone against a group of giants, cutting them down one by one until not a single behemoth remained.


    It was said that if she was coming for you, there was no place you could run. No place you could hide. And then, just as suddenly as she had risen, she vanished. No records. No sightings. Not even a body left behind. Some believed she had finally met her match. Others thought she had tired of bloodshed, choosing to fade into obscurity. A few murmured of a curse, that some ancient sorcery had marked her, dooming her to wander outside of time itself.The truth was far simpler. Druna Myclerva had chosen to disappear.


    She had abandoned the path of blood and built a quiet life for herself in a distant place known as Vandren’s Rest. There, she ran a small, humble inn—a sanctuary where warriors, mercenaries, and wanderers could lay down their weapons, if only for a time. A place where battle-worn souls could drink and rest, free of the burdens of war. For years, the Silver Phantom faded into legend.


    Until tonight.


    Joran lay on the ground, his body paralyzed, his thoughts racing. His limbs refused to obey him, his breaths shallow as his mind swam in fog and his body screamed in pain. His eyes moved to see druna as she stood over him but that was all he could really move at this point.


    She watched the knights carefully, her expression unreadable, though her eyes flicked toward Joran with the briefest of glances. Then, without a word, she reached into a pouch at her side, pulling free a small glass vial. The liquid inside shimmered faintly, a soft blue glow pulsing from within. She pulled the cork free with her teeth and muttered, “Never thought I’d be using this for fucking paralysis…” With her other hand, she tilted Joran’s head back, her fingers firm but careful. He felt his jaw forced open, and before he could react, the acrid taste of the potion spilled onto his tongue.


    “Swallow,” she ordered, voice low. The taste was vile—bitter and thick, like crushed herbs mixed with iron—but he obeyed. The liquid burned down his throat, and for a moment, it felt as though his body rejected it. Then, a rush of clarity. His vision steadied, the fog in his mind clearing as sensation crept back into his limbs.


    He could move again. Slowly, weakly, Joran pushed himself up, his muscles sluggish but no longer frozen. His breathing came heavy, but he was no longer helpless. He shakily lifted up his sword and looked down to see he was covered in fresh cuts and bruises but he noticed that despite vaelin’s rage, he had made sure not to cause permanent damage on joran’s body. The sword was heavy in his hands to the point he could just barely lift it to a ready position.


    Druna rose smoothly to her feet, stepping between Joran and the knights who stood before them. Her hands drifted to the hilts of her blades.


    Vaelin, ever smug, tilted his head as he regarded her. “You are interfering in royal matters, girl. It would be in your best interest to stand aside.” Druna’s fingers tapped her blade idly, her expression unreadable.


    “So this is what royal matters look like now?” she mused, her voice calm, almost amused. “Two knights of Lothara, and some horrid-looking druid, abusing the future ruler of the kingdom.”


    Lorsan let out a low snarl, his sharp teeth glinting as he stepped forward. “He attacked the people in the inn,” he growled. “Then he attacked us while we were merely trying to bring him home.” Druna’s ear twitched slightly, catching something in his tone.


    “So…” she murmured, tilting her head. “When the druid was draining his blood, and the elf lost his shit… that was all just a means of ‘subduing’ him?” Dain exhaled through his nose, stepping forward, lifting a hand. “It is obvious she has seen too much,” he said. His voice was smooth, too smooth. “There is no convincing her otherwise.”


    A sickly glow began to build around his fingertips. The moment the spell formed; Druna moved. In a blur, a blade left her fingers, cutting through the air toward Dain’s face—


    CLANG.


    Vaelin’s sword flashed, deflecting the knife in a heartbeat. It veered off course, embedding itself into the wall with a soft thunk. Vaelin’s smirk widened. “Impressive speed for a retired mercenary,” he said. His tone was amused, but there was a glint of interest in his cold eyes. “I’d almost think you haven’t faded into obscurity at all.”


    Druna remained still. Her posture was relaxed, casual even. But her hand had already shifted toward another blade.


