“You are strange… um—”
“Arion.”
“Ah, Sir—”
“Just Arion.”
“Arion,” she said, voice sliding from gentle to steel-edged authority. “We should return to town.”
“I’m sure I’ll—”
“Arion.” She reiterated, the word a quiet command.
He flinched—an instinctive feeling from a life before.
Okay wow. Girl-boss energy. This Selene must be terrifying.
Her softness returned, almost apologetic. “Our healer, Selene, can treat you properly. Otherwise I’m afraid your wounds will open again…”
Arion lay still, staring at the canopy through half-lidded eyes. Pain throbbed in time with his pulse. He flicked a glance toward the cluster of small faces watching him—dirt-streaked, wide-eyed, hopeful in the way only children can be after horror.
“Is the nurs—healer… cute?”
The question landed like a stone in still water. The children exchanged baffled glances like they were contemplating telepathically, then—all at once—nodded vigorously.
“Hm...”
He exhaled, long and defeated. “Fine. Let’s get you guys back home.”
Before small hands could reach for him, he raised one palm. Recall next to him slipped into his grip. With a grunt he levered himself upright, every muscle and joint protesting like a rusted metal machine.
The children froze mid-step, joy flickering then dimming into fresh worry.
“Elise!” another girl burst out. “She’s still in the camp!”
Arion went rigid.
He counted heads—all were present.
Then memory crashed back: the screams.
“Elise… Is she the woman I heard?”
“Yes,” the older girl said quietly. “They took her hostage. Insurance against resistance. We didn’t dare go back while you were out.”
Arion straightened, gaze drifting toward the clearing. Without the veil of darkness, the devastation lay naked: the camp was an amalgamation of destroyed tents, blasted and cratered earth as if artillery had walked through, bodies strewn like broken dolls. Smoke still curled lazily from blackened patches.
He lifted a hand. “Stay here. I’ll find her.”
The children watched him limp toward the wreckage, small fists clenched at their sides.
—— ? —— —— ? —— —— ? ——
Arion walked through the once lively camp, now an excavated graveyard.
Rain had ceased, but its aftermath shaped everything: puddles of rainwater blotted the camp, now dark with ash and blood. Wood and cloth crumpled where tents once stood whilst corpses twisted in attitudes of sudden, violent surprise.
Arion moved methodically toward the center—Karlon’s tent, or what remained of it. The structure had collapsed inward, stakes snapped, fabric torn like wet paper.
He sighed, uncertainty coiling cold in his chest.
He searched the perimeter, then stepped carefully into the ruin. Recall slid under fallen debris, he braced, pushed.
Time slid by, each moment he searched the more hopelessness overtook him. Even so, he pushed himself to continue until he collapsed back up against a piece of fallen beam, gasping for breath.
His head bobbed down as his damp hair clung to his skin, his consciousness wanted to give up along with his protesting broken body.
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But that's when he saw it, a glint—Chains.
Metal chains coiled out from beneath some debris, without hesitating, he slotted Recall under and pushed down on her.
Gahh—C'mon!
His whole body weight slammed into Recall, until the debris finally gave in, flipping with a wet crack.
Beneath, he saw a person. A woman to be specific. Red hair matted with dirt and blood, dress scorched and ripped. Bruises bloomed across pale skin—some from falling timber, others older, deliberate.
This must be Elise…
He dropped to one knee, ear close to her mouth.
Nothing.
His chest sank. He pressed fingers to her neck.
No pulse.
His head bowed.
Then—a faint breath ghosted across his cheek.
He jerked his ear to her lips. Shallow. Irregular. But there.
Alive.
He checked her pulse again—yet there was nothing. He felt confused for a moment until he saw the ears.
Long. Tapered.
Is she… an elf?
“Is that why…” he muttered.
He shifted his fingers lower, tracing along the line of her collarbone.
There—faint, but present. A soft, tidal push of pressure.
