Page 7

VAELITH

A summons from the inner court is rarely a gentle invitation.

I’m no fool; when my superiors send word before dawn, it signals a problem that demands immediate action.

I stand in Orthani’s narrow hall of judgment, flanked by pillars of obsidian carved with ancient runes.

Oil lanterns cast a greenish glow across the polished floors, making every silhouette look gaunt and distorted.

My boots click against the stone as I approach the small dais where Lord Velmir, an advisor to King Rython, waits. He’s a wiry figure with silver-streaked hair bound into a low tail, his eyes perpetually narrowed. He raps his fingers on a scroll while eyeing me.

“Vaelith,” he calls, voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. “We have credible intelligence that a rogue purna crossed into Lowtown last night. Possibly more than one.”

The mention of purna sets my teeth on edge. My entire body tenses, and an old memory flutters near the surface. I force it down. “You’re certain?”

Velmir’s mouth turns grim. “Our watchers swear they caught glimpses of unusual activity in the slums. A child conjuring sparks, a woman creeping around in the dead of night. We suspect at least one is purna.”

I want to ask why we let such a threat slip past the gates, but I hold my tongue. Questioning the court in public can draw suspicion. “Have you identified them?”

Velmir shakes his head. “We only know the woman might be traveling under a human disguise. We need her alive. The child too, if possible. The king’s council wants an example made.” He eyes me pointedly. “Harsh, if necessary.”

I nod once. The mention of capturing them alive gnaws at my pride; purna never deserve mercy.

They twisted my life into knots years ago.

My fiancée—my only anchor—was executed for hiding one of their cursed kind, dooming us both to disgrace.

That loss fuels the heat in my veins. I keep my expression neutral, though. “I’ll handle it.”

Velmir hands me a sealed writ. “Take a squad, search Lowtown thoroughly. Report back if you find anything. And Vaelith... be sure to remind them who rules Orthani.”

I clench my fist around the scroll. “I will.”

Not long after, I gather my men: half a dozen dark elves armed with blades and channeling rods.

Each has served under me in previous crackdowns.

We descend from Orthani’s upper tiers into the squalor below.

The passage feels like stepping from a grand temple into a sewer.

Walls sag with rot, and the stench of burnt refuse hangs in the air.

Tendrils of magical torchlight flicker overhead, casting watery reflections on the dripping arches.

My men set a brisk pace, boots crunching over discarded scraps.

Residents of Lowtown shrink against crumbling walls as we pass.

Some venture a fearful glance, others pretend we don’t exist—anything to avoid notice.

I scan every alley, every cluster of hunched figures.

My gaze flicks over pale, weary faces, searching for a sign of the purna.

I recall the rumors: a woman disguised among humans, a child said to spark flames.

The notion brings my thoughts back to the day my fiancée was dragged from our home.

I still remember the condemnation in her eyes before they put a blade to her throat.

All because she refused to betray the purna she’d sheltered.

That twisted devotion to witches destroyed everything.

I push the memory aside, focusing on the present hunt.

One of my soldiers, Kalen, catches up to me. He’s short for a dark elf, though still over six feet, with a well-toned frame and a scar marring his left cheek. “Commander, a beggar swears there’s commotion near the old mill,” he says. “Flickers of strange energy.”

My mouth sets into a firm line. “Then that’s where we’ll head.”

We navigate deeper into Lowtown, winding through neglected market stalls. An abandoned cart blocks part of the road, its wheels caked in dried mud. A rancid smell drifts from a nearby ditch, making a couple of my men scowl. This part of Orthani is always an assault on the senses.

A shifty-looking man darts out of an alley and nearly collides with me. He stumbles back when he realizes I’m not just any passerby. My men close ranks, ready to intercept him. He cowers, raising filthy hands in a pathetic attempt to appear harmless.

I arch a brow. “Speak.”

He licks his cracked lips. “S-someone’s searching the old mill. Not sure why. S-saw a woman heading that way earlier. Looked like she didn’t belong.”

