Two years had passed.
In that time, under the quiet yet relentless pressure from Marquess Maxim Mellon, three minor noble houses had bent their knees once more to the crest of the fallen giant—House Sureva.
One by one, the lesser nobility returned from exile. The first was Baron Edelgard of Riverhollow—old, practical, and vitaly disillusioned with the court of Duke Siegfreed. Viscount Telwin of Eastcrest came next, as the winds began to shift. And Lord Harlstone, whose valleys had once yielded up a stream of steel to Ganglen's forges, now offered fealty under cover of night, his seal pressed into wax while he trembled.
Not on public scrolls. Not in open court.
No, with whispered oaths and sealed letters. Quiet fidelity.
And so, the name that had slipped from memory in smoke and ruin began dropping back into conversation, careful and murmured.
Luenor Sureva.
A name once hunted, now honored, if still in stealth.
But far to the northeast, in the icy grandeur of Nowstra, not all were thrilled by this return.
To the solitary Duke in the pile of House Siegfreed's palace, now alone in his solar, understood as much. The great window before him—mosaic glass commemorating the conquest of the Frosted March—poured long rays of ill-contrived, colored light across the surface of his clenched jaw. In his hand, a report. He squeezed the paper so hard it creaked, thick veins of anger bulging against his cuffed gloves.
"First Harlstone," he muttered, voice low and poisonous. "Then Telwin. Now Edelgard."
He turned, his eyes like ice but burning at the same time.
"What the hell is going in Mellon's gods-forsaken fief?"
Nearby, a woman reclined like a cat in a velvet couch, her legs slung lazily over the armrest. She was draped in silks the color of wildfire, her ruddy brown hair a tangled, deliberate mess that made her look simultaneously disheveled and untouchable. She popped a sugared cherry into her mouth and grinned.
"Maybe they just like the way 'Sureva' sounds," said Raveera, her tone sweet and playful. "Admit it. It's a lot more fun to say than 'Liles.'"
Liles turned to her, glaring. "Raveera, I don't want your jokes."
She raised her brow, unimpressed. "That wasn't a joke."
The Duke slammed a palm against the table. The dust shuddered upward from the grain. "It's Alfrenzo. That masked bastard is the one behind this. I should have crushed him when he was simply a trader playing lord."
Raveera's smile fell slightly. "You think he's controlling Mellon?"
"He is backing him. Whispering in the ears of lords. He has turned Carrowhelm into a den of ghosts and loyalists." Liles turned his head, not his body, towards his steward, standing rigidly in the door. "Send word to every guild from Duskwatch to the Fractured Coast. I am going to place a bounty."
The steward blinked. "A bounty, My Lord?"
Liles stepped in close. "Any who bring me the head of Luenor Sureva or the man called Alfrenzo, shall receive one vial of Arkanis Vitae."
Silence dropped like a blade.
Even Raveera sat up straight, eyes sharpening. "You are putting that on the table?"
The Duke's eyes were burning with rage. "Yes. So be it. The elixir of life itself—rightfully mine by blood—is on the table. Let the rats scratch at each other for it, just let one of them reach it."
Raveera swung her legs around and stood now. Her tone changed—her playfulness replaced with icy calculations. "If you truly are going to play that card, sire, this is not about influence anymore. This is war."
"Then it's war," replied Liles. "You—you'll go to Duskwatch. Check on the vassals. See if any merchant caravans come out of Carrowhelm. And if you find any traces of Alfrenzo..."
He locked eyes with her.
"Burn them."
_____
In the meantime, far to the west, the forest of Frostwood was sleeping quietly—from the stillness of sleep to now waking suddenly.
A narrow, muddy trail lay below a thick canopy of low-hanging, moss-covered oaks. Seven riders moved quietly down the foggy trail—five armored knights, dripping with their capes trailing wet behind them, and two cloaked figures trailing behind—more than likely mages by the look of their staves.
The lead knight, Varek, had a scar across his left eye, and a blackened pauldron on his sword arm. He was not a knight of honor, but a bounty hunter, and a Four-Star Intermediate in guild rank of mercenary.
"Alfrenzo," he said while spitting a little onto the ground. "What a pompous mask wearer he is; think he is noble. I heard he has half of Carrowhelm bowing down to him."
The woman beside him snorted. "Charisma can get you far. But it doesn't mean it will save your head."
Varek looked back. "That elixir is real. Arkanis Vitae. A hundred years of youth. You think I'm going to let some punk merchant live longer than me?"
In the back, one of the younger mages—barely seventeen—leaned closer to her elder. "I...I just joined last month."
The elder mage, a somber lady named Halra, looked at her sideways. "Then stick with me. Don't go trying to be a hero."
The trees shift slightly in the breeze.
Varek raised a hand. The group halted.
"What is it?" one of the knights asked.
The birds had stopped singing.
An arrow whispered through the mist—and struck the youngest knight dead in the eye-slit of his helm. He fell, body convulsing, foam leaking from his mouth. Poison.
"AMBUSH!" Varek shouted.
Another arrow hit the horse. A scream. A thud.
Figures fell out of the trees like shadows-- green-draped, silent, elves. Elves who were deadly, deliberate, and merciless.
One knight raised up a shield, only for a blade to slide between his ribs. Another knight tried to rally but was hit in the thigh with a javelin, dropping him to the ground. The forest was alive.
Faren moved as a ghost, knife in hand, slipping behind one knight and cutting his throat before disappearing back in the fog. His beast, Valdrak, moved through the shadows, growling low, his glowing eyes locked in on prey.
From a branch above, Lyssari moved.
Her braid slithered down her shoulder like a snake of ebony. Her face was dispassionate, still, with eyes faintly glowing green sigils. She fired two arrows so quick they were one, one to a knight's eye, and one to his mount's throat.
"Get the mages!" shouted Faren. "Healers first!"
Lyssari responded with a simple gesture. The ground under the younger mage trembled. Pillars of earth would erupt and encase her.
Halra, the older mage tried to chant a barrier spell, but was silenced with an arrow to her ribs. She collapsed, gasping.
Varek roared with fury, swinging his gigantic blade. He struck down one elf, then the next. Blood splattered across his face "I'LL KILL YOU ALL!"
Valdrak leapt from the bramble and unleashed a mana blast. The shockwave slammed into the ground, shattering ground and stone. Varek staggered back, screaming, collapsing to the ground with cracked steaming armor.
Faren stepped forward, blade to Varek's throat.
"Enough " he said.
"You can kill me," Varek rasped. "it will not do you any good. Others will come. Siegfreed will not stop."
Faren's demeanor never shifted. "Let him send more. We will bury them just like we buried you."
Lyssari dispelled the earthen cage. The young mage inside was barely breathing but alive.
"She will live," Lyssari said, she glanced to Faren to see approval.
He nodded, placed a hand to her shoulder momentarily, "Well done."
His praise turned her face glowing, before she realized, and quickly contained the joy.
"Clean the field," Faren ordered. "Burn the dead. Leave no sign."
Within minutes, the elves vanished into the forest as flames licked at blood-soaked leaves. The last thing Varek saw before darkness took him was Valdrak's cold eyes.