That same night, deep in the Varethian mountains and under the canopy of lunar light and a billion stars Draven watched the silver stream and glistening rocks. Fire flies filled the space, the grass, the tree tops and their branches. He shut his eyes let the sound wash him, the soft trickle of water on rocks, the wind rustling the branches, the crickets hopping about, then—
Soft padding of feet, alluring scent of a fresh bath and the soft thumping of a pure heart. He smiled then turned, the thought of her brought him over the edge, but the sight of her shattered restraint.
He stepped in close, the warmth rolling off him before his arms even moved. Then they did, sliding around her waist and tugging her hard against his chest.
He kissed her like he'd been holding it back all night—slow, sure, his tongue brushing the soft give of her lips until she opened for him, and they met in that wet, hungry slide.
The dark pressed in around them, thick and quiet, and everything else just fell away. It wasn't thought anymore; it was need, raw and humming under the skin. Her nails raked down his bare back as he lowered her to the grass, cool and damp beneath her shoulders. Her legs hooked around his hips, locking tight, like letting go would break the spell.
His hands were steady, peeling her clothes away with a kind of careful hunger, until there was nothing left between them but breath and heat. When he kissed her again, deeper, they fit together like they'd been carved for it. She clung to him—arms around his back, fingers knotted in his hair—while he moved, slow at first, then harder, each roll of his hips a promise louder than words. His low sounds, rough little growls and breathless moans, told her he was lost in her, and she was just as gone, couldn't have stopped if the stars fell.
Her eyes snapped open in the rush of it, a cry spilling out before she could catch it, and through the blur she saw the moon hanging huge and bright, a wolf's shadow sharp in its face, real enough to touch.
"Draven…" His name left her on a broken gasp, and then the wave hit—shaking, blinding—and they came undone together, folding into each other, two heartbeats tangled in the grass.
Moments of silence passed before he lay off her and beside her, their face touching. Elyndra kissed him softly.
"I've missed you" she whispered. He reached over and brushed her hair behind her ear.
"You look distraught."
"I am" she shifted close, their nude bodies touching. "My friend is badly hurt, and the mages said something about the will being broken and not just the body."
"He sounds like a man who hates deafeat"
"He?" She raised her brow.
He smiled "I know when it's a he". She rolled her eyes.
"He will find his purpose soon and see the need to rise."
"I hope so " she buried her face into his chest. He felt that wasn't all.
"My brother won't let me join the morning vale to fight beside him".
"He's right" Draven snapped before he could stop himself. Elyndra frowned when she looked at him. "You're already picking sides with him?"
"No, I always stand with you." He rubbed her nose. "But if it comes to protecting you, I stand with your brother. Let him do his duty as a man."
"And what about my duty?" She hissed "What about what I have to do?"
"You don't need a blade to do it." He said.
She looked away from his eyes, but he stopped her, pulling her chin up so their gazes met. "You have a strong mind, and I know your brother is aware of that. You could be the reason he fights; on the battlefield you'd only get in his way, and that can be tragic." Those were not mere words of advice but the echo of harsh experience—a memory reaching back centuries.
"Did you loose someone like that?" She asked and he nodded. "My sister" he said.
"I'm sorry"
"You're right, but if you must help your brother, do it another way." he said. "I—don't want anything to harm you." She smiled softly.
"How about honey cakes." She asked, her voice delightful.
"Cake?" He shot a brow.
"You live far in Ardane. With all the beasts roaming about, I wonder how your enclave manages to eat." She turned and pulled a skin bag toward her. His eyes softened at her thoughtfulness—yet the warmth twisted into guilt. She was showing kindness to the wrong person; he had done nothing but lie to her since the moment they met.
His nose picked the scent of baked honey.
"Open up." She held out a small chunk.
"Do…" she placed the cake behind his mouth, cutting his words. He chewed gently.
"You are one stubborn girl." He leaned in and kissed her, she giggled. "I love the taste" he said but she frowned. "More than me?"
"Depends" he leaned in to whisper the rest "if the cake can moan like you did"
She laughed when he added his weight on her. "Stop.." she said playfully, but he went on kissing her neck and above them the night aged.
***
From the taverns came the roar of ogres and goblins, rattling the wooden windows of the small townhouses. The stench of blood, feces, and decaying flesh gorged the air, twisting the bellies of any who dared breathe it in. But not even the stench of ogre filth was enough to sway him from his thoughts.
Under the dazed moonlight, Vax dragged himself through the darkened streets, blending with the night—save for his crimson eyes. His usual carefree persona was gone, replaced by a scowl that cursed his enemy and himself for his momentary weakness.
