The rhythmic clatter of hooves echoed against the cobbled road as the Elven convoy advanced toward Clares. A heavily reinforced carriage, with intricate runes, rolled at the center of the formation. Archers flanked it from every angle, their bows always ready, their gazes never wavering.
Inside, Evan sat with his hands shackled and his back pressed against the cold wooden interior. The dim light slipping through the curtained window barely illuminated the space, but even in the shadows, he wasn't alone.
Across from him sat an Elf—sharp-eyed, angular features, lips twisted into a grin that never touched his eyes. He was the same man Evan had glimpsed back at the ruins of the carriage. But here, face to face, his presence felt even more sinister.
The elf leaned forward slightly, his voice smooth and mocking. "Is there a reason for you to be even here in Elven territory?" The smile remained, as if he found the situation amusing beyond words.
Evan met the man's stare with calm defiance, though fatigue was beginning to weigh on his mind. "There was a mutual agreement. Between your kingdom and mine. We were tasked with investigating the recent border incident—uncovering the party responsible for the attacks. We're trying to prevent war."
The Elf gave no answer at first. He simply studied Evan in silence, as if peeling him apart piece by piece.
Then, his grin widened. "Well, maybe that's why our beloved Princess is gone. Humans… always clever, always a few steps ahead. Perhaps too clever. Are you sure the schemer isn't among your own kind?"
Evan narrowed his eyes but didn't waver. "There's an illusionist. A powerful one. Someone who can twist appearances, fabricate truths. That's our lead. If we can find the illusionist, we may be able to stop this madness."
The Elf's eyes glittered with something unreadable. But this time, he said nothing. He rose without a word, adjusted his pristine cloak, and exited the carriage.
The silence he left behind was heavier than his presence.
Evan closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. His belongings had been confiscated the moment they were captured—his weapons, his documents, even the scroll they'd been given. But though his hands were bound, his mind was sharp.
The guards outside murmured quietly in Elvish, assuming he wouldn't understand. But Evan had studied languages during his early days in the guild. He caught bits of their conversation.
"…Lord Andra…"
"…orders from the royal advisor himself…"
Andra. The name clicked in his mind. So that was the elf from earlier—the King's royal advisor. But why was someone of that rank out in the wilderness, commanding troops?
Nothing about this made sense. Unless…
Unless it was all staged.
Evan's thoughts returned to the scene of the destroyed carriage—the precise positioning of the wreckage, the perfect lack of evidence, the well-timed appearance of the Elven military. It had been a trap. One too perfectly orchestrated for coincidence. Whoever had set this up knew exactly how both kingdoms would respond. And now, the balance was teetering.
Evan clenched his fists. If this led to war, countless lives would be lost. Someone wanted that.
But who? And why?
The days dragged on. They gave him only water—just enough to keep him conscious. Hunger gnawed at him constantly, weakening both body and resolve. Yet Evan remained alert, counting the time through the changing temperature and light seeping through the slits in the carriage.
On the fourth day, the scenery outside began to change. The trees grew sparse, replaced by soot-covered hills and twisted ruins. Black smoke rose faintly in the distance.
When the carriage finally halted, and the door creaked open, Evan was greeted by a horrifying sight.
Clares—the beautiful Elven capital—was wounded.
Homes lay in ruin. Shops stood hollow, charred black and crumbling. The faint scent of blood mixed with the acrid sting of fire. It was like a war zone, a battlefield frozen in aftermath.
Two guards yanked him out roughly and marched him through the ruined city streets. Elves watched from shattered windows, eyes filled with fear and suspicion. Children clung to their mothers as the soldiers passed. No one smiled.
The palace came into view—once a symbol of Elven grace, now a foreboding silhouette draped in silence. Evan was dragged up the grand steps and through the massive doors, past towering pillars and cold marble halls.
They led him into the royal audience chamber.
There, at the far end of the chamber, sat King Oden.
The Elven King was draped in layers of ceremonial robes, but he looked… wrong. His eyes were dull and unfocused, the life drained from them. His posture was unnaturally straight, as if held together by something unseen. He didn't look like a man grieving his daughter—he looked like a puppet.
Standing to his left was Andra, calm and composed.
"Your Majesty," Andra said, bowing, "I present the human. He was found near the royal wreckage, alone. The others fled. He may hold answers—or responsibility."
Evan raised his head, lips parting in disbelief. "That's not true," he began, but Andra continued without pause.
"We request permission to interrogate him. If he confesses, we may uncover more of the plot. If not…" Andra turned slightly toward Evan. "Then justice will be swift."
King Oden said nothing for a long moment.
Then, in a voice so dull it barely echoed through the chamber, he muttered, "Do it. If the humans are responsible… prepare for war."
Evan's stomach turned.
There was no trial. No demand for proof. Just an order. So casually spoken, as if declaring the weather.
Something is wrong, Evan thought. The King's lack of emotion, the way Andra twisted the truth—it felt… staged. Artificial.
As the guards approached to seize him again, Evan looked back one last time.
The throne. The King. The advisor. The emptiness.
He was no longer part of a diplomatic mission. He was a scapegoat. A fuse, lit by unseen hands, dragging the world toward fire.
And yet, despite the pain, despite the fear rising inside his chest, Evan held his head high.
They would not break him.