《Edlarion Thorne: When the Past Catches Up》


 The Young Pup with a Dagger in the Pub Chapter 1

    There was a young pup in his pub.


    Though that wasn¡¯t exactly unusual¡ªthere were always plenty of them, especially during the school year. Fewer in summer perhaps, which was to be expected, but the pub was never short of young pups.


    Some were boasting, some simply drinking; and as the owner of the establishment let his eyes wander, he noticed a few in the back drowning their sorrows in bad company.


    He placed a bottle on a shelf behind the counter and let his gaze drift again, lazily, toward one of his guards.


    A nod, a flicker of his eyes, another nod.


    The guard went off to attend to his duty, while the rest of the patrons pretended not to notice.


    There was only the briefest pause in the murmur of conversation¡ªa raised voice, a heavier, growlier murmur¡ªand the young ones were discreetly extracted from that table, taken safely to one of the rooms in the adjacent inn, another establishment he owned. He crossed eyes with the director of the Academy, an elf older than him even, and a silent nod of thanks. Eldarion smiled a bit to himself, there was no need, it was good business practise to protect your own customers.


    He ran an old, callused hand over his richly purple robes and let his eyes wander once more, as if seeking nothing in particular.


    All the clientele were fed and their glasses replenished with drinks.


    Molly¡ªwell, Molly the Fourth, a proud descendant of the original Molly¡ªzipped through the tables, collecting empty cups and plates while taking orders with practices ease. A Molefolk, barely tall enough to peek over the tables, she was as capable as her predecesors.


    She needed no help.


    So he sat back and relaxed, letting his silver mane cascade over his robes as he savored the quiet moment of stillness. And he couldn¡¯t help but wonder: why was that young pup in his pub?


    This pup in particular was an elf¡ªlike himself, like the Director¡ªand, like many of the others there, the pub also hosted several lizardmen, dwarves, and humans. Faculty and students alike mingled within these walls. They made up the bulk of his customers, followed by members of the guilds, the nobility, and, of course, the merchants. Those were the bitter spots in his otherwise beautiful establishment¡ªgaudy clothing, overloaded tables that promised a cleaning nightmare¡ªand they even carved out an island of isolation for themselves. Yet he couldn¡¯t evict them without cause. His eyes kept wandering, and with practiced, effortless ease he could check on that young pup without his knowledge.


    He could tell who was who from the subtle cues. The older students were nervous, expectant¡ªexams loomed on the horizon, far enough to feel safe yet close enough to fill them with an energy of fear and doubt. Those in the middle were confident, even relaxed; though soon the reality that nothing lasts forever would come crashing down on them, for now they were comfortable in their situation and station. And then there were the young and new, uncertain and unconfident¡ªalways with his guards close by so long as they were in his pub, for they were prime targets for any lowlife, especially in a city like this. Yet that young elf had caught his eye.


    Not for the way he looked¡ªfor with a touch of sarcasm and irony, he was sure most of elfkind looked alike: a squarish face, rich clothing, golden hair, and a perfectly chiseled visage with deep, golden eyes. He almost scoffed, almost, and to cover his expression he poured himself a cup of one of his gins and looked up.


    No¡ªthe reason he had noticed that young pup was the way he carried himself. The way he drank¡ªnot enough to simply savor the moment¡ªand the subtle manner in which he concealed a dagger beneath his robes. Innocent enough for anyone who might glance his way, save perhaps for Eldarion, whose ears twitched at the slight shift in conversation. Something was afoot.


    He got up, grabbed a special bottle from behind his counter, and let himself be guided by the slightest change in the soundscape. That was his pub, and he always knew when something was seriously amiss. He approached the table and grumbled under his breath. He had secretly hoped it was the merchants causing the ruckus¡ªso he could boot them out¡ªbut no, they were too smart for that. This was a faculty table, and by the time he arrived, they were deep in a philosophical debate.


    ¡°¡­ but I am telling you, back in the homeland, maintaining something like this could incur a great cost¡­¡±


    The one speaking was a lizardman, still adorned with his tribal markings and chains hanging from his horns¡ªan expat who had come to teach at the Academy recently.


    ¡°Indeed, but the cost is already covered! The boys in silk here have already paid for it! All my people do is keep things from falling over!¡±


    Answered an old acquaintance of his¡ªThundok Stonebarer, an unimaginative name for an unimaginative dwarf. He taught the basics of geology and was as happy as a camper about it.


    ¡°But costs are never paid just once, especially for things that need to be maintained!¡±


    The lizardman pressed on. He still hadn¡¯t met him¡ªa fiery fellow this one.


    ¡°What does it matter!¡± Thundok dismissed his concerns with a wave, while drinking deeply from his beer mug. In that moment, Molly zipped in from nowhere with a freshly poured drink for him. Thankfully, he always paid for his drink.


    Eldarion was measuring whether or not to intervene; the conversation, though fiery, wasn¡¯t yet enough to warrant action. That was when the Director spotted him and beckoned.


    ¡°Eldarion! Come here, let me introduce you to one of our newest faculty members,¡± the Director called with a knowing smile. ¡°Allow me to introduce you to Skalskar the Ironscale.¡±


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    ¡°A pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir,¡± Eldarion greeted.


    Skalskar rose, stiff and upright, crossing his arms over his chest in a solemn bow.


    ¡°A pleasure to be in your establishment, sir,¡± he added, his tone expectant.


    ¡°Please, please¡ªdon¡¯t be so stiff. This city doesn¡¯t call for that, and certainly not in my pub. Relax a bit; here, this one¡¯s on the house,¡± Edlarion said as he uncorked the bottle and made a round for the table¡ªsave for Thundok, who was happily nursing his mug. ¡°The Wolf and Moth is always happy to welcome new elements of the faculty.¡±


    Someone passed him a chair¡ªlikely Phin, though with that halfling¡¯s notorious silence, it was hard to be sure¡ªand Eldarion was given a spot at the table.


    ¡°And what is your specialty, Professor Skalskar, if I may ask?¡± Eldarion inquired, digging at the source of the debate.


    ¡°International politics,¡± he boomed with pride. ¡°It was my great grandfather who broke the peace between our warring tribes; he was the one who taught me everything.¡±


    ¡°Ah, I see¡ªyou are a bearer of his ideals,¡± Eldarion remarked. Though his words sounded complimentary, his mind churned furiously.


    ¡°Indeed¡ªsomething this city needs a lot,¡± Skalskar continued, downing a glass of Eldarion¡¯s special liquor¡ªa brew of coffee and honey he concocted himself. He poured another glass for Skalskar.


