"Halt!" the guard exclaims, his voice sharp and commanding.
After a day and a half of trudging through dense winter forests, with little sleep and even less water, Emilia finally arrives at the town of Fenwych. Nestled within a thick expanse of trees and shadowed by a looming mountain range to the north, Fenwych is one of the closest settlements to the kingdom of Gusteko. Despite its harsh, icy climate, the town is governed by a Lugunican lord—a testament to the complex web of alliances and territories that define the region.
Fenwych thrives on its bustling trade in exotic goods, serving as a rare bridge between the frostbitten kingdom of Gusteko and the sun-drenched lands of Lugnica. Rich, potent Gusteken alcohol flows south, while vibrant, sweet Lugunican fruits make the journey north. This exchange has brought the town a measure of fame—and, inevitably, the attention of thieves and bandits.
To combat this, Alaric Draven, the town's governor, declared martial law a season ago. Though the strictest measures have since relaxed, remnants of that decision remain. One such remnant is the guard post on the Gusteko side of town: a massive wall flanked by two watchtowers, their silhouettes stark against the winter sky. A wide double gate serves as the sole entry point, manned by guards and a contingent of knights sent from the kingdom to oversee and inspect all who pass through—be they travelers, merchants, or suspicious figures.
As Emilia reaches her turn in line for inspection, one of the guards pulls her aside for questioning. She understands why; her appearance reeks of suspicion. Her dark green cotton shirt, soft and well-worn, bears a slightly frayed neckline. Around her neck hangs a simple silver crescent moon pendant, its surface smooth and catching the light with a faint glimmer. Her pants, made of coarse, dark wool, are sturdy and practical, reinforced at the knees and thighs. A wide leather belt, scuffed and weathered, wraps around her waist, with a sheath sewn into its side where her sword rests securely.
Over her shoulder, she carries a worn leather saddle, its straps hanging loosely and its edges marked by years of use. Her boots, thick-soled and made of supple leather, are scuffed and stained from countless miles of travel. Draped over her shoulders is a heavy cloak, its deep dark fabric blending into the shadows. The hood is pulled low, obscuring her face, while the cloak itself falls to her ankles, its edges slightly frayed and dusted with the grime of the road.
"Take off that cloak," the guard demands, his tone firm but not yet hostile. His eyes narrow as he steps closer, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
Emilia doesn't respond immediately. She stands still, her posture relaxed but her gaze sharp, fixed on the guard with an intensity that makes him shift uncomfortably. The silence stretches, heavy and charged, until the guard's patience snaps.
"Take it off, I said!" he barks, his voice rising. This time, he steps forward, his hand reaching out to grab the edge of her cloak.
Before he can react, Emilia twists away, her movements swift and fluid. But the guard is persistent. With a forceful yank, he pulls the cloak off her shoulders, revealing her fully.
Her short hair, dyed white, is streaked with dirt and grime, the ends tangled and unkempt. Her lashes, pale and delicate, frame piercing purple-blue eyes that seem to cut through him, as if seeing into his very soul. But it's her ears that draw his attention—horribly disfigured, the tops of both cut cleanly and sewn shut, the scars stark against her skin.
For a moment, the guard is frozen, his mouth slightly open as he takes in her appearance. Emilia doesn't flinch. Instead, she raises a hand, brushing her hair to the sides to cover her ears with deliberate, almost defiant movements. Then, without a word, she pulls the hood back over her head, the fabric falling into place like a shield.
"Seen enough?" she asks, her voice low and edged with annoyance. There's a challenge in her tone, a dare for him to say more.
The guard hesitates, his earlier bravado faltering under her steady gaze. He clears his throat, his eyes darting away as he mutters, "Move along." His voice lacks conviction, and his hand tightens nervously on the hilt of his sword, though he makes no move to draw it.
Emilia doesn't wait for further instruction. With a practiced ease, she adjusts the saddle slung over her shoulder, the worn leather creaking softly. Her cloak sways with her movement, the hem brushing against the frozen ground as she steps past him. Her boots crunch against the icy path, each step deliberate and unhurried. The guard watches her go, a flicker of unease in his eyes, before he turns his attention to the next traveler in line, his posture stiff and his voice louder now, as if to compensate for his earlier hesitation.
Fenwych, though a small and humble town of no more than a thousand souls, often swelled to twice its size with the influx of visitors. Merchants with carts laden with goods, craftsmen showcasing their wares, artisans peddling their creations, and even mercenaries seeking work—all found their way to its bustling streets.
Autumn was the season of Fenwych's transformation. Though a light dusting of snow clung to the branches of trees and the rooftops of houses, it was nothing compared to the heavy blankets that would come with winter. The roads, mostly dry and safe to travel, were alive with activity. The harvest had been gathered, and the surplus of grain, vegetables, and fruits now filled the market stalls, drawing crowds from nearby villages and beyond.