Their vascular layout’s different… pulse point’s displaced. Brachial flow instead of carotid.
Evolutionary divergence. Surface arteries recessed to protect against cold exposure.
Have their surface arteries migrated deeper to prevent heat loss?
Science intrigue took over his urgency.
Lower heart rate? Blood vessels deeper… Are they designed for longevity perhaps?
She wasn’t dead—just built differently.
Unconscious, hypoxic, and fading fast… but alive.
He eyed some torn canvas.
After ripping some lengths, he bound her hands, then slid them over his neck, brought up her knees and bound her ankles. She was considerably light, but that extra weight was enough to make him feel like he weighed a ton.
Teeth gritted against the protest of torn muscle as he took his first, painful step.
…
The children watched as Arion returned into the treeline.
They rushed over toward him as they saw Elise now tied to his back.
Arion forced a smile, costing him energy he didn’t have.
“She’s alive,” he rasped, adjusting Elise’s limp form. “I’ve had worse mornings.”
He hadn’t.
Hyjal stepped closer, small hands reaching instinctively to help. Arion shook his head once.
“Save it. I’m fine.”
A moment of quiet passed—only wind threading between the trees, the forest watching them with cold patience.
Arion exhaled, long and thin.
“Alright,” he murmured. “Let’s not fall over dead in front of the kids.”
He stepped forward—and the group followed behind.
Torn, bloodied, half-broken—Arion carried the elf into the trees, children trailing like uncertain shadows.
—— ? —— —— ? —— —— ? ——
The forest loomed over them as they picked their way forward with cautious steps.
The forest pressed close. Leaves brushed his arms, snagging at drying blood. Each step sent fresh fire through his legs; bandages had soaked crimson, dark trails marking his path.
Breath came harsh and ragged now. Vision tunneled at the edges. Elise’s weight felt like stone; unconsciousness hovered, patient, promising rest if he simply stopped.
He looked half gone already by this point—eyes hollow, face and body covered in sweat.
He wasn’t sure anymore whether he carried someone on the brink of death—or already past it.
Behind him, the children clustered around Hyjal, voices hushed with awe as they examined the green shard’s Codex.
“I can’t believe you managed to get an Uncommon Weapon Shard!“ A dark-haired boy whispered, envy thick. “Everything was so chaotic—I’m surprised anything survived.”
A red-haired girl leaned in. “You’re just like those Freeblades from the Guild!”
Hyjal flushed, unused to the spotlight.
“So the Lightstring trait helps lighten the string’s loading force?” A girl with a ponytail asked, eyes bright. “No wonder you’re able to use it!”
“It has such a cool sounding Boon too!” Another added. “Ghost Chain… So if enough Vitalis is supplied, the bolt can produce ghost-like chains that add weight to the target—the more Vitalis supplied, the longer the chains are!”
Hyjal nodded, sheepish. “Yeah… but the cost would probably wipe me out completely.”
Wiela turned slightly towards the group, adding to their conversation, “Don’t get too attached, the Guild will most likely confiscate it. The likelihood of that Shard Weapon originating from the Shadow Trade, well, to put it bluntly, very high.”
Groans and eye-rolls rippled through the group.
“Way to kill the mood, Wiela.”
She shrugged, then looked at Arion’s back—his steps slower now, shoulders rounding.
“Arion… maybe we should take a quick moment to catch—”
“Keep moving.” His voice was gravel, eyes fixed on the ground, every scrap of focus poured into the next step. “If we don’t hurry…” He exhaled heavily. “...Elise won’t make it.”
His boot slipped on wet root. He slammed shoulder-first into a trunk, bark scraping raw skin. Sweat sheeted down his pale face.
Unnatural silence engulfed him as the children's voices became static.
A branch snapped.
Then he heard it—
HISSS.
Arm hairs rose. The sound slithered from somewhere ahead—low, wet, deliberate.
—— ? —— —— ? —— —— ? ——