    ¡°I see, I see. And let me ask you something¡ªhave you been here long?¡± Eldarion pressed, seeking better context.


    ¡°Just a few weeks,¡± came the reply.


    Eldarion furrowed his brow; that particular bottle was from a batch stronger than he had intended. He had to be careful¡ªhe was so old that he was losing his touch. In lizardman terms, that meant¡­ at least a moon or two, oh dear.


    ¡°I see, I see. I¡¯m afraid you¡¯re misunderstanding something, Professor Skalskar. This isn¡¯t your land¡­ If I were to do what you¡¯re doing right here, wouldn¡¯t that be dangerously naive?¡± Eldarion pressed, his muted eyes flashing with every ounce of meaning and warning.


    ¡°I¡­ understand.¡± Those simple words struck true¡ªa moment to drive the point home.


    ¡°Furthermore, just as your noble great grandfather had to deal with people at the table¡ªpeople with their own interests and objectives¡ªso it is in this city, from locals to foreign powers. And while this pub may be a haven of peace and quiet, a place for drink and respite outside its walls¡­¡±


    He let the sentence hang, much like many had in the past.


    Skalskar swallowed hard, so frightened that the alcohol seemed to have lost its effect. Eldarion and the Director exchanged a sharp glance, and the latter nodded in thanks. It had perhaps been the most unelegant warning he had ever given, but it was enough. The atmosphere had grown tense and heavy, a consequence of Skalskar¡¯s foolish idealism¡ªand Eldarion knew exactly how to set things right.


    "Anyway," Eldarion boomed to everyone present. "Why don''t you give us one of your songs, Rook!" he called to the human who had been working at the bar alongside him. Though young and eager to play, Rook¡¯s eyes shone with a mix of anticipation and a hint of nervous excitement.


    "Sir, yes sir," Rook replied, dropping what he was doing behind the counter as he rushed to the piano. In his haste he nearly toppled over several chairs and stepped on at least one person¡ªbut it was all right. That person happened to be a merchant, who merely offered a bemused smile. Just before his fingers could dance on the keys, Rook looked at Eldarion, confusion bright in his brown eyes beneath his dark hair, and asked, "What should I begin with, sir?"


    "Why not my favourite! So people may laugh a bit!" Eldarion nodded, and with a flourish, Rook prepared to sing. "Who is going to end it?" Rook intoned.


    "Who Is Going to End It?"


    (Verse 1)


    Oh, the guilds made their move with their hocus and pride,


    The merchants just nodded and paid from the side,


    The nobles poured blood just to keep it all right,


    And the powers-that-be said, "Eh¡­ let¡¯s not fight."


    (Chorus)


    Tick, tock, the wheels still spin,


    They all made the mess, but who cashes in?


    Tick, tock, the walls grow thin¡ª


    So who is going to end it?


    (Verse 2)


    The guilds keep the magic, they claim they¡¯re the spine,


    They loathe all the merchants who hoard every dime,


    The merchants fund magic, but scoff at the lords,


    Who bleed for the city, yet sharpen their swords!


    (Chorus - building in energy)


    Tick, tock, the gears still turn,


    The liars still profit, the dreamers still burn!


    Tick, tock, the fire¡¯s been lit¡ª


    So who is going to end it?


    (Bridge )


    "Oh, but don¡¯t worry, folks! The foreign lords are here to help!


    They whisper to merchants, they bribe all the guilds¡ª


    And as for the nobles? Why, they¡¯d sell off their city for a fancy new shield!"


    (Verse 3 - a slow, mocking waltz rhythm)


    The rebels cry "freedom!" but still take the coin,


    The traders want power, but won''t break a joint,


    The nobles dream banners, the guilds dream of crowns¡ª


    And all the while, the city drowns!


    (Chorus - marching rhythm, growing in urgency)


    Tick, tock, the sand runs low,


    The cracks in the stone begin to show¡ª


    Tick, tock, the deal¡¯s been writ¡­


    So who the hell is going to end it?!


    (Verse 4 - playful but sinister, like a conspirator whispering secrets)


    Now the city still stands, but the vultures all wait,


    The kingdom sends whispers, the empire sends bait,


    The merchants want gold, the guilds want their share,


    The nobles want thrones¡ªbut nobody dares!


    (Verse 5 - faster, spiraling into chaos)


    Oh, the beggars are spies, and the priests take their tithes,


    The coin has two faces, the truth comes in fives!


    The papers are signed, but the ink''s never dry,


    And the people just ask¡ª"who¡¯s next to die?"


    (Chorus - sharp and dramatic, final note held long before cutting off suddenly)


    Tick, tock, the voices fade,


    Another deal, another blade¡ª


    Tick, tock, the fuse is lit¡­


    So who the hell is going to end it?!


    The patrons at the bar were first shocked, but soon after laughter filled the room. Despite the song¡¯s satirical edge, everyone had fun¡ªit was nice to laugh at one¡¯s own situation. Eldarion took another appreciative swig of his drink.


    "Keep it going, Rook, and pocket any tip these fine folks give you; I''ll handle the bulk of the bar," Eldarion said. Rook nodded all slimes¡ªa simple man with simple needs¡ªbefore being immediately mobbed by adults and students alike, all clamoring for this tune or another. As he left the table to man the counter, drinks began to flow freely. He cast one last glance back: Skalskar was studying his drink thoughtfully, Cleten remained calm (perhaps he¡¯d been wrong about elfkind¡ªafter all, Cleten might be an elf, but he looked decidedly gnomish), and Thundok was just happy, a strange shine lighting his eyes.


    And still, Eldarion had to answer the lingering question¡ªwhy was that young pup in his pub with a dagger?

 The Young Pup with a Dagger in the Pub Chapter 2

    Clink, clang¡ª the coins sang their end-of-day melody. It was that time when Eldarion Thorne had to count the day¡¯s earnings¡ªa task he never relished, yet one he dutifully performed. His employees needed to be paid, his guards their cut, and money had to be set aside for supplies and restocking. There was something comforting in its predictability, a ritual carried out almost without thought.


    It had been a good night¡ªtruly good¡ªand there was still plenty to do before his staff could finally be released for the evening.


    ¡°It¡¯s been good, eh chief?¡± asked Rook, his voice a blend of exhaustion and high spirits. Despite the fatigue evident in his eyes, the young man¡¯s joy at playing was unmistakable.