It was at one such stall, piled high with the season's bounty, that Emilia paused. Her stomach growled in protest, a reminder of the long hours she had spent on the road. She picked up a few appas, their skins polished to a deep red, and tucked them into the folds of her cloak. The vendor, a stout woman with ruddy cheeks, nodded in approval as Emilia added a handful of root vegetables to her saddlebag—enough for a hearty soup when night fell and the cold crept in.
The air was crisp, carrying the mingled scents of woodsmoke, roasting nuts, and the earthy tang of fallen leaves. Around her, the market buzzed with life: the chatter of haggling voices, the clink of coins, and the occasional burst of laughter. Yet, amidst the noise, Emilia moved with a quiet purpose, her presence as steady and unyielding as the frost beneath her feet.
She breathed into her cupped hands, the warmth fleeting against the biting cold, and glanced toward a nearby building—a modest, orderly space tucked discreetly beside the guildhouse. Above its door, a weathered sign read.
STEWARD'S AFFAIRS OFFICE
The door creaked open as she approached, revealing a warm, dimly lit room filled with the scent of parchment and beeswax. A young attendant, no older than fifteen, stepped forward with a polite bow. His tunic was neatly pressed, and his hands were clasped in front of him, his demeanor both formal and earnest.
"Welcome, my lady," he said, his voice soft but clear. "May I take your coat? The clerk will be with you shortly."
Emilia hesitated for a moment, her fingers brushing against the worn fabric of her cloak before she shrugged it off and handed it to him. The boy took it with care, draping it over his arm with a practiced ease, then gestured toward a wooden bench near the hearth.
"Please, make yourself comfortable," he said, offering a small, reassuring smile before disappearing into the shadows of the room.
Emilia nodded, setting her sword down gently on the bench before seating herself. Her fingers absently played with the locks of her hair—short, but just long enough to conceal the subtle points of her ears. She sat quietly, her gaze fixed on the flickering flames of the hearth, the warmth a welcome contrast to the chill outside.
The minutes stretched on, marked only by the soft rustle of parchment and the occasional murmur of voices from deeper within the office. Emilia's patience held firm, though her fingers tapped lightly against her thigh, betraying a hint of nervous energy.
Then, at last, she heard footsteps approaching—steady and deliberate. She straightened instinctively, her hand brushing the hilt of her sword before she caught herself. Rising to her feet, she turned toward the sound, her heart quickening as a figure emerged from the shadows.
"Please, follow me, Miss Emilia," said the short, burly man, his voice gruff but not unkind. He turned without waiting for a reply, his boots thudding softly against the wooden floor.
Emilia responded with a subtle nod, falling into step behind him. They passed through a narrow hallway lined with shelves stacked high with scrolls and ledgers before entering a room that unmistakably served as an office. The space was cluttered yet orderly, with files and books neatly arranged on a sturdy desk. The man settled into a chair behind it, his stout fingers idly toying with a quill as he gestured for her to sit.
She obliged, lowering herself gently into the chair across from him. Her sword, she laid carefully on the ground behind her, its presence a quiet reassurance. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the young attendant closing the door behind them, leaving her alone with the man.
"So," he began, leaning back in his chair, his gaze sharp and assessing. "You're here for...?"
"I took a request here, a week ago," Emilia replied, her voice steady. "I'm the mercenary from the Fang of Iron—"
"I know all about that," he interrupted, his tone firm but not unkind. He set the quill down and folded his hands on the desk. "What I'm asking is, why are you here now?"
"I've fulfilled my request," she said, her tone unwavering. "And I demand my payment. At this office. Right, now."
The man raised an eyebrow, his expression a mix of skepticism and curiosity. "And may I see some form of evidence?"
Without a word, Emilia slid the saddle off her shoulder and dropped it to the ground beside her. A cascade of objects tumbled out—bloodied coins, a few trinkets, and other odds and ends that clattered against the wooden floor.
The man leaned forward, peering at the scattered items. "And what's this supposed to be?"
"Your evidence," she replied flatly.
He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Miss Emilia, Miss Emilia, Miss Emilia... you must understand. This does not qualify as sufficient proof. I cannot possibly authorize payment based on... this." His gesture toward the scattered items was dismissive, almost theatrical.
Her eyes narrowed, but her voice remained calm, each word measured and deliberate. "Their corpses are twenty feet to the right of where the river splits in two. Three men. Dead. If you need more evidence, send someone to verify it. But I've done my part."
The man leaned back in his chair, his lips curling into a faint, almost mocking smile. "Could you not have cut off their fingers?" He held up his own pinky, wiggling it as if to emphasize the simplicity of the request. "That would have been more than sufficient."
"I'm not in the business of desecrating the dead," Emilia replied, her tone icy.
"But you are in the business of working for me," he shot back, his voice hardening. "And when you do so, you do it by my rules. Understood?"
Emilia's jaw tightened, but she didn't flinch. "My payment. I want it now. I'm done talking."
"You expect me to pay you," he said, his voice rising, "while you show me no proof of your work?"
