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XIRATH

T he wind carries the stale stench of human filth and desperation, but beneath it, something more insidious lingers. Dark elf magic.

Xirath stands at the boundary of the merchant town, his jaw tight, claws flexing as his eyes sweep over the clustered hovels and weathered stalls. The place stinks of livestock and unwashed bodies, but the people, they are too quiet.

Merchants stand stiff behind their carts, hands trembling as they pretend to busy themselves. Fear slithers through the streets, thick and cloying.

Something happened here. Recently.

Xirath strides forward, his tail flicking behind him in slow, agitated movements. A few humans scatter at the sight of him, darting into alleyways, pulling children inside. Others remain frozen in place, their gazes darting to the edges of the square, to the faint, disturbed tracks in the dirt.

Blood smears the ground in uneven arcs, hastily scrubbed at, as if someone had tried to erase the evidence.

His teeth bare in a quiet snarl.

The prints leading out of town, sleek boots, not human. Not orc. Dark elves.

A sharp inhale, and his claws curl into fists.

He was too late.

Heat coils through his chest, a slow-burning fury rising with every second wasted. He pivots, stalking toward the nearest merchant, a wiry man with a ratty beard and nervous hands fumbling at the hem of his tunic.

Xirath stops inches from him, towering over the human like a looming storm. “Who was taken?”

The man flinches. “M-my Lord?—”

His claws snap up, seizing the front of the man’s tunic, yanking him forward so they are nose to snout. “Do not waste my time.”

The man lets out a high, keening whimper, eyes darting to his fellow traders, but none of them will help him.

“T-there was a—a girl,” the man stammers, his breath rank with fear. “They were looking for her. Said she belonged to their lord.”

His grip tightens. The merchant wheezes, legs kicking against the dirt.

“Where did they take her?” Xirath growls.

“I-I don’t?—”

A flick of his claws, fabric shreds, the man’s chest suddenly bare and vulnerable. Xirath presses his talons against his ribs, just enough to break skin.

“Where.”

The merchant sobs. “North! They took her north!”

Xirath releases him with a shove, sending him sprawling into the dirt. Coward.

The moment he turns, another voice pipes up, a woman, older, her hair braided back in tight coils. “They didn’t kill anyone. That’s not like them.”

Xirath slows.

“They had the authority of a royal envoy,” the woman continues, her lips twisting. “Didn’t even ransack the town. Didn’t touch anyone but her.”

His pulse hammers against his ribs. Jalith didn’t send mercenaries. He sent his best.

Which means Seren isn’t dead. Not yet.

A slow exhale, but it does nothing to quench the blaze roaring inside his chest. Jalith had always been an arrogant bastard, but this? This was bold.

A direct insult.

Xirath pivots, striding toward the nearest horse pen. A stable boy startles as Xirath rips a bridle from the post, then swings himself onto the nearest warhorse, no permission, no payment, nothing.

The stable boy barely opens his mouth before Xirath’s tail lashes against the post, shattering the wood into splinters.

“Touch me, and I’ll take your fingers next,” Xirath warns, spurring the beast into motion.

The town vanishes behind him in a blur of stone and wood. The chase has begun.

Jalith has no idea what’s coming for him.