    ¡°Uh, yes¡ªyou were very good, youngster, very good,¡± Eldarion replied warmly. A sudden thought struck him. ¡°Say, you want to do that every day? It seems that having music with the drinks really makes the gold flow,¡± he said with a knowing smile, clinking two coins toghether. ¡°I¡¯ll have to let you off the hook from the bar duties¡ªyou¡¯ll still get your pay, but you can keep any tips you earn, of course.¡±


    Rook¡¯s eyes lit up with happiness. ¡°You sure, Mr. Thorne?¡± he asked, his youthful eagerness shining through.


    ¡°Yeah, yeah. There¡¯ll be a little discount when the piano needs maintenance, but other than that,¡± Eldarion added, as around them the pub¡¯s staff busied themselves with final tasks. The guards were stacking chairs atop tables so that the waitresses could clean the floor. Molly, in particular, zipped over in the blink of an eye, focusing on clearing the cluttered table that the merchants had occupied.


    Then Phin¡ªhis resident halfling¡ªappeared from somewhere unexpected, startling Molly in the process.


    ¡°Phin, dear, please try not to startle your fellow coworkers now. Come here and take your pay for the day,¡± Eldarion said, crossing his arms over the table and leaning forward. A knowing smile played on his lips, and his muted green eyes shimmered briefly with expectation¡ªa look enough to give the halfling pause.


    ¡°Uhm, yes sir. Here¡¯s what the Inn produced today, and what¡¯s needed for tomorrow,¡± Phin replied.


    ¡°Good man. Now hand the list over to Molly¡ªshe¡¯ll take care of it. And as for the money, this bag,¡± Eldarion said taking the offered object, giving the cloth bag a little shake so it clinked, ¡°is a bit lighter than it should be, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    A hint of a lupine smile curved Eldarion¡¯s face.


    ¡°Uhm, sir, yes sir¡­I am sorry,¡± said Phin with a cheeky smile as he handed over the pilfered coins to Eldarion¡¯s outstretched hand. After a brief pause¡ªEldarion¡¯s hand remaining still¡ªPhin, now with an even broader grin, handed over the rest.


    ¡°Now Phin, you¡¯ve got your pay. Go along before I change my mind,¡± Eldarion said as he began counting the coins.


    Around him, the pub was winding down; employees were leaving as they finished their tasks. Molly had to pry Rook away from the piano, for the young lad was staring in disbelief, unable to believe that he was being paid for his music.


    And yet, amid the nightly routine, one question still lingered in Eldarion¡¯s mind: why had been that young pup in his pub carrying a hidden dagger? He furrowed his brow in deep thought, idly playing with a handful of coins as the mystery continued to haunt him.


    He barely registered the soft farewells of his employees or the arrival of the night crew¡ªthose who kept watch over the inn and managed its modest kitchen. His attention wasn¡¯t on the coins themselves, but on his old, calloused hands. Every clink of metal summoned memories of what had been done, what should have been done, and, more painfully, what had never been done. His mind whirled in a repetitive cycle, trapped in the endless, almost hypnotic song of clanking coins, each note echoing possibilities and old regrets.


    Armed patrons were not unusual here; many carried weapons openly¡ªeven if his own were hidden from sight. The adults and even some of the students frequented the pub with arms at the ready: dwarves relied on raw strength and sturdy gear, lizardmen boasted of their armored scales and razor-sharp claws, humans wielded ingenious contraptions, and the elves, for the most part, depended on ancient magic. And yet, here he was, obsessing over a mere youngster with what was probably nothing more than a concealed toy.


    Clink, clink¡ªthe coins kept their rhythm, mirroring the steady pulse of his anxious thoughts. Could this be something from his own life¡ªa ghost of a past he never managed to tie up neatly? The City, its age-old accords, binding contracts, and unyielding agreements¡ªheld together by deep, ancient magic that could not be easily undone. That was why he had remained, why his past had never fully released him. Was he there for someone else? For his pub? His muted green eyes shimmered with a flicker of worry, suggesting that perhaps, after all, this was not merely coincidence.


    A heavy wooden thud abruptly brought him back to reality. Molly had slammed her staff onto the table with a force that scattered coins in every direction.


    ¡°Sorry, sir,¡± she said in her small, nasal voice, tinged with concern. ¡°You seemed so lost in thought I didn¡¯t think you¡¯d be coming¡ªit looked like you were utterly entranced.¡±


    Eldarion, momentarily startled out of his reverie, took a few seconds to collect himself while Molly efficiently gathered the scattered coins. ¡°Besides, there''s metal on the table, and we don¡¯t want Phin getting any ideas,¡± she added with a wry, toothy, smile.


    ¡°Uh, yes, lass, yes¡­¡± Eldarion murmured, trying to anchor his mind back to the present. ¡°Now, tell me¡ªwhy haven¡¯t you gone home yet?¡±


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    ¡°Because I live here,¡± Molly countered with a shrug and a hint of a smile.


    ¡°Ah, yes¡ªthe old cellars under the tower, I remember,¡± he said softly, resuming his coin counting as the rhythmic clink resumed its steady cadence.


    ¡°Sir, you¡¯re doing that again,¡± Molly remarked, her tone a mix of amusement and concern.


    ¡°Yes, old lass, because I¡¯m deep in thought,¡± Eldarion replied.


    ¡°Sir, I am not my great grandfather,¡± she teased cheerily, her deep green garments swaying as she rested her hand on the old wooden staff¡ªa relic passed down from the original Molly.


    ¡°Uhm, yes¡­ sorry, it¡¯s just¡­¡± Eldarion trailed off, then added, ¡°You¡¯re worried. It¡¯s the first time I¡¯ve seen you look so troubled, sir.¡±


    Molly¡¯s eyes crinkled into a knowing smile as she leaned on her staff, waiting for him to speak. ¡°Tell me, have you seen anything odd going around the pub or the inn?¡± he asked, careful not to press too deeply into his private worries.


    ¡°No, sir, nothing at all,¡± she replied brightly. ¡°I haven¡¯t smelled anything funky, nor have my furry friends seen, smelled, or heard anything amiss.¡±


    As if to punctuate her words, a squirrel bounded in through the open high window and landed on Molly¡¯s shoulder. It looked fed and happy. Eldarion smiled contentedly.


    ¡°I see you are taking care, but try to keep them away from the food storage areas, including here. Now, go along¡ªI need to put things away and secure them.¡±


    He rose and gathered the coins, along with a certified annotation detailing the day¡¯s takings, into a secure chest. The tax collectors were sure to be arriving soon, and he knew they wouldn¡¯t appreciate any discrepancies.


    With his routine complete, Eldarion slipped into a trance¡ªa state as natural to an old elf as sleep, honed by decades of practice. Instead of changing clothes or washing up, he carefully locked away the coins and the paperwork in a sturdy safe box.