"I've killed them," she replied, her tone sharp and unyielding. "Send someone to check. I demand my earnings."
"You little—" He slammed a fist on the desk, the quill rattling in its inkwell. "All of you are the same! Coming to our town, demanding more and more from us, yet disrespecting us, spitting on us all the same. When you're in Fenwych, you play by its rules, goddammit!"
"I don't give a damn about your rules," Emilia snapped, her voice low and dangerous. "Get me my money, or I'll take your head as collateral."
"You!" He shot to his feet, his face red with fury. "I knew you were untrustworthy the moment I laid eyes on your credentials. Did you think I was fooled? Who in their right mind would hire an elf?! Ha! Certainly not the Iron fang—"
Before he could finish, Emilia moved. Her boot lashed out in a swift, brutal arc, striking the edge of the desk with enough force to send it crashing into him. The wood splintered and collapsed, pinning him to the ground in a tangle of broken planks and scattered parchment. He gasped, stunned, as the inkwell tipped over, spilling a dark pool across the floor.
Emilia stepped forward, her sword flashing as she leveled its tip at his face. The blade hovered inches from his nose, its edge gleaming in the dim light. Her voice was a cold, venomous whisper. "I'm not a goddamn elf."
The man froze, his bravado shattered. His chest heaved as he stared up at her, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and disbelief. The room fell silent, save for the faint drip of ink and the crackle of the hearth.
Emilia stepped out of the building, her cloak pulled tight around her, the fabric swaying with her brisk movements. The saddle on her shoulder felt heavier now, weighed down by the coins she'd claimed, but she carried it without hesitation. She moved swiftly, her boots barely making a sound as she slipped into the shadows of the narrow alleyways, blending seamlessly with the dim light and the bustling crowd.
The town gate loomed ahead, its wooden beams weathered and sturdy. The guards paid her no mind, their attention fixed on a merchant arguing over tolls. Emilia passed through without a glance, her pace steady as she left the noise and chaos of Fenwych behind.
The forest welcomed her with its quiet embrace, the trees standing tall and silent, their branches forming a canopy that filtered the fading light. She followed a familiar path, her steps sure despite the growing darkness. Deeper into the woods, she reached a small clearing where she had hidden a stash of supplies days earlier.
Setting down her saddle, she pulled out a small pot and a handful of vegetables, the appa still clenched between her teeth. She worked quickly, her hands moving with practiced ease as she built a small fire and filled the pot with water. The flames crackled softly, casting a warm glow against the encroaching night.
As the soup began to simmer, Emilia leaned back against a tree, the appa now in her hand. She took a bite, the crisp sweetness a stark contrast to the tension she had left behind. The forest was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of leaves and the distant hoot of an owl. For now, she was alone, and that was enough.
Once the soup had cooked, she reached for a spoon she had carved earlier from a nearby branch. She held it over the fire for a minute, letting the flames lick at the wood, before setting it into the pot to taste her cooking. The first spoonful was warm and hearty, but the taste was terrible. She had gotten used to it by now, though she couldn't help but frown and grimace as she forced it down. Still, she needed to eat.
Just as she was about to take another bite, a rustle in the underbrush caught her attention. Her hand instinctively went to her sword, her body tensing as she rose to her feet in one fluid motion. The spoon clattered to the ground as her eyes scanned the shadows, her grip tightening on the hilt of her blade.
And then she saw them.
A group of mercenaries, much like herself, moved through the forest. They were dressed for the road, armed to the teeth, and trekking down the path she had mentioned earlier—the one that followed the river. They must have been sent to verify her work. But it wasn't their presence that caught her off guard.
It was the man nestled in the middle of them.
He stood out like a needle in a hay stack. His black hair was tousled, his eyes sharp and unsettling, yet his expression was carefree, almost bored. Emilia watched them quietly, her breath shallow, thanking whatever gods might be listening that she hadn't lit her fire. The darkness of the forest was her only cover.
The group moved into a clearing about twenty or thirty meters away, the moonlight spilling over them. And then, as if sensing her gaze, the man turned. His eyes locked directly onto hers, piercing through the shadows as though they were nothing.
Emilia froze, her heart pounding in her chest. She didn't move, didn't breathe, her hand still clenched around the hilt of her sword. The forest seemed to hold its breath with her.
Then his mouth moved. She was too far to be certain, but she thought she saw the faint curve of a grin. It was fleeting, almost imperceptible, but it sent a chill down her spine. Slowly, deliberately, she leaned back against a nearby tree, sliding down to sit at its base. She kept her movements calm, her expression neutral, as if she hadn't noticed him at all.
Her hand reached for the spoon she had dropped earlier, and she returned to her meal, forcing herself to eat despite the unease settling in her stomach. The soup was still terrible, but it grounded her, a small act of normalcy in the face of—of whatever that was. Her eyes, however, remained sharp, flicking occasionally toward the clearing, watching, waiting.
She needed to leave this town, she needed to leave it quick.