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SEREN

T he town is a shadow of civilization.

Low buildings sag under the weight of years, wooden beams cracked with time. The streets, packed with carts and bodies, reek of desperation, merchants barking their wares, workers hauling crates of goods, children darting between wagons with quick, practiced feet.

A border town, caught between the fringes of Nagaland and the unknown beyond. A perfect place to disappear.

I slip into the crowd, hood drawn low, movements calculated.

Every muscle in my body screams for rest, but stopping is not an option. Not yet.

I weave through the press of bodies, sticking to the edges, watching. Here, humans and naga mingle under an uneasy truce, the market bustling with trade. Stalls overflow with dried meats, bolts of rough-spun fabric, glinting blades sharpened for a price. A pair of naga warriors stand near a blacksmith’s forge, tails coiling lazily, eyes sharp despite their easy stance.

None of them pay me any attention.

Good.

The scent of burning oil and unwashed bodies clogs my throat as I near a group of humans loading supplies onto a wooden carriage. They work with efficient movements, exchanging terse words, the kind spoken by those who live too close to danger.

One of them, a thick-shouldered man with deep-set eyes glances up.

"Looking for work?" His voice is rough, worn.

I nod. "Looking for passage. Where are you headed?"

"East," he grunts, securing a crate. "Materials run to the next town. You can ride in back, long as you don’t slow us down."

Relief cuts through me like a blade.

This could work.

I open my mouth to agree.

Then the energy in the market shifts.

The noise dulls.

Merchants lower their voices, heads turning toward the street’s entrance. The air, once buzzing with trade, thickens with unease.

A group of dark elves step into the square.

Their movements are smooth, calculated, hunters walking among prey.

My blood turns to ice.

I drop my gaze, adjusting my hood lower, fingers tightening at my sides.

The elves move in a slow, deliberate formation, not rushing, not speaking. They don’t need to. Their presence is enough.

A woman unloading a basket of fruit stumbles in her haste to move aside. A merchant behind her pretends to adjust his wares but shifts deeper into shadow.

Even the naga guards tense.

The leader of the dark elves stands in the middle of the group, tall, dripping in silent authority. His crimson eyes scan the market, movements unhurried. Like he has the luxury of time.

Are they looking for me?

I force myself to keep moving, angling toward the carriage without drawing attention. Blend in. Disappear.

One of the dark elves speaks, his voice smooth as silk. "We have business in this town."

No one answers.

No one dares.

The leader’s gaze sweeps the market, a viper searching for movement.

I press closer to the crates, heart hammering against my ribs.

The dark elves split, moving through the crowd.

One of them approaches the merchants near me, too close.

"Where are you headed?" The elf’s tone is conversational, but behind it is not.

The man I spoke to swallows thickly, shoulders stiff. "Supply run. Nothing more."

The elf studies him, eyes flicking over his men, then landing on me.

A slow, deliberate inspection.

Don’t react.

Dirt clings to my skin, my tunic stained with sweat and filth. I made sure of that before entering the market, knowing that a clean face would stand out.

The elf’s nose wrinkles slightly, disgust.

His gaze moves on. I’m a breath away from disaster.

They question a few more traders, their voices like knives pressing against bare throats.

One of them lingers near a woman selling dried meats, speaking low enough that I can barely catch the words.

"Any humans pass through recently?"

She hesitates, fear flickering in her eyes. "Many."

"Any alone?"

Her fingers tighten around her stall. "Humans come and go, sir. They don’t stay long."

The dark elf considers her, then nods.

He turns.

They begin to leave.

I don’t dare breathe until they are out of sight, slipping through the market’s exit, disappearing into the winding streets beyond.

The moment they’re gone, the market exhales.

Movement resumes. Voices rise. The tension bleeds away, though not entirely.

The merchant beside me lets out a low curse. "Fucking elves."

I don’t disagree.

But my relief is short-lived.

They came here for a reason.

If they don’t find me here, they will keep looking.

I grip a crate, steadying myself.

I need to leave. Now.

Before my luck runs out.