    Molly¡¯s domain¡ªa small but intricate network of tunnels and burrows beneath the building¡ªserved as a safe haven, carved into the earth in such a way that it posed no threat to the structure above. His personal quarters, perched in a tower that overlooked both the pub and the inn, remained undisturbed tonight.


    Rather than ascending the tower, Eldarion headed to an unused corner of the building¡ªa private workshop where he could tend to his true passion. Here, among dusty shelves, old alchemical texts, and an assortment of mysterious ingredients, he began working on his latest batch of liquors. The coffee-and-honey liquor had been good, but his restless mind yearned for refinement; he wanted to create something unique, a blend that might stir memories and soothe old wounds.


    In the gentle haze of his trance, as he measured ingredients with slow, deliberate care, his thoughts drifted back in time to his days as an alchemist. His mind wandered to a little chest hidden in his quarters¡ªa chest he always avoided opening. It was filled with remnants of a past filled with dangerous experiments and grim recipes. He recalled them vividly, as if they had been etched into his very soul.


    He remembered one recipe: a touch of finely ground toxic mushrooms, mixed with a stabilizing agent extracted from the bitter bark of an ancient tree, and bound with a slow-release retardant chemical that ensured the toxins would seep lethally into their victim. To mask the bitterness and add a deceptive sweetness, a bit of rich chocolate and a spoonful of sugar were stirred in¡ªa grim concoction fit for a lover scorned or an enemy betrayed.


    Another recipe flitted through his memory like a dark whisper. It called for the extract of nightshade, combined with a pinch of powdered serpent venom and a few drops of honey. A dash of lime juice was added to balance the flavors¡ªa deadly mixture that, when properly administered, could ensure maximum suffering over a long, agonizing period.


    Eldarion¡¯s calloused hands, which now meticulously mixed and matched liquors in his private workshop, had once prepared these poisons and toxins. The recipes were a reminder of the brutal lessons he had learned long ago¡ªlessons that time and regret could not fully erase.


    He paused, his bushy eyebrows furrowing as his mind snapped back to the present. He was not concocting poison now, but rather a new type of liquor¡ªone that might yet heal old wounds or at least distract from them. The rhythmic clink of his tools and the subtle bubbling of his mixtures filled the silence. He was alone, just him now. Until the end


    For a long moment, Eldarion simply stood there, caught between two worlds: the innocence of his current pursuit and the dark, perilous path of his past. A long, storied life had led him to this point¡ªa life filled with triumphs and regrets, alchemy and intrigue, violence and guile. With a deep, measured breath, he resumed his work, determined to perfect his latest creation, even as the ghosts of old recipes whispered in the shadows of his mind.


    He had hoped to remain hidden and unseen, believing that the only gaze upon him was that of his own conscience¡ªthe one constant companion he could never leave behind, the very thought that kept him awake at night. That unyielding inner scrutiny prevented him from ever finding true rest. His nightly routine was a palliative measure, a way to keep the turmoil from blooming into something uncontrollable; it provided temporary respite, but it offered no genuine relief.


    Eldarion opened a creaking cupboard and carefully selected several clean bottles, each one specially ordered for its unique shape and size. He arranged them methodically on the shelf. The current batch of liquor he was working on in his private workshop wasn¡¯t ready yet¡ªit wouldn¡¯t be finished for a long time¡ªbut an older batch was already set to go, and he needed these bottles to package it. He made a mental note to dip into his savings and order more; he was running perilously low on supplies. One variant in particular¡ªthe coffee-and-honey infusion¡ªhad become popular with his wealthier patrons. With a few empty bottles in hand, he silently calculated the price he should set, as memories of his younger, alchemist days stirred in his mind.


    So focused was he on this routine that he tried to ignore the weight of his past and the worries of his present. Yet his conscience, ever vigilant, remained his constant companion¡ªthe one thing that followed him like a shadow and kept him up at night. In those moments, as the clinking of bottles merged with the soft echo of his footsteps, his mind wandered back to darker times. He recalled the days when his calloused hands mixed deadly poisons and toxins with the same precision he now applied to his liquors, the weight of sword and shield, of plate and mail, of lies and deceit.


    Lost in his work and haunted by these memories, Eldarion barely noticed the silent observer. Hidden in the shadows, high on a rickety perch near the ceiling and among the lingering fumes of his experiments, an assassin had taken position. The assassin¡¯s focus was unnervingly fixed on Eldarion¡¯s head, as if waiting for the slightest lapse¡ªa moment of weakness in the old man¡¯s guarded mind.


    For a long, tense moment, Eldarion paused between his routine tasks. He balanced a bottle in his hand and considered the price for his popular coffee-honey variant, while his thoughts danced between the present and the echoes of his past. Each clink of glass and soft shuffle of his steps reminded him of the secrets he¡¯d long buried¡ªsecrets that still haunted him like specters. In that fragile space between duty and regret, the weight of his history pressed in on him, a burden he could neither shake nor fully embrace. And so, with a deep, measured sigh, he resumed his work¡ªeach action a delicate attempt to keep his past at bay, even as it threatened to overtake him once more.

 The Young Pup with a Dagger in the Pub Chapter 3

    The assassin measured his chance, his eyes narrowing in the gloom as he calculated every heartbeat. He knew he had but one opening¡ªa single, fleeting moment to strike. Crouched atop his hidden perch in the dark recesses of the high ceiling, he observed the swirling fumes and smoke that coiled around him, cloaking his presence in secrecy. In that murky veil, he was grateful for the very concealment his mark, Eldarion Thorne, inadvertently provided.


    Below, as the night deepened, Eldarion toiled in his workshop¡ªa sanctuary bathed in the soft glow of oil lamps and the occasional flicker of a solitary candle. Here, time slowed to a measured pace. His weathered hands moved deftly, stirring ingredients and pouring precise measures into waiting vessels, while his thoughts wandered back through the corridors of his long and storied past. Each clink of a bottle and every soft sizzle of a simmering concoction echoed like a heartbeat in the stillness.


    Leaving behind a table where new mixtures simmered over braziers and bronze instruments, Eldarion ascended a small staircase to check on his latest batch of coffee-and-honey liquor. He carefully opened the lid of a large container, inhaling deeply as his muted green eyes scrutinized the reflective surface of the liquid. A satisfied smile played on his lips¡ªthis batch was ready. Casting a quick glance at another table to ensure that nothing was amiss, he gathered several pre-prepared bottles. He opened a tap, allowing the rich, brown liquid¡ªinfused with a subtle golden glow¡ªto pour steadily into the awaiting vessels. Without even testing it further, he knew it was perfect.