My men exchange knowing looks. The beggar glances between us, probably hoping for coin or leniency. He won’t get either. I wave a dismissive hand, and my soldiers let him scurry away. The old mill again. That lines up with Kalen’s tip. We push on, faster now.

Even from a distance, I sense faint traces of something arcane brushing my senses.

It raises the hairs on the back of my neck.

I’ve honed my awareness over years of fighting renegade sorcerers.

This is different, though—like the hush before a thunderstorm.

The presence unsettles me more than I care to admit.

Could that be the purna’s aura? The thought stirs a dark thrill.

If I capture her, the court will have their example, and I can bury another piece of my past behind me.

We arrive at the mill’s outer perimeter.

It stands crooked beside a foul canal, its water wheel splintered and half-submerged.

The entire structure looks like it’s one heavy wind gust away from collapse.

A few ragtag humans linger by the canal, sifting through debris, but they scatter when they see us approach.

My lieutenant, Roath, points to footprints near a collapsed portion of walkway.

He’s built like a living weapon, tall with rippling muscle, and his black hair is bound by a ring signifying his rank.

“Commander, fresh tracks,” he says. “Small prints, might be a child. Larger set beside it—an adult with a lighter stride.”

My pulse quickens. That matches our quarry. “They must be inside or close by,” I say, gazing at the run-down building. “We’ll sweep the interior. Roath, circle around with two men and block off the rear exit. The rest of you, with me.”

Roath nods, splitting off with his sub-squad, while I lead the rest through the gaping doorway of the mill.

The stench of wet timber and algae assaults my nose.

Broken gears litter the floor, and a silent hush blankets the interior.

We move carefully, scanning every corner.

Lantern light reveals roaches scurrying over rotted boards. No immediate sign of our targets.

A rasp of frustration grows in my chest. If they sense we’re here, they might be slipping away already. I turn to my men. “Check outside again. They might be lurking near the water wheel.”

Kalen heads out, leaving me with two soldiers. We poke around the wreckage, but find only soaked planks and a few footprints leading back out. My jaw tightens. This is turning into a hunt that might drag through the night if we’re not careful.

I step outside, the faint wind tugging at my shoulder guards.

The canal water glistens under a half-moon, turning every ripple into silver lines.

Lowtown’s countless lanterns flicker in the distance, giving everything a sickly cast. Suddenly, a shout echoes from somewhere beyond a row of leaning buildings.

I raise my head and catch glimpses of torchlight dancing across rooftops.

That must be Roath’s group or another patrol.

Snarling, I gesture for my men to follow. “Move. Now.”

We thread through an alley slick with filth, quickening our pace.

My heart thumps a beat faster when I hear more voices.

The alley empties into a cramped courtyard, and I see several of my soldiers arrayed in formation, blocking the far end.

Another small squad hurries in from the opposite side.

The torchlight from both sides illuminates two figures pressed against the rubble: a woman and a child.

My eyes lock onto the woman, and something in my chest seizes.

She’s not cowering the way a typical fugitive would.

Her posture is defiant, hands positioned protectively around the trembling child behind her.

Even from a dozen paces away, I notice the faint aura swirling around her.

Magic, simmering beneath the surface, brimming with danger.

My mind jolts with recognition: purna. This must be the rogue.

The child has a haunted look, tear-streaked face and quivering limbs—likely the younger purna we heard about.

One of my men shouts, “Surrender!”

The woman doesn’t budge. Her hair catches a thread of torchlight, revealing dark locks that fall in uneven waves around her face. Even disguised, she radiates a fierce presence—like a coiled serpent. I can’t help the unwelcome pang of fascination that surges through me.

I swallow my sudden tension. Every fiber of me demands that I hate this creature. She is exactly what destroyed my life. But there’s a haunting beauty to her stance, the kind that stirs a strange, conflicting ache in my gut.

With a curt gesture, I signal for the circle to tighten.

Torches move closer. Soldiers loom. We outnumber them heavily.

Yet the woman remains fearless. Her cheekbones catch the firelight, and I notice a faint pattern of scars or markings peeking from under her ragged cloak.

She’s slender, but I sense controlled power in her every shift. She glances at me, and our gazes lock.