    “I’m a little rusty,” she admitted, rolling her shoulder. Then her voice lowered, colder than before. “But if that druid tries to get into my head again—” her fingers flexed, “—he’ll die the slowest.”


    Vaelin let out a low chuckle, twirling his blade, watching as arcane energy crackled across its surface. “There’s no need for violence,” he said smoothly. “Just hand us the prince, and we will be on our way.” Druna didn’t answer right away. Instead, she glanced over her shoulder.


    Joran, still unsteady, met her gaze. His brown eyes were wide, his breath unsteady. He could see it—the moment of decision—the question unspoken between them.


    Then she whispered, so low only he could hear:


    “I need you to run.”


    His breath caught.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    “Don’t argue. Don’t fight. Just run.”


    Joran’s heart pounded in his chest. His fingers curled into fists, but before he could answer, Druna had already turned back. She drew a blade. And smiled.


    “Go to hell.”


    Everything happened at once. Lorsan lunged forward on all fours, claws tearing into the dirt. Dain’s hands wove through the air, summoning thick, writhing vines that surged toward Joran. Vaelin disappeared in a blur, moving too fast for the eye to follow.


    Druna vanished.


    A flash of silver—vines sliced mid-motion, severed before they could ensnare Joran.


    A sharp crack—Lorsan’s head snapped back as Druna’s boot slammed into his snout, sending him skidding backward.


    A clash of metal—Vaelin appeared mid-strike, his blade flashing downward—only to meet Druna’s own sword, locked against his in a deadly clash.


    For the first time that night, Vaelin’s smirk faded. Until today he had never faced someone who could match his speed and power.


    Joran couldn’t help but watch in awe as this innkeeper—this phantom of an age past—held her own against two of the most feared knights in Lothara and a druid whose cruelty knew no bounds. Every strike, every movement, every perfectly timed step was a masterstroke in combat. She was not just fighting; she was dictating the flow of battle itself. And yet, despite how enthralling it was to witness, it took only a sharp, knowing glance from Druna between clashes for him to snap back to reality.


    Run.


    The order, unspoken but absolute, sent his sluggish body into motion. He turned on his heel and forced himself into a sprint, ignoring the pain that burned through his muscles, the raw ache of wounds both fresh and deep. He had lost too much blood, suffered too many blows, and the lingering effects of paralysis still clung to him like a phantom’s grasp. But he put his blade back into its sheath and ran anyway.


    High above, Lorsan vaulted onto the rooftops, moving with predatory ease. His claws dug into the wood and stone as he leaped from building to building, keeping pace with Joran before finally lunging downward. The prince barely registered the movement before a blur of silver intercepted him. A sickening crack rang out as Lorsan was kicked mid-air, sent hurtling into a wall with bone-jarring force. Druna vanished just as quickly as she had appeared.


    Sparks flared around Joran. He barely had time to register their meaning before another flash of silver cut through the air—Vaelin had been attempting to close in on him, but Druna intercepted him again, blade meeting blade in a cascade of arcane light. Every move he made, she was there, denying them any chance to take him. Dain, however, moved differently. He was in no rush, his steps slow, measured. A tap of his staff against the cobblestone sent a ripple through the ground, morphing it beneath him into a rolling wave of stone, effortlessly carrying him forward.


    Joran gritted his teeth, desperately trying to think of a spell to mend his wounds, anything that could buy him more time. But before he could focus, a chilling sensation wrapped around his ankles. He looked down. The solid ground beneath him had turned liquid, viscous and dark like thickened tar. He was sinking.


    Panic seized him as he struggled, but the more he moved, the deeper he sank. The once-cobblestone road had become a living trap, pulling him down inch by inch. Druna moved in an instant, but Vaelin was faster, intercepting her with a smirk. “Eyes on me, puny elf.”


    Joran was waist-deep now, his breath coming in rapid bursts. Lorsan shook off the daze from his earlier collision, prowling toward him with a grin. “Well, well… looks like Joran is a little stuck.” Dain’s floating platform coasted to a stop beside the trapped prince, his smirk deepening. “Yes… and now all that remains is to deal with the troublemaker.”