Pain—he had never felt it. Not in six centuries. Yet beneath his black cloak, his arm throbbed where it had been severed, the flesh still burning like fire. His regeneration had halted. What magic did that elf use? What kind of attack could cut him like this?
"Tsk," he muttered under his breath. He had gone there to erase the Beast Slayer—but instead, he'd been cornered, forced to flee like a wounded beast.
"You are one lucky bastard," he hissed. The sun had saved the elven filth.
Then he stopped in his tracks. The Morning Vale was an elite force. If they had warriors like this Beast Slayer, infiltrating their enclave would not be easy. The elf had sensed his presence with unnatural ease—something only Lord Draven could do.
His nose flared. He needed blood. The night was void of life. Perhaps the taverns.
He lingered at the wooden door, the voices within discouraging him. He despised those creatures—their insatiable hunger for destruction. Still, he kicked the door open. The blast of sound cut through the noise, silencing the room. Every gaze turned to him.
He strolled in with the elegance of a man who bent rules. His crimson eyes scanned the crowd, dissatisfied. And then, at the farthest table—what he sought.
He moved slowly toward it, each step trembling the air, unsettling his spectators. At the table, a human girl sat perched on the thighs of an ogre. The creature's three earrings marked him high among his kind.
Vax lifted the girl's face—beaten, bruised, trembling with fear.
"I can liberate you from this abomination," he murmured, his voice calm enough to make her flinch. "But you'll have to do a little something for me."
The ogre rose to his full height, towering over Vax. "Half-breed," he sneered. "You've strayed too far from Tartarus." He turned to his comrades. "He's like those puny elves."
The tavern roared with mocking laughter.
Vax only shrugged. He caught the girl's gaze—soft, terrified—and reached for her hand. She took it. The ogre swung a massive fist, but it cut nothing but air. Vax had vanished, reappearing at the door with the girl in his arms.
Almost instantly, she began to sway, her strength failing. His hunger did that—humans could not bear the pressure of his blood. Only elves could manage it.
Her neck gleamed—clean, smooth—and he could hear the pulse beneath. Famished, drained, he sank his fangs into her flesh. She let out a soft sound, barely audible, as he drank deeply.
The tavern watched in horror.
Then, suddenly, he stopped. Willed himself to. He lowered her gently to the floor, where she lay limp but breathing.
"You want to call me that now?" he said, glancing back at the ogre.
"Half—"
The ogre's head separated from his body before the word was finished. The severed head thudded to the floor, and red blood spurted like a fountain from the stump. Vax had moved before their eyes could register.
"Anyone else?" he asked.
The others drew their weapons, but not one dared strike. Not after witnessing what they couldn't even see.
He turned away and strode to the door. Then paused—the faint sound of the girl's breathing reached him.
He tore a strip of white cloth from his pocket and tied it around her neck to stem the bleeding. Lifting her, he carried her outside.
The wind had shifted, singing through the streets as he carried her beyond the town, to a tall tree by a riverbank. He set her gently beneath it, where she drifted into sleep. Then, stripping off his bloodied garments, he stepped into the crystal waters of the river.
His limb was still missing. Still not regrown. He splashed water across his face and chest, then submerged. But at that instant, the image of Elarion charging toward him—blade glowing, eyes blazing—flashed before him. He surged from the water with a gasp.
Realizing it was only a memory, he cursed into the night sky.
"I am the perfect being," he growled, slamming his palm into the water.
Figures shifted among the trees. He didn't look. Didn't need to.
"I will slaughter you," he said quietly, "and peel the skin off your body and feed it to everyone you know—if you touch her."
His tone was soft, almost gentle. But it sent the lurking ogres retreating into the shadows.
He clenched his jaw. He could not have been bested by an elf. They were formidable, yes—but this one was different. Was Lord Draven aware? If he was, and hadn't told him—
Vax hissed, his fangs flashing.
Then came a sudden sharp pain. His wounded arm sizzled like fat over flame, steam rising from the flesh. He cried out, laughing and screaming all at once as his blood pulsed madly. Before his eyes, his arm began to regrow—fingers unfurling, skin pale and perfect.
"Yes…" he whispered, then louder, laughing. "Yes!"
He turned the arm, admiring it as though for the first time. "Yes… yes…" His voice trembled with manic joy.
Perhaps Lord Draven had known about this one elf—and kept it from him. Because he trusted that he, Vax Morran—the Blood Whim—was still the perfect creation.
At that thought, Vax raised his head to the heavens, arms wide beneath the moonlight, his naked form gleaming like polished ivory.
"Yes!" he cried to the stars. "I am the perfect being!"
Then, with a softer tone—almost reverent—
"We shall cross paths again, Beast Slayer."
The night dragged on, carrying the echo of his manic laughter across the river.