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—a 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—it 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—weather-beaten and rugged—came 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—elf, 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—this 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—a 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—their 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—he 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—and 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—forgotten 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—back 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—what 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—a human—stepped 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.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  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—‘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—she was a very, very dangerous woman. His disguise, still in effect, was working perfectly. The spell could not alter his eyes, however—the 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—a 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—a 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—or 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—as 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—yells 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—she 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