    High above, the assassin continued his silent vigil, his patient eyes fixed on the exposed head of the elder elf¡ªa tantalizing invitation, a challenge cloaked in vulnerability. Yet he lingered, waiting for that precise moment when everything would align.


    Eldarion then corked the last of the bottles, placing them with meticulous care into a special box before returning to his worktable. He examined each experiment and liquid with a discerning eye, already mulling over ideas for his next creation¡ªa blend of mint, chocolate, and rose. His mind briefly flitted to a forgotten volume on Flowerlogy¡ª was it flowerlogy what it was called? He had never delved deeply into it, but remembered the basics. Lost in thought, he added a few more metal bowls and small cauldrons to his array of simmering mixtures. Their rising fumes intermingled with those already drifting above until, at one miscalculated moment, the fumes thickened, casting a heavy, oppressive blanket over the stone-tiled floor. Eldarion clicked his tongue in mild disappointment before turning his attention to a newly prepared infusion. Its color, reminiscent of dusk, and its aroma¡ªa delicate balance of bitter herbs and a whisper of honey¡ªspoke of promise as the perfect foundation for his next experiment.


    As he checked the labels and measured his ingredients, his thoughts meandered to his old alchemical recipes. In certain fields everythign was the same, cooking, dessert making, baking, chemistry, brewing. All the same principle different intent. His calloused hands, now dedicated to crafting fine liquors, had once been used with the intend of death and suffering and profit, a testament to a darker past that still lingered like a ghost.


    Outside, the distant murmur of the city¡ªthe City, the World¡¯s Desire¡ªfloated on a cool breeze that occasionally slipped through a cracked window. Like Eldarion, the city never truly slept; it merely shifted, guarding its secrets from prying eyes. The interplay of light and shadow in the workshop lent a surreal quality to the scene bouncing off the ver thickening cloud he was producing, as Eldarion¡¯s thoughts flowed as fluidly as the liquors he so carefully crafted. Satisfied that nothing remained undone, he rested his weight on the edge of his worktable, crossing his arms as he made a mental note to adjust the price on his increasingly popular coffee-and-honey variant¡ªa quiet reminder that even in these solitary moments, commerce and consequence danced together.


    High above it all, the assassin shifted his weight, every muscle tensed with anticipation. His gaze remained locked on the unsuspecting figure below, his mind a coiled spring of precise calculation. In that charged moment, as the soft hum of bubbling mixtures, the gentle rustle of parchment, and even the distant tick of an ancient clock converged into a single, ominous note, fate itself seemed to hover at the very edge of that note¡ªa fragile pause before the storm.


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    The shadow glided from its high perch, soft and silent, merging with the swirling fumes. Every heartbeat brought him closer to that decisive instant, and the promise of his strike grew ever nearer. In that suspended breath, the night held its secrets close¡ªa delicate balance of dark intent and imminent chaos¡ªjust one step away from shattering the stillness.


    The assassin pounced¡ªa dark shadow cascading silently from the high ceiling. Below, the exposed head of Eldarion lay there in stillness, a tantalizing opening that beckoned him forward. With one swift, fluid motion, he drove his blade toward the vulnerable neck, intent on cleaving the head from the body in one decisive stroke. In that instant, however, his weapon met not the warm resistance of flesh, but a cold, deceptive nothingness. The image of Eldarion began to unravel before his eyes; his target dissolved into a wisp of smoke¡ªa spectral illusion disintegrating into the ether.


    For a heartbeat, the assassin froze, his mind reeling in disbelief. Never had he witnessed such an occurrence. The tangible presence he had so meticulously sought was nothing more than a phantom. How could this be? Panic stirred within him¡ªa cold, creeping fear he had not felt in ages. His strike, meant to be fatal, had severed nothing but an ephemeral mirage. The smart play would have been to retreat, to leap back into the shrouded safety of the darkness. Yet his pulse raced, and adrenaline surged through his veins, igniting a burning frenzy that made him feel intensely, maddeningly alive.


    As his heart hammered in his chest, more apparitions began to manifest in the shifting gloom¡ªsome standing, some sitting, and some bearing little resemblance to Eldarion at all. In a wild, deranged glee, the assassin¡¯s mind fractured into manic delight. He whirled through the space, slicing and cutting at the ghostly figures. Each stroke of his blade turned the apparitions into curling tendrils of smoke, their forms dissolving into nothingness. His entire world narrowed to a chaotic dance¡ªa bubbling, giggling mania of slicing and dicing spectral shapes. In that moment, he was lost in the thrill of the carnage, his laughter echoing like that of a small, deranged child; a mad rictus contorted his features as sweat beaded along his skin, his eyes watered uncontrollably, and his throat itched with an unnamable fervor.


    Then, without warning, one apparition struck him¡ªa sudden, searing blow that cut through the haze of his exhilaration. Disoriented, the assassin staggered, his blade trembling in his grasp. From the depths of his frenzied mind, a quiet voice pleaded for him to stop, but the manic energy was too overwhelming. Fueled by a delirious mixture of rage and ecstasy, he lunged at the phantom that had dared to strike him.


    The very air around him pulsed with an eerie energy, the potent fumes and swirling vapors wrapping him in a drugged embrace that blurred his senses and distorted his movements into dangerous miscalculations. Riposte, parry, slice, and dice¡ªeach of his blows was a desperate attempt to regain control. Yet the phantom moved with a mocking grace, matching every strike with fluid precision.


    As the combat escalated, his arms and legs began to grow numb, a deep, gnawing pain clutching at his chest. In a final burst of frenzied strength, the assassin launched a wide, arcing blow¡ªa sweeping steel crescent that cut through the glow and gloom of the fumes. The apparition caught the blow; its hand glowed with a strange, magical luminescence as its fingers brushed the venomous blade. For a moment, time seemed to suspend¡ªthe assassin stood there, gasping for air, his face frozen in a horrid rictus beneath his dark, tattered clothes.


    Then, as if the final act of a cruel farce, the apparition retaliated with a savage kick that struck him squarely in the groin. The force sent him crashing to the ground, where he lay, breathless and screaming in pain as the noxious fumes swirled over him like a choking fog. And then, in a maelstrom of agony and delirium, everything burned. The searing pain clenched his mind, reducing his senses to a blur of torment and madness.


    In those final, agonizing moments, as his consciousness began to fracture under the onslaught, the last thing he saw was the dispassionate gaze of Eldarion Thorne, muted green eyes lost in them middle of a perfectly white mane¡ªleaning over him with an air of detached boredom, as if this macabre spectacle were nothing more than an inconvenient interruption in an otherwise ordinary night.