    Lorsan cracked his knuckles, anticipation gleaming in his eyes. “Leave it to me.” He bided his time, waiting until Druna and Vaelin reappeared in their dance of steel and sorcery, then lunged. Claws clashed against her blade, while her second sword met Vaelin’s strike in perfect synchronization. Dain crouched before Joran, watching him with dark amusement.


    “Just give up, Joran… there is no escape.” His voice was honeyed venom, soothing yet laced with cruelty. Fingers, cold and unnervingly gentle, caressed Joran’s temple as he squirmed away. “I have so much planned for—” A knife embedded itself deep into his arm.


    Dain’s pained cry shattered the moment as he reeled backward, clutching the wound. Druna’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding: “Joran! I told you to run, but for fuck’s sake, do something! I can’t do everything!”


    His pulse pounded in his ears. She was right. He wasn’t some helpless royal. He had been trained by the greatest mages of the realm. Fear might keep him from fighting, but it wouldn’t keep him from escaping. Gritting his teeth, he pressed his hands against the liquefied ground, channeling his magic. The earth softened beneath his touch, shifting, lifting—until he was no longer sinking but rising. Solid ground formed beneath his feet once more.


    He didn’t hesitate. He ran.


    Dain climbed to his feet, fury twisting his features. “Cursed bitch…” He wrenched the dagger free and tossed it aside, eyes narrowing as he watched Joran nearing the end of the street. His scowl deepened. “I suppose I have no choice.”


    From his robes, he retrieved a small vial filled with dark, shimmering liquid—Joran’s blood. Vaelin, locked in a clash with Druna, saw it too. His voice snapped with warning. “Dain, no! We aren’t to use that unless absolutely necessary!” Dain ignored him. His grip tightened around the vial. “I won’t allow my test subject to get away.”


    He downed it in a single motion.


    The glass shattered at his feet, and almost immediately, his body convulsed. A guttural cough ripped from his throat, sending plumes of smoke and stray sparks into the night air. His eyes burned a deep, unnatural red before flickering back to normal. He staggered, one knee hitting the ground as wooden, bark-like scales erupted across his skin before retreating just as quickly.


    A suffocating pressure blanketed the area. Druna, Vaelin, Lorsan—even Joran—felt the shift. The raw, overwhelming surge of magic was unlike anything they had encountered before. For a moment, everything stilled.


    Then Dain exhaled, a wicked grin splitting his face. “Let the fun begin.”


    He raised his staff and brought it down with crushing force. A shockwave burst outward, splitting the very streets. The ground cracked and heaved as massive, gnarled vines erupted from below, thick as tree trunks. They lashed out—toward Druna, toward Joran—seeking to ensnare, to crush, to end.


    Druna got separated from the knights but was already moving, weaving through the chaos, blades a flurry of motion as she severed the monstrous vines before they could reach her. Joran ran, firing beams of raw magic at any vine that strayed too close, but the living tendrils were relentless. They coiled around him, walls of greenery forming a closing dome.


    “Run, Joran!” Druna’s voice cut through the chaos. “Don’t worry about me—just run!”


    He panted, eyes darting, searching for any possible escape. The vines encroached, sealing him in. No way out. No way—


    A teleport spell. His mind latched onto the only viable option. It was risky, unstable given his condition, but he had no choice. If he could escape, Druna could disappear. He just needed to think of a location—


    A blur. A glint of steel.


    Vaelin appeared before him; blade raised high. “Gotcha.”


    Joran’s instincts screamed. Without thinking, he unleashed the spell.


    Light enveloped him—


    Then he was gone.


    Vaelin’s sword met empty space. For a heartbeat, he stood motionless, staring at the spot where Joran had been. Then, tremors of rage wracked his frame, his breath sharp and uneven. His fists clenched. The street echoed with his roar of fury. The prince had escaped.