The marketplace stank of sweat and sour milk, a chaos of color gone wrong. Whispers darted between stalls, quick and venomous, like wasps buzzing too close. “Another one’s gone,” the baker rasped, his hands kneading dough but his eyes skittering over the crowd. Flour clung to his apron, pale as ash. “Third this week. Lean ones. Fair ones. Someone’s picking ‘em out.”


    A woman yanked her basket to her chest, knuckles blanching. “My boy’s fair,” she said, voice fraying like old rope. “He’s just twelve. What if—”


    “Shut it,” her friend snapped, sharp enough to cut. Her gaze flicked side to side, hunting shadows. “Don’t say it. Don’t even breathe it.”


    Too late. The fear was loose, a rat chewing through the city’s gut. Once safe, these streets now hummed with dread—lean and fair-skinned folk vanishing into the dark, one by one, like candles snuffed out. No one knew why. No one dared ask too loud.


    In the lord’s hall, marble gleamed cold underfoot, a stark shine that swallowed echoes. The nobleman paced, boots clicking, his silk robes swaying heavy—like they wanted to drag him down to his knees. He smoothed them again, fingers twitching, a tic he couldn’t shake. Before him, the crowd pressed in, a sea of pinched faces and tight fists, waiting for him to mend their terror.


    “Citizens,” he called, voice ringing bold as brass. “I swear to you, we’re hunting the culprit. This is my city, and I’ll be damned if some rut tears its peace apart.”


    The words landed hard, but the crowd stirred—a murmur, thin and jagged, slicing his promise to ribbons. Doubt flickered in their eyes, in the way hands crept toward belts, toward hidden blades. He saw it. Felt it. Swallowed hard, throat dry as dust. They didn’t buy it. Truth was, he barely did either.


    Behind a pillar, Elyra lingered, her smile a secret curled tight in her lips. She knew. The lord knew. These vanishings weren’t havoc—they were a purge, a broom sweeping out the city’s filth. Spies, other races, all the rot her blind past had let fester—gone, plucked away by a culprit they both understood. A cleaner, not a killer. But the people? They couldn’t handle that truth. Not yet.


    She slipped away, staff tapping soft on stone, a rhythm to her retreat. Her quarters sprawled chaotic—scrolls spilled across the table, potions simmered in their vials, a dying fern drooped in the window. She watered it still, every day, as if stubborn drops could coax it back to green. Sinking into a chair, wood groaning under her, she stared at her hands. Steady. Too steady. Inside, she was a tempest, all lightning and churn.


    Aaron’s fault, this mess. Her protégé—her candidate—had slipped past her walls like a thief through a cracked gate, dragging demons behind him. Her spells, her pride, her grand barriers—unraveled by his clever hands. The sting was fresh, a blade under her ribs. She’d woven those defenses tight, poured her soul into them, and the elves danced through like it was nothing. No more, she thought, teeth grinding. No more smirks, no more breaches. When this was done, she’d rebuild—stronger, sharper. No demon, no elf, no outsider would cross her line unless she damn well allowed it.


    But for now, the city had to bleed a little longer. Just a little. To be pure.


    This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    What was happening above, was also happening down below, but not chaos, but the source of it. The dungeon was a gutted beast, its walls slick with damp, torchlight guttering like a dying pulse. Shadows writhed on the stone, sharp and restless, as if the place remembered being abandoned and hated the company. The air was thick—musty, sour, like fear had soaked into the cracks. Elves filled the cells, their long ears twitching, eyes catching the flicker like cats stalking prey. Soldiers shimmered in the gloom, armor clanking soft as they paced, but the elves just watched, silent, waiting.


    Aaron barged in, dragging an unconscious elf by the arm. His boots scraped a rough beat, the elf’s limp body bouncing like a rag doll. “Light as a damn feather,” he grunted, voice cracking with a laugh. “Magic? Curse? Some elf trick?” He hefted the body higher, sweat beading on his neck, then flashed Amelia a grin. “Carrying ‘em’s like hauling a sack of pepper. Barely breaks a sweat.”


    Amelia kept stride, her sword tapping her hip, a faint clink-clink in the quiet. “A sack of pepper that nearly slit your throat,” she shot back, rolling her eyes. “You’re welcome, by the way.”


    “Details,” Aaron said, tossing the elf into a cell. The body hit the floor with a dull smack, and the iron door shrieked shut. He wiped his hands on his pants, smearing dirt, then turned to her. “Point is, they’re easy to lug around. Makes my day.”


    A soldier lounged against the wall, arms crossed, his smirk a crooked slash in the torchlight. He was all grizzle and grit, eyes half-lidded like he’d seen this show a hundred times. “Another one, huh? we’re runnin’ outta cells, kid.”


    Aaron chuckled, a low rumble that echoed off the stone. “Tell that to the lord. Maybe he’ll build a bigger cage.”


    The soldier snorted, pushing off the wall. “Yeah, well, lord’s callin’ you up again. Wants a word.” His tone dipped, respectful but dry, like he knew the drill. “Don’t drag your feet.”


    Aaron nodded, already moving. “Right. C’mon, ‘Melia. Time to kiss some noble boots.”


    She fell in beside him, fingers brushing her sleeve—a nervous tic she couldn’t bury. “I can handle nobles,” she muttered, chin up, but her voice wobbled just enough to sell her out.


    “Oh, I bet,” Aaron said, his tease sharp as a blade. “But one slip—one ‘hey, your lordship, nice hat’—and we’re toast. Branded criminals for your ‘rudeness.’” He bumped her shoulder, half-grinning, half-serious.


    ‘Humans love their games. Hierarchy’s everything—Nobel blood, usefulness, who you know. Not like demons, where it’s just who’s got the meanest swing and the hottest ember.’


    “…I miss that.” he preached.


    Amelia’s brow creased. “You miss what?”


    He shrugged, eyes drifting to the crests etched into the stairwell as they climbed—noble badges, all pomp and dust. “It should be simpler,” he said, voice dropping low, like a stone sinking into a well. “No puzzles, no politics—just strength. Ruthlessness. You know where you stand.” A pause, heavy. “Us humans? It’s a damn maze. Drives me up the wall.”


    She studied him, catching the tight flex of his jaw. “But you’re still here. Playing it.”


    “For now,” he said, clipped, and let it hang.


    The stairs spat them out near a guarded door—two soldiers, stiff as statues, spears glinting. Beyond it, the noble’s chamber waited, a world apart from the dungeon’s chokehold. Silk tapestries drank the firelight, a hearth roared like it was showing off, and the air smelled of wax and something too sweet, like flowers hiding rot. The viscount stood, robes spilling around him like dark wine, his smile wide but thin. “Ohhhh, a humble welcome to our new slayer candidate!” His voice boomed, warm as a stage actor’s, but his eyes stayed cold.


    Aaron’s gaze slid past him, snagging on the elf sitting beside Elyra. Long ears, sharp chin, draped in finery—not rags—posture loose, like they owned the damn chair. A familiar face, one he’d hauled in weeks ago, now sipping wine like a guest. Elyra’s stare cut through the room, assessing, and the elf’s lips curled—slow, knowing.


    The fire’s heat turned to ice in Aaron’s gut. What the actual fuck?