 The Young Pup with a Dagger in the Pub Chapter 4

    There was a corpse in his pub¡ªand before becoming a corpse, it had been an assassin. That meant there had been an assassin in his pub. Two very whimsical things to have happened to him. Eldarion Thorne was crouching by the remains of the would-be assassin, absent-mindedly rubbing his own neck. This had been no amateur, no foolish novice. The way he moved, the way he struck¡ªthis had been a professional sent by professionals. Which meant two things.


    One, whoever sent him had shown proper respect, and that was good. And two, whoever sent him was aware of who he was¡ªwho he is, who he had been. That was problematic.


    Taking a deep breath, he calmed himself for a moment. First, he had to be sure the assassin was dead. Focusing, he began to cast magic, whispering the words. He had never had a penchant for flashy, self-aggrandizing speeches or bombastic casting; whispering was enough. First, he cast every detection spell he knew¡ªspells for life, death, good, evil, everything. Remaining still, he watched his entire pub from his workshop through magic, observing and listening.


    Yes, the would be assassin was dead. The night crew was doing their rounds in the inn, mostly lazily, but he paid them to get their job done not to be bastions of enthusiasm about it. The kitchen was just getting things ready for the morning meal. He looked down¡ªand Molly seemed fine, inspecting where the rooms were. The students, taken to sleep away their drunken hours, were fine, along with a few of the guests. He dispelled the magic. Nothing seemed amiss. Still, he wasn¡¯t satisfied.


    The assassin had entered from somewhere, and somehow. He left the idea that he was a target aside¡ªthat was small fry compared to his interest. His pub had been violated, and someone was going to pay for it.


    The fumes¡ªyes, the very fumes he had used first to incapacitate and then to fully kill the assassin¡ªwere starting to make him dizzy. He dispelled the detection magic and opened the windows. It took several tries, for he was old and hadn¡¯t opened the windows in a long time. Using magic, he turned the fires off and waited for the fumes to dissipate naturally. For now, he thought, hard.


    Outside, morning was going to approach fast. Routine would keep nudging, and he just couldn¡¯t stop it. Nor could he abandon the pub without breaking appearance.


    Yet the threat could not be denied. He looked at the corpse, crumpled like a dead spider among the slowly dissipating fumes just above the floor. Thankfully in his toxin induced rampage he hadn¡¯t broken anything. It had been a long time since he had seen death so close. He looked out the window and noticed that the academy¡¯s cleaners were beginning to bunch at the exits¡ªthe glow of dawn wasn¡¯t far off now, and he was running out of time. The next step was obvious: he had to examine the assassin¡¯s remains for any clue that might lead him to whoever had hired him. With a resigned sigh, he kneeled down, his joints creaking as he began to scrutinize the body.


    First, he pulled his hood down, confirming that the assassin was human¡ªpure human, no half-anything. A simple, round face, short black hair. Focusing magic at his fingertips, he shielded himself as he began to search the corpse. Simple brown eyes, teeth a bit unkempt¡ªhe had probably been surveilling him for a long time. The cause of death was obvious: poisoning. A bit tricky since he didn¡¯t have the proper herbs and equipment but he had managed.


    Another sigh of frustration escaped him. There was nothing on the body that might guide him¡ªno tattoo, no distinct marking, nothing. If the assassin wasn¡¯t from a guild, then he was an independent. That wasn¡¯t illegal, just frowned upon; besides, he could easily vanish out of town. But that meant the list of possible employers had grown far longer.


    Eldarion Thorne¡¯s mind churned with the implications of this violation. His pub had been a sanctuary, and now it had been infiltrated by death itself. The silence of the early morning was broken only by his measured breaths and the soft creak of his tired knees¡ªa reminder that, even as he searched for answers, the ghosts of the past were never far behind.


    He rose¡ªnothing remained but the blade. He retrieved the tool that had been thrown, by him or by the assassin¡ªhe wasn¡¯t sure¡ªand examined it closely. Immediately, his hands flared with protective magic, and he narrowed his eyes. This was no simple blade.


    It was a curious blend of metal and organic material, something that hinted at a strange, almost chitinous quality. He looked at it, using magic to scrutinize its every detail. It was an oddity¡ªa first for him¡ªand that in itself spoke volumes. A fang, perhaps, from some venomous creature; it had once been large, now encased in steel and etched with runes. Those runes spoke of dark, intricate craftsmanship, suggesting some dwarfish involvement in the crafting of this blade. The handle was almost too wide, clearly custom-made for the assassin, elevating him from a mere professional to a master. This implied that whoever had sent him was even more resourceful than Eldarion had guessed at firstr. Troublesome, indeed. Moreover, the knife was neither alive nor dead, certainly not undead¡ªit was something in between¡­ which made a cold crawl up his back.


    He took hold of the sheath from the dead assassin and the blade itself; it almost seemed as if the two were meant to be reunited. Tomfoolery was afoot¡ªtomfoolery that had violated his pub.


    Setting the blade on a table, he began rummaging through some old drawers. Yes, cloth. He couldn¡¯t recall exactly what he had bought it for, but now he needed it. Grabbing a knife of his own, he cut a large patch of cloth and wrapped the assassin¡¯s blade in it. Then, placing it in another drawer, he whispered a weak warding charm¡ªand closed it firmly.


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    Sitting down and clearing a space, he took up ink and paper and began to record the runes he had seen¡ªboth on the blade and on the sheath. He had to search for their meaning. For now, the glow of dawn was approaching, and he had a routine to maintain¡­ but first, he had to deal with the cadaver. He glanced at it, then at the door¡ªno, he couldn¡¯t exit through the front door; even at this very early hour, things were active at the center of the city.


    Then an idea struck him. He looked at the body, then at one of the large, unused containers he reserved for testing, aging, or storing new ideas and mixtures¡ªalong with his entire stock of chemicals. With a grimace, he rose from his chair to move the body there, hoping that his concoctions would be enough to liquefy it. The maddening part was that he would have to undress the corpse first. He got up with a grimace, his mind already churning with the next set of problems to solve.


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    The idea of keeping up routine after what had happened would probably be alien to someone who wasn¡¯t like him. But for Eldarion it was an old coat¡ªalmost like an old sweater that¡¯s itchy yet must be worn, because needs must. A couple of days had passed since the attack, and he had been busy, silently and stealthily inspecting his property. The tower where his room was located had remained untouched. Whoever had hired the assassin was interested in eliminating him and nothing else. The windows and doors were fine too, and he just couldn¡¯t discover how or when the assassin had gotten in¡ªa conundrum, and a challenge. Despite himself, he could feel the fire of the hill to climb running through his veins, he tried to ignore it. Placing discreet, weak wards and protections on all the windows and doors had been an arduous task, but one he had to do. There were plenty of magic users among his regulars, and if they began to notice that he was strengthening his defenses, they might get testy¡ªand if they got testy, they were going to stop coming.


