"A Púca," Isolde repeated, her voice low but intense in the dim light of the inn room. She laid out the chain of evidence for Edmund—the Fae magic signature she’d detected, the impossible 'healing,' the strangely aggressive Blight affecting the collapsed traveler, the whispers in the fen, the trickster stone, Elder Maeve's lore about shapeshifters. "It fits every inconsistency, Edmund. It’s playing a cruel game with Elara, with this whole village."
Meanwhile, Elara sought comfort from the man she believed to be Rhys. Huddled by the hearth in her small cottage, she confided her worries. "They look at us strangely now, Rhys," she murmured, twisting her apron. "Ever since that poor woman collapsed… it feels like everyone suspects the worst of us newcomers. Even you."
'Rhys' drew her closer, his expression one of profound sympathy, though his eyes held a flicker of something else—satisfaction? "They're just scared, my love," he said soothingly. "Especially outsiders like that Knight and Mage… stirring up trouble, asking questions. Don't listen to them. We only need each other." He subtly reinforced her sense of isolation, painting himself as her sole refuge against the village's fear.
Edmund, finally and fully convinced, nodded grimly. "Alright, Ms. Isa. A Púca. What do we know about them? How do we fight one?"
They pooled their knowledge, recalling the fragmented lore Elder Maeve had shared about Fae creatures and shapeshifters—their connection to illusions, their potential weaknesses often tied to old traditions or specific materials, their vulnerability to true conviction. Isolde spent hours preparing, focusing her will, gathering the strained threads of Living Essence to weave spells designed specifically to pierce illusions and reveal truth. Edmund cleaned and sharpened his sword, the faint golden light of Isolde's previous enchantment seeming to linger within the steel. He strategized, planning how best to protect Elara when the inevitable confrontation occurred.
Elara, despite her relief at Rhys's return, couldn't completely shake a growing unease. Sometimes, in the flickering firelight, she thought she saw his features shift for just a fraction of a second – did his ears seem slightly more pointed? Was that a flash of something sharp, like a fang, when he smiled? Once, when recounting a past event, he used a phrase utterly alien to the real Rhys. And sometimes, when he looked towards the fen, his eyes seemed to gleam with an unsettling, non-human light. She dismissed these moments as tricks of the light, stress, her own lingering fear. But the seeds of doubt were planted.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
The Púca, perhaps sensing the shift in the village's atmosphere or Isolde's probing magic, grew bolder. During the midday meal distribution near the village center, 'Rhys' stepped forward, addressing the gathered villagers. He spoke eloquently of unity, of the need to protect Blackfen, but subtly directed suspicion towards the "outsiders"—Edmund" and Isolde—suggesting their investigation of the fen might have disturbed something, perhaps even drawing the Blight that struck down the traveler. He positioned himself as a voice of reason, a concerned villager, further isolating Elara who stood beside him, unaware of the manipulation.
As he spoke, gesturing towards the worried crowd, his hand moved quickly. For a split second, Elara saw it clearly. His fingers elongated, becoming impossibly thin, tipped with sharp, black claws before snapping back to their familiar shape. It wasn't a trick of the light. It was real. Her breath hitched, terror flooding her veins, cold and sharp. The man beside her, the man she loved, was a monster.
Edmund and Isolde, standing at the edge of the small gathering, saw the Púca’s manipulative speech and, more importantly, the sudden, stark terror that flashed across Elara's face. They exchanged a look—it was time. They had agreed on a simple plan: Isolde would expose the illusion, Edmund would protect Elara.
The Púca, noticing Elara's horrified expression, seemed to realize its mask had slipped beyond repair. A cruel, knowing smile twisted 'Rhys's' familiar features. Its game with her was over. Dropping the pretense of comforting concern, its form began to subtly shift, the illusion warping. Its eyes began to glow with that same cold, predatory light Elara had glimpsed, its shadow stretching unnaturally long despite the midday gloom.
Just as Elara choked back a scream, stumbling backwards in terror, and the Púca began to fully embrace its revealed nature, Isolde stepped forward, staff raised. "Leave her alone, Trickster!" she commanded, unleashing a pulse of shimmering green energy aimed directly at the imposter.
