Malick slowly stirred awake to the soft sound of Soren stretching. The dim light in the room felt almost too bright for his still-adjusting eyes. As he glanced around, he saw Soren perched on a stool by the window, gazing out into the morning.

  Noticing Malick waking, Soren glanced over and offered a simple, “How was your rest?” He stood up, stretching his arms high above his head, followed by a deep, drawn-out yawn.

  “Honestly...” Malick mumbled groggily. “Not great.”

  Soren feigned a pout, shaking his head dramatically. “Oh, come on! You had the luxury of a roof over your head and a nice, comfy bed. What more could you possibly want?” He gave the floor a couple of taps with his foot, then shot Malick a teasing glare, his grin turning sly. “I, however, had the pleasure of this rickety, hard floor.”

  Malick slowly sat up on the side of the bed, rubbing his eyes as he admitted with a tone of sarcasm, “I was too worried you might try to kill me in my sleep.”

  Soren looked appalled at the notion. "Do I really seem like the type of person to murder someone in their sleep?"

  “Yes,” Malick replied without hesitation. “I’m a Weaver, remember? Everyone looks like someone who would murder me in my sleep.”

  “Fair enough” Soren said, not disagreeing. “You're lucky— I still need you for my heist.”

  “I never said I agreed to it,” Malick replied casually as he donned his hide armor and fastened his sword. “I don’t understand why anyone would willingly associate with a Shadow Weaver, anyways. You’ll have a target on your back too once people see you traveling with me.”

  Soren carefully gathered his belongings from the bedside table. “As I stated last night,” he said, “I need help retrieving something from the Scriptum Sanctum. Truth be told, not many would be willing to take on such a risk. I was kind of hoping that, in your current situation, you’d have no other choice. I help you, you help me... It’s win-win.”

  "So you’re exploiting my situation? How kind of you,” Malick said cynically.

  “That, and I also believe having a sharp and capable dark elf like yourself would definitely improve my chances of success,” Soren added with a grin.

  “How can I be sure you won't off me as soon as I help you get your precious book?” Malick asked skeptically.

  Soren draped an arm casually over Malick’s shoulder and leaned in, speaking in a hushed tone. “You’ll just have to wait and see, my friend,” he replied, giving the dark elf a few reassuring pats on the back.

  Not surprisingly, Malick was far from reassured. He knew all too well that being a Shadow Weaver made him an outcast, and few would willingly travel with him. He hated that Soren was right—he really had no other choice. Sure, he could attempt to go it alone... But the risk of traveling solo as a Shadow Weaver was far greater than having a human by his side.

  With a roll of his eyes, Malick reluctantly acquiesced, “Fine.”

  “Excellent!” Soren exclaimed with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Now, on the opposite side of the village, there’s Market Square. We should make a quick stop to gather some camp supplies and other essentials. If we’re heading into the woodlands, we need to be prepared.”

  Malick agreed, and the two set out across the village toward Market Square.

  *****

  The Market Square was alive with activity, a bustling scene where merchants and customers mingled in a vibrant dance. A young child giggled, completely entranced by a spinning toy at a toymaker’s stall. An elderly woman leaned in, bargaining for cinnamon sticks at a spice and herb stand. In the distance, a small dog barked furiously, chasing a stray cat.

  Malick couldn’t help but feel a twinge of concern with so many people around.

  Noticing Malick’s unease, Soren placed a reassuring arm around his shoulder and said, “Come with me.” He then led the dark elf toward a vendor tucked away in the far corner of the square.

  The stall they arrived at offered an impressive selection of travel supplies. They picked out backpacks, bedrolls, tents, water-skins, first aid kits, and a few other essentials for their journey. By the time they finished, Malick’s coin purse felt painfully light. He silently noted that, to make up for the expenditure, he would need to scavenge or hunt for resources along the way—items he could sell when they reached their next stop.

  “So, what do you know about the Cursed Hollows?” Malick asked, tucking some of his newly acquired wares into his pack.

  Soren rolled his eyes. “Psh! It's just a story to keep children from straying too far into the woods,” he said dismissively. “A warning. Nothing more. Supposedly, the place is crawling with hobgoblins, orcs, and dire wolves. Not to mention a nasty banshee lurking about.”

  Malick’s uneasy glance didn’t escape Soren’s notice. With a chuckle, Soren added, “But they’re just stories. And even if they’re true, I’d say we’re more than a match for whatever the woods throw at us.”

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Malick raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. The thought of Soren—whose lanky frame hardly screamed “fighter”—taking on any beast seemed laughable. Unlike himself, who began combat training nearly as soon as he could walk and often emerged victorious in his village’s tournaments to determine the strongest warriors.

  “Hey!” Soren protested, his tone defensive. “I might not have the combat training of a Weaver, but I can hold my own.” He drew his dagger from his belt, twirling it with practiced ease. The ornate grip and gleaming blade caught the light. “With this alone, I can bring down any foe. They don’t call me Soren the Swift for nothing!” He flashed a grin, his confidence as sharp as his weapon.

  “I suppose we’ll find out when the time comes,” Malick replied, his doubt clear.

  Soren’s grin faltered, quickly turning into a frown. “Are you always this contrary?" He paused, then switched to a mockingly exaggerated tone, mimicking Malick. “I thought you’d kill me in my sleep, Soren... Stealing a book is dangerous, Soren... You look like such a weakling, Soren...” He gave a dramatic flourish, a grin creeping back onto his face.

  Malick shot him an unamused glance.