    As far as he could tell, the people in the pub remained none the wiser¡ªsave perhaps for two individuals: Phin, his resident halfling who was in the habit of snooping around and keeping tabs on everyone and everything, and Molly, whose nose could tell her that something was clearly wrong. Both had, diplomatically, decided to remain silent. Meanwhile, Eldarion fought back the age-old instinct of ¡°go in the offensive.¡±


    It was another night in his pub. Rook was playing music and enjoying himself to no end, filling the space with tunes and song. Eldarion, however, was busier than ever now that Rook was on stage; he had to handle, well¡ªeverything. Mixing drinks, handling orders to Molly, and keeping an eye on every detail while managing a multitude of responsibilities. His mind was in too many places at once.


    ¡°Sir, may I be of assistance?¡± Phin came out of nowhere, as if materializing from thin air, nearly startling him. Eldarion had two bottles in his hands.


    ¡°Uh, sorry Phin, you caught me by surprise,¡± Eldarion admitted. ¡°But don¡¯t you have duties in the Inn?¡± he asked, trying to get his mind into gear.


    ¡°I do, sir. However, it is proving a very slow night¡ªgiven that we are between seasons and all. The guys over there can handle it, you on the other hand,¡± Phin replied, his short curly hair bouncing as he shrugged, honestly apologetic.


    ¡°Okay, just¡ªand I mean it¡ªdon¡¯t get creative with anything not screwed to the building or anything that¡¯s unscrewed,¡± Eldarion smiled. It was a small game both of them played.


    ¡°No, sir, my word,¡± the halfling smiled back.


    So, with this small change in routine, as he forced himself into the familiar rhythm of daily tasks, his mind churned with conflicting urges. His hands moved mechanically¡ªrestocking bottles, serving customers, checking the registers¡ªwhile beneath the surface, memories of the attack and the lingering taste of violation made his face grow gloomy whenever his guard was down. And, since his trance had been broken, he was growing tired very quickly.


    Still, it had been another good day. Rook was massaging his hands, apparently suffering for success¡ªa very real thing indeed.


    ¡°Son, you look exhausted. Do you want something to numb the pain?¡± Eldarion commented as he counted the earnings of the day, closing the box for the day.


    ¡°Sir, I¡­¡± Rook began, clearly wanting to say yes, but something held him back.


    ¡°On the house,¡± Eldarion interjected. The kid had been hoarding every little piece of metal he¡¯d been earning since he began to perform with the piano. What for, Eldarion wasn¡¯t sure, but he wasn¡¯t going to pry¡ªeven though he probably should, given the circumstances. Before the lad could answer, Eldarion poured the very last of his own bottle of gin and passed it to the kid over the bar. Rook took a moment before accepting and downing the glass. Eldarion raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He finished counting and passed Rook his bag. The lad accepted it without comment and left without a goodbye.


    Interesting.


    Eldarion was finishing the counting for the day; most of his employees had long gone by that point. Then he noticed that he had yet to put his coffee-honey variant up for sale¡ªa few had asked him about it, but his mind had been all over the place recently. A few taps with a wooden staff brought his attention upward.


    ¡°Sir, is everything okay?¡± Molly asked.


    ¡°Yes, yes, just finishing up everything,¡± Eldarion replied.


    ¡°Yeah, because Phin has been skimming from the Inn¡¯s gold bag for a few days now and¡ªwell, you have been letting him,¡± Molly said in her small, nasal voice from under her deep green garments, which left Eldarion flat-footed for a moment. ¡°And you haven¡¯t put your latest batch of handmade liquors up for sale, plus there¡¯s a weird smell coming from your workshop,¡± she added innocently.


    What to do? Bring her in? No.


    ¡°It¡¯s fine, it¡¯s fine. I¡¯ve been distracted. Too much work. Nothing more, old lass, nothing more,¡± Eldarion replied, trying to portray an air of quiet confidence and calm. Molly wrinkled her nose, which twitched to and fro.


    ¡°Okay,¡± she said, before scurrying toward her living quarters. But before she left, she turned and said, ¡°But sir, remember, if you need anything, I am here¡ªjust as my great-grandmother was.¡±


    That jolted Eldarion fully awake¡ªa memory brought back from long ago. Yes, she was, and paid for dearly. No, he was going to solve this, by himself, for himself. It was time to go on the offensive.

 The Young Pup with a Dagger in the Pub Chapter 5

    The air was heavy with the scent of humanity, fish, and the unmistakable stank of the waterways. The port district was a far cry from his beloved pub¡ªa world away from the clean, crystalline air and the heady aroma of cypress trees. Eldarion, cloaked in a spell that transformed him into his youthful self, strode down the winding road toward an old abandoned church by the harbor. His disguise was nearly perfect: tall, muscular, clad in a long, green overall that accentuated a scarred face and slouched shoulders, crowned with muted gold hair that fell lifeless over his head. For now, his mane of white hair and long beard was gone. The magic was strong, though not infallible¡ªit couldn¡¯t change his eyes; the muted, deep green remained unchanged, and plenty of people might recognize them.


    He moved through bustling markets and crowded stalls that remained animated even in the late hours of the night. Sailors¡ªweather-beaten and rugged¡ªcame and went in a ceaseless rhythm, hauling in crates of salt and fish and barrels of fresh water, or coming on shore leave to and from taverns and other buildings, while hookers performed their trade. Vendors hawked an assortment of goods, selling everything and nothing in a chaotic symphony of shouts and murmurs. The cacophony of commerce and carousing filled the narrow, cobblestone streets, where every corner bore the marks of a life lived on the margins. The harbor district was far more diverse than one might expect. From traders from distant lands in weird and exotic garments, to sailors and soldiers of every race and species¡ªelf, human, lizardmen (though with different scale colors than those who frequented his pub), and other less common peoples from the deep steppes and faraway mountains¡ªthis was also the place where real diplomacy happened in dark alleys and backrooms, hidden away from prying eyes and the pomp and contempt of protocol. Here, a few key power players kept their base of operations.


