Joran moved swiftly through the shadowed streets, his hood drawn low as he cast anxious glances over his shoulder. The weight of pursuit pressed heavy on his chest, his every step measured and cautious. The distant clanking of armored boots sent a surge of panic through his veins, and he quickly veered into a narrow alleyway, pressing himself against the cold stone wall. His fingers clenched at the edges of his cloak, pulling it tightly around him as he held his breath.

  The knights marched past the alley’s entrance, their metallic footfalls like hammer blows against his nerves. He listened intently as a commanding voice broke through the steady rhythm of movement.

  “We’ve all been given orders to form a perimeter around the town to keep the criminal from escaping. Move out!”

  Joran exhaled slowly as the footsteps faded into the distance. His muscles, coiled tight with tension, loosened slightly. He turned, ready to slip deeper into the alley and away from danger—only to collide with something solid and unmoving.

  A low, rumbling growl filled the space between them, thick with amusement.

  “Found you, little prince.”

  Joran’s blood turned to ice as he looked up into Lorsan’s gleaming, predatory eyes. Before he could react, the beast-knight swiped with deadly precision, claws gleaming like razors in the moonlight.

  Joran barely managed to throw his hands up, summoning a magic shield, but the force of Lorsan’s strike shattered it like brittle glass. The impact sent Joran hurtling backward, tumbling from the alley and crashing onto the cobbled street. Pain exploded through his body as he struggled to push himself up, his vision swimming from the blow.

  Above him, Lorsan landed gracefully on a rooftop, his silhouette outlined against the night sky, golden eyes burning with cruel delight.

  “Did you really think you could hide from us?” he mocked, his voice dripping with savage amusement. “That you’d just leave Lothara, and that would be the end of it?” He gave a slow, rumbling chuckle, one that sent a fresh wave of dread crawling down Joran’s spine. “We will find you, boy. No matter where you go.”

  Then, with an almost playful malice, he tilted his head back and let out a bone-chilling howl, the sound ripping through the night air like a death knell.

  Joran’s heart pounded violently against his ribs. The others would hear it. They were coming. Panic surged through him, and he turned on his heel, bolting down the street—but Lorsan moved faster. With an inhuman leap, he landed in front of him, crouched low on all fours, blocking his escape.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  Joran barely had time to react before Lorsan lunged, his clawed hand snatching the prince by the collar. He lifted him effortlessly, muscles coiling with brutal strength before driving his fist into Joran’s gut.

  The force knocked the breath from his lungs. Agony shot through his ribs, and he barely choked down the bile that rose in his throat. Lorsan grinned, reveling in his suffering, before slamming another punch across his face, whipping his head to the side. The coppery taste of blood filled Joran’s mouth as a warm trickle ran from his nose. His vision blurred for a moment, stars dancing in his peripheral vision.

  “This is just like old times, isn’t it?” Lorsan laughed, a wicked gleam in his feral eyes.

  Joran clawed at the lycan’s grip, his fingers scrambling for any purchase, but Lorsan only tightened his hold. Then, with mocking slowness, he raised his free hand, his claws elongating into gleaming, curved daggers. He brought them dangerously close to Joran’s eye.

  “You know,” he mused, his voice a cruel whisper, “we could rough you up a little, say we found you like this. No one would question it. It’s not like you’d tell a different story.”

  A shiver of sheer terror lanced through Joran’s body. His breath came ragged and shallow, the weight of helplessness pressing down like a crushing tide. No. Not like this. Not again.

  Instinct took over. With raw desperation, Joran summoned his magic and unleashed a burst of fire, the spell called flame flash ignited into an uncontrolled explosion at point-blank range.

  Flames roared to life between them. Lorsan howled in agony as the fire consumed his face and right arm, the magical flames clinging stubbornly to his fur. His grip finally loosened, and Joran dropped to the ground, scrambling backward on his hands and feet before forcing himself up. His pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out everything but Lorsan’s enraged screams as he thrashed, trying to extinguish the fire.

  This was his chance. He had to run. Turning on his heel, Joran bolted down the street, forcing his aching body to move. Every part of him screamed from the blows he had taken, but he refused to stop.

  Behind him, Lorsan’s howls morphed into an unearthly snarl.

  “I HAVE YOUR SCENT, BOY!” the lycan roared, his voice a thunderous mix of rage and pain. “I WILL FIND YOU, AND I WILL MAKE YOU REGRET EVER BEING BORN!”

  Joran didn’t dare look back as he sprinted deeper into town, weaving through the dimly lit streets, his breath ragged with exhaustion and fear. He had to find a way out—fast. But the moment he rounded a corner, his heart plummeted.