  “C'mon, don’t be such a party pooper!" Soren grinned, his voice taking on a playful, sing-song quality. “We’re off on a grand adventure! We’ll battle beasts, charm some ladies—or lads, I’m not picky... Whatever floats your boat. Loot some treasure, eat good grub, just have a gay old time!”

  Malick felt an unexpected tug in his chest. Ladies or lads...? That implied... He quickly pushed the thought away, focusing back on the conversation. “Did you forget who you’re talking to? Weavers aren’t exactly known for being the life of the party.”

  “Yeah...” Soren stretched the word out, a teasing grin on his face. “But I sense you’re different. You seem all moody and broody, but I bet you’re just a softy underneath.”

  Malick’s patience wore thin. “Enough!” he snapped, his tone sharp. Soren’s lighthearted banter was starting to grate on him.

  Soren, sensing that Malick was genuinely annoyed, decided not to fire back with another witty remark. He didn’t want to push the dark elf too far. Soren knew his teasing nature could be... an acquired taste. More than once, his sharp tongue had gotten him into situations where he didn’t know when to stop, often ending in a fistfight or two... or three.

  In an uncomfortable silence, the two men set out from Duskwood, heading toward the foreboding Cursed Hollows.

  The path to the forest began simply enough, flanked by scattered pines and oaks. But as the two men ventured deeper, the trees gradually contorted into twisted, unnatural shapes. The canopy overhead thickened, blocking out most of the light, and their surroundings grew ever darker, an unsettling gloom lingering in the air.

  They traveled for a long while, exchanging a few casual words now and then, until a sudden rustling sound broke the stillness. Both men froze, instantly alert and on edge, scanning the shadows for the source. The air thickened with tension as they waited, listening for another movement in the silence.

  Not far ahead, a small group of devilish creatures caught their eye. Standing about two feet tall, the creatures had stubby horns jutting from their temples, sharp fangs, and spear-like tails. Some wielded crude weapons fashioned from sticks and stones. The fiends were busy digging and prying at what appeared to be a small animal den.

  “Forest imps,” Soren whispered. He took a few careful steps forward, motioning for Malick to follow. The creatures appeared weak, posing no real threat. They could easily slip by, avoiding any unnecessary conflict.

  As the men carefully crept their way past the oblivious imps, Malick noticed something unusual—a faint blue glow flickering from the entrance of the small den the creatures were tampering with. Intrigued, he paused to watch. Soren, several steps ahead, continued a short distance before realizing his companion had stopped. He turned to see Malick fixated on the imps and followed his gaze.

  He noticed a strange light emanating from the den. Realizing it was likely the source of Malick’s focus, he watched intently as the glow grew stronger, its radiance expanding with an unsettling intensity.

  The blue-hued light continued to swell, gradually shaping into a dome that enveloped the imps. The creatures stood frozen in confusion, their expressions quickly twisting into terror as they writhed in pain, emitting high-pitched, frightened shrieks. The light expanded relentlessly, its heat palpable against Soren's skin. He squinted, bewildered by the surreal scene unfolding before him. Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the light vanished—taking the imps with it.

  "What in the bloody Hells was that?!" Soren exclaimed, his voice filled with disbelief.

  Soren watched as Malick took a few steps back, clearly shaken. It was obvious that his companion was deep in thought, a flicker of fear betraying the dark elf's typically hardened expression. Soren slowly approached him, a shared sense of unease settling between them.

  "I've seen this before..." Malick said quietly, his tone apprehensive.

  Soren said nothing, his face a mix of curiosity and concern as he waited for Malick to explain. Typically, in a moment like this, Soren would crack a joke to break the tension, but something in Malick’s demeanor told him that whatever was on his mind was no trivial matter. He forced himself to focus, his usual humor giving way to a rare, keen attentiveness.

  The dark elf hesitated, considering whether to tell Soren that his own village had been swallowed by a similar blue orb. Although Soren had thought it strange for a Shadow Weaver to be traveling alone—he’d said so himself—Malick feared that confessing he was the last surviving member of his sect would expose him to unnecessary risks. He still didn't fully trust Soren, and the threat of his clan might serve him in ways he couldn't yet predict.

  Choosing to keep the truth to himself for the moment, Malick replied, “I’ve encountered a similar blue orb before. That’s actually why I’m headed to Savantra. Did you see how those imps disappeared?”

  Soren nodded. “I did,” he said. “Where did they go?”

  Malick’s gaze sharpened. “That's what I'd like to know as well. I believe Savantra holds the answers.”

  Soren could tell that Malick was hiding something, but he didn’t press. He remembered the look on Malick’s face as he witnessed the imps vanish with the blue orb, a subtle flicker of something deep and unsettling in his eyes. What could shake the resolve of a Shadow Weaver like that?

  With a reassuring hand on Malick’s shoulder, Soren gestured for them to continue on their journey. They had barely taken two steps when a chilling wail echoed through the trees.

  “What now?” Soren murmured, a frown tugging at his features. “I’ve had enough excitement for one day.”

  Malick’s gaze sharpened. “Could it be a banshee?”

  Soren hesitated, uncertainty creeping into his voice. “I’m not sure. A lot of the locals think it’s just a scary tale to keep children out of the woods. I never really believed it either.” He tilted his head, straining to pinpoint the source of the eerie wail. “It’s hard to tell where it’s coming from.”

  Wanting to avoid an unnecessary run-in with a banshee, the two men fell silent, their attention fixed on the distant sounds. Another wail echoed through the trees, closer now, sending an uneasy tremor through the air. Soren signaled for quiet, pressing a finger to his lips, then pointed ahead. Malick gave a quick nod, and together they moved forward, their steps soft and deliberate.