    As Eldarion passed a series of discreet buildings, the locals barely spared him a glance, as if the world had long since forgotten his true identity. It had been some time, a few centuries, since the world had seen his younger self¡ªa self he now wore as a mask of necessity. Amid the chaotic scene, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in a murky puddle; the familiar features, refined by age yet veiled by enchantment, elicited a sad, sardonic smile from him. He mused silently that he could run these places better than the bumbling idiots entrusted with them¡ªtheir ineptitude concealed only by the way gold flowed through the alleys and backstreets here. Without the seedy environment, most of the tavern keepers would have gone out of business.


    Focus¡ªhe had to be alert. If an assassin had been sent after him, then someone was after him, and that meant danger was never far behind. It also meant that he was drawing danger instead of letting it come to him, thus keeping it away from his people.


    As he approached the port proper, the crowd began to thin. Most of the action was away from the ships; he took a moment to scan the vessels. The port was bustling with everything from small schooners to large ocean-going vessels¡ªand even some of the new, fancy mechanical engines. He had no real knowledge of ships, but he knew that more vessels meant more people, and more people meant more prosperity. He inhaled the scent of salt water, so alien in the high district. He turned right; the church he was headed toward was tucked away among the dilapidated buildings, just at the edge¡ªforgotten by most, save for a few devout locals. And he could feel the eyes on him now. He had sensed them since the moment he entered the district, but now they were focused on him. Good. He needed answers.


    The road by the port was cleaner than the one leading into the district, and it offered better vistas, which kept distractions at bay. He might appear young on the outside, but inside his mind he was transported back in time¡ªback to when he wore heavier armor, when he too was young. He couldn¡¯t avoid his mind harkening back to those days, to the paths he had once walked. He had hoped never to tread such a path again, yet now the bitterness of anger crept into his mouth.


    He stood among boulders¡ªwhat had once been a well-kept place now stood almost abandoned, the brine and sea wind slowly eroding the spot, but for now it held its form. An old lady¡ªa human¡ªstepped out of the church, looked him up and down, and went pale. She hurried away as the moon rose over the city walls and everything grew silent. Good; they were here.


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    The large wooden doors creaked a tune of time as Eldarion pushed them open, stepping into the darkened sanctuary of the church. Each groan of the ancient timber resonated like a ghostly lament, marking his entry into a realm steeped in forgotten lore.


    ¡°Hello, friend¡ª¡®tis the first time that we meet,¡± came a cheery, light-hearted voice from the far end of the church. Eldarion¡¯s gaze snapped to the source, focusing on a figure emerging from the shadows. She was clad in all black, her attire accented by a few unruly strands of hair falling loosely over her face. At first glance, she might have been mistaken for a youth, but Eldarion knew well that she was no child¡ªshe was a very, very dangerous woman. His disguise, still in effect, was working perfectly. The spell could not alter his eyes, however¡ªthe muted, deep green remained unchanged, he was counting on the darken church to hide them.


    ¡°As such,¡± she said, her tone both curious and cautious as shadows around her seemed to writhe in quiet acknowledgment, ¡°I do not know how you came to know of this place.¡± Her words were laced with both challenge and intrigue.


    Eldarion replied, his voice strained into a semblance of youth, ¡°What, a fellow cannot come to pray?¡± His vocal cords struggled under the strain of the enchantment. The peculiar inflection gave pause to the small gathering of unseen onlookers, as if time itself hesitated in the dim, flickering light.


    ¡°That sounded familiar,¡± she murmured, almost to herself. Then, in a swift, deliberate motion, the clear sound of daggers and blades being unsheathed rang out¡ªa sound that Eldarion¡¯s magically enhanced senses caught in crisp detail.


    ¡°Why the need for violence? Let us talk,¡± Eldarion offered, a wry amusement threading his tone. There was something absurdly entertaining in the moment¡ªa curious blend of danger and farce that made him chuckle inwardly, even as a part of him scolded his own reckless, almost crazy, impulses.


    ¡°Not many strangers know of this church, and you are not a local,¡± the hooded woman said, her voice low and measured, carrying the weight of secrets guarded fiercely.


    ¡°Oh, well,¡± Eldarion replied with a crooked smile, ¡°you got me there. I have heard tales of this place and the people who use it as a meeting spot. I thought I might burst into your headquarters¡ªor perhaps simply come for a chat.¡± He folded his arms, his expression one of feigned nonchalance. Around him, the shifting shadows whispered of lurking figures, their presence underscoring that he was not alone in this precarious domain.


    ¡°Only locals know of this place,¡± she repeated, her tone a blend of reproach and warning.


    ¡°Let¡¯s just say that a local told me of this place,¡± Eldarion countered smoothly. In response, the woman rose from her shadowed perch with measured grace and unsheathed her dagger. The metallic whisper of its release cut through the tense silence, and the surrounding shadows grew more belligerent¡ªas if arming themselves for the inevitable clash. It was clear now: he was surrounded.


    ¡°Okay, mister,¡± the woman said, her tone edged with warning. ¡°You don¡¯t belong here. Leave now before we lose our patience.¡± Her voice, low and growling like a threat in a forgotten alley, sent a shiver down Eldarion¡¯s spine. His heart began to race; adrenaline surged as something he¡¯d long suppressed stirred within him.


    ¡°Okay, make me,¡± came a sudden, almost mocking reply as the shadows themselves attacked. In unison, a phalanx of assassins emerged from the gloom. The woman bolted forward from afar, her face briefly illuminated by the pale light of the moon spilling through the tall church windows.


    Eldarion reacted in two simultaneous motions. As the attackers converged from every angle, he moved in slow motion. His left hand darted toward a special flask he¡¯d prepared for such a moment, while his right conjured one of his strongest protective spells. Though he could not overpower the young assailants with brute strength alone, he could use his magic to redirect their ferocity.


    Small flashes of pale blue light erupted from his fingertips, striking swords, daggers, and arrows alike. The enchanted bolts bounced off their targets, causing the attackers to collide with one another in a chaotic tangle¡ªyells of surprise and confusion mingling with shouts of pain. In the midst of the melee, Eldarion hurled the flask toward the floor. The fragile container shattered, its contents reacting violently with the air to form a thick, suffocating smoke cloud that quickly engulfed the entire building.


    Drawing upon the residual magic, he covered his eyes, nose, and mouth as several of the assassins, caught in the poisonous haze, began to choke and collapse. Though a few were resistant to the toxin, they found themselves disoriented and unable to see through the murk.


    Seizing the moment, Eldarion surged forward toward the direction from which the woman had been fleeing. Concentrating his mana into a single, determined fist, he launched a punch into the space where he knew she must be. But when his hand met only empty air, he realized she had anticipated his move¡ªshe had seen what was coming.


    With a mad rictus over his face, enjoying the taste of combat and danger once more, Eldarion readied himself he had to take her alive