  Vaelin.

  The elf knight strode down the street with casual arrogance, his silver eyes scanning the alleyways as if he already knew his prey was nearby. The streetlights cast eerie shadows against his pristine armor, the runes along his crescent blade crackling with raw energy. He hadn’t yet noticed Joran—but it wouldn’t take long.

  "Damn it, you mangy mutt!" Vaelin snarled, clearly still fuming. "First you run off and leave us behind, and then you make us track you down after forcing us to listen to that ungodly howling? I swear, when this is over, I'm going to—"

  He stopped mid-sentence, his sneer curling into something far more sinister. His piercing gaze locked onto Joran, standing frozen at the end of the street.

  "Well, well, well... the little boy wandered right into my path."

  A slow, deliberate movement—his sword left its sheath, humming with lethal magic, the air distorting faintly around it. Joran stumbled backward, terror seizing his body.

  "Where’s Lorsan?" Vaelin taunted, closing the distance at a predator’s pace. "Don’t tell me he lost you again—how incompetent."

  Joran’s fingers instinctively curled around the hilt of his sword. His entire body trembled, but he forced himself to stand his ground.

  "P-please..." he stammered, voice barely above a whisper. "Just let me go. I only want to make this realm a place where all can live in harmony."

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  Vaelin’s expression twisted in disgust. He drew his dagger with his free hand, its dark edge gleaming beneath the street lanterns.

  "You na?ve little shit," he spat. "There is no harmony. No equality. There is only the strong and the weak. Perfection and worthlessness. And you?" He tilted his head, voice mocking. "You may have the blood of two powerful races, but you are still nothing."

  Joran barely had time to react before Vaelin disappeared.

  A blur—then steel.

  Joran instinctively drew his sword, barely deflecting the downward strike as Vaelin came crashing down from above, his blade aimed for Joran’s skull. The impact sent sparks flying, the shock rattling his bones as he stumbled backward, gasping.

  Vaelin landed gracefully, rolling his neck as if this was merely warm-up. He pointed his sword at Joran with a smirk.

  "Even if you escape tonight, we will always find you." His voice lowered, turning taunting. "And if you force us to leave Lothara to chase you? Then we go home and fetch the rest of our little group..."

  Joran’s blood turned to ice.

  Vaelin grinned, his eyes drinking in Joran’s terror.

  "...Including her."

  Joran’s grip on his sword tightened, his heart slamming against his ribs. No. Not her.

  The elf lunged, moving twice as fast as before, forcing Joran into a desperate series of blocks. The crescent blade and dagger struck in perfect tandem, steel flashing as Joran barely kept up. His instincts screamed not only to block the sword—but also the dagger.

  But Vaelin was too fast.

  Their blades clashed again and again, Joran retreating with every step, sweat dripping down his face. He was holding his own—barely.

  Then—impact.

  Joran’s breath left his lungs as Lorsan blindsided him, slamming into his back.

  The prince was thrown to the ground, his sword sliding across the dirt.

  Lorsan landed atop him, claws poised to rip into his back—but the enchanted Elven-Arachne Cloak deflected the blow, the protective enchantments absorbing the damage.

  “Damn this cloak!” Lorsan snarled in frustration, his burnt flesh still raw from the flames Joran had cast earlier. The fur on his face and arms had been completely singed away, revealing deep, still-healing burns.

  Joran barely had time to react before he was lifted clean off the ground. Lorsan’s iron grip closed around his throat, shaking him like a ragdoll.

  “You burned me,” the lycan growled, his breath hot with fury. “Then you ran.” His golden eyes burned with pure, unfiltered rage. “I’m going to tear a chunk out of your hide!”

  Joran’s survival instinct kicked in.

  A spell—any spell! Was all he could think before He threw his hands forward and cast Ice Bomb. The air around them froze instantly, the moisture crystallizing before exploding outward in a deadly shockwave.

  Shards of razor-sharp ice tore through the street, sending both Lorsan and Vaelin flying backwards. Joran was hurled into a nearby wall, pain lancing through his back, but he forced himself up, gasping for air. Lorsan was already shaking off the ice, snarling curses under his breath. But it was Vaelin who had truly snapped.

  "You..." the elf’s voice was trembling—not with fear, but with blinding rage.

  Joran’s stomach dropped.

  A thin line of blood ran down Vaelin’s cheek.

  "You... bastard."

  His magic flared violently, the air around him distorting.

  "You fucking BASTARD!"

  Joran barely registered the movement before a blur shot past him.

  A sharp, searing pain in his side.

  He gasped, stumbling back, pressing a hand to his cloak—blood.

  Vaelin had cut him beneath the protective fabric.

  Then—another slash.

  A burning pain across his cheek. More blood.

  Joran tried to fight back, summoning magical barriers, but his body froze. He looked down to see Vaelin had cut him with his dagger causing the prince to become paralyzed and drop his blade. He moved with terrifying speed, cutting and beating Joran down, overwhelming him with relentless precision.

  Joran collapsed to his hands and knees, panting heavily, his vision swimming. Blood dripped from fresh wounds across his body. Vaelin wiped the blood from his own face with the back of his glove.

  "You better pray to the gods I can heal this," he sneered. "Before it leaves a scar."

  Then he kicked Joran across the face, sending him sprawling into the dirt. A slow set of footsteps approached.

  “Now, now, Vaelin…”

  Joran’s stomach turned as he looked up.

  Dain.

  The druid stood above him, smirking. "We shouldn’t break him too badly… but…" He tapped his staff against the ground.

  Agony. That was all he felt after he heard the staff tap against the ground.

  Joran screamed as his blood was pulled from his body, drawn into the vials strapped across Dain’s chest.

  He had suffered many kinds of pain before—but this was unbearable. Vaelin and Lorsan laughed as the prince writhed in agony. Dain’s voice was mockingly soothing. “Such sweet misery… but we mustn’t overdo it, hmm?”

  Then—a blur from above.

  Two precise, brutal kicks—one slamming into Lorsan, the other into Vaelin.

  A double strike to Dain’s chest sent him staggering back, the stolen blood spilling onto the ground. Lorsan roared in fury. "Who dares interfere—?!" Joran looked up—his vision hazy, but clear enough to see her.

  The elf from the Wandering Drake. But she was no longer just an innkeeper.

  The elf receptionist of The Wandering Drake had shed her refined tunic for something far more suited to battle—a sleek, form-fitting set of light mercenary armor, crafted for speed and precision. She exuded the effortless confidence of a warrior, her posture relaxed but coiled with controlled energy, ready to strike at a moment’s notice.

  Her cuirass was a snug, midnight-blue leather chestplate, reinforced with thin mithril plating beneath the surface—light enough to allow full agility but strong enough to deflect glancing blows. The design was elegant yet practical, curving naturally to her form while allowing fluid movement in combat. A short, high-collared capelet draped over her left shoulder, enchanted to dampen sound, making her movements near-silent.

  Her arms were guarded by slim, blackened vambraces, intricately woven with silver-threaded elven runes, enhancing her reflexes and ensuring that any blade she deflected would glance away harmlessly. Beneath the armor, fitted sleeves of a dark, enchanted fabric hugged her arms, offering protection against minor magic and the cold of night.

  Her lower half was covered in sleek, reinforced leggings, snug yet flexible, layered with mithril-threaded leather along the thighs for extra defense without sacrificing mobility. Strapped securely along her right thigh was a dagger, its hilt wrapped in navy-blue leather, while a thin, utility belt sat snug at her waist, carrying small throwing knives and lightweight pouches of essentials.

  The true stars of her arsenal, however, were her twin curved blades, strapped diagonally across her lower back for a swift, cross-body draw. The hilts, dark and sleek, bore engraved silver glyphs that shimmered faintly in the dim light. The blades themselves were slightly curved, perfect for rapid, dance-like strikes, their enchanted edges designed to slice through armor and flesh alike with lethal precision.

  Her silver hair was tied back into a loose yet efficient braid, strands still framing her face, giving her a battle-worn but refined look. Her pale green eyes, usually filled with the sharp wit of an innkeeper, now held the keen, calculating focus of a warrior who had once lived by the sword.

  Her boots, slim and flexible, were built for swift, silent movement, their soles enchanted to enhance balance and allow for near-soundless steps. Despite the lightness of her gear, every piece served a purpose—to keep her fast, lethal, and utterly unpredictable in battle.

  This wasn’t just an innkeeper in armor.

  This was a mercenary reborn—an elven warrior who had long since mastered the art of the twin blades, now stepping back into the shadows of her past.

  "You will leave the prince alone," she said coldly.

  Vaelin laughed. "A nobody thinks she can give us orders? Hilarious."

  But Lorsan had gone pale. "That’s no mere elf…" he whispered, his voice laced with recognition. He swallowed hard.

  "That’s Druna Myclerva."

  The Silver Phantom.