III

  According to my grandmother’s saying, those who set out at dawn have good fortune, and if you’re going to cross Gloomwood, you’ll definitely need luck.

  Having crossed Gloomwood countless times before didn’t change that. With every step I took there, the paths shifted, and traps I’d never encountered before appeared before me. Flowers with a pleasant scent that rendered you unconscious when you inhaled their pollen, creatures that multiplied as you killed them, and poisonous vines lurking underground, waiting to ambush their prey… This forest could hunt you down in countless ways.

  And Gloomwood always seemed to sense that I was not meant to cross it, as though the forest itself possessed a will of its own. Beneath my boots, the earth tightened and loosened as though it were breathing — measuring, weighing, deciding.

  I slowed, more from instinct than intent. I watched the ground as one watches an opponent who already knows its next move — though it seemed ready to swallow me whole with a single misstep.

  The king could not see me here, yet even his forest rejected my steps. Even the earth beneath my feet strained to obey his will. The thought burned through me like poison.

  The soil caved on itself, moss flattening, roots straining, then settling as nothing happened. I let out a slow breath, my chest tight—not with fear, but with anger. Everything unfolding around me stood as undeniable proof of the king’s hatred. I would never grow accustomed to it, never learn to quell the nausea that rose within me each time I passed through Gloomwood.

  When the pulse struck again, I did not hesitate—I withdrew. A deep crater split the ground a single step from where I stood, swelling outward. Fury surged through me, sharp and blinding. I tightened my grip on my dagger and drove it into the heaving mound with all my strength.

  “Damn you,” I snarled through clenched teeth.

  As I wrenched the blade free, the earth trembled beneath me—then, at last, fell into a heavy, waiting silence.

  I grimaced down at my dagger. It was utterly spent—drained, just like the other five at my side. The journey ahead might have been short, but I would have to stop and hone them.

  I veered toward a willow tree at the edge of the path, climbing with swift, silent precision. Once I reached a sturdy branch high above the ground, I settled into it, letting the shadows swallow me.

  But before I could allow myself even a breath of rest, the sound of footsteps drifted up from the path below. Every muscle in my body went taut as I sharpened my focus once more.

  The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. I had never sensed the presence of other elves while passing through Gloomwood before.

  I froze. When I peeked out from behind the thick tree trunk, I could make out three purebred elves advancing along the narrow path to the capital despite the fog.

  The most intense and threatening of them was the female. Her flame-colored hair cascaded over her armored shoulders, creating a stark contrast with her pale face and adding to her savagery. The tip of the short spear on her back pierced through her hair. Even from this distance, I sensed that I would be no match for her in a possible encounter.

  When they stopped right at the base of the tree where I was hiding, one of the male elves took the leather waterskin attached to his belt and drank its contents thirstily. He was quite well-built; his shoulders were as broad as a log, and his chest resembled a thick-barked tree. His dark brown hair fell in braids over the double-edged battle-axe on his back.

  The other male was quite disturbing to look at. He was skinny and small compared to the other two, his face thin, his cheeks hollow, and his jet-black hair clinging to his face in tufts. His long tongue flicked incessantly like a viper’s. The double sickles he wore on either side of his waist glinted in the sunlight.

  The burly elf let out a grunt as he reattached the waterskin to his belt. “I still don’t understand why we had to leave a week early.”

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  I pricked up my ears.

  “It wouldn’t hurt to do a little observing before the auction,” the female replied, leaning her back against the tree trunk. She then nodded toward the snake-like elf. “Besides, Cain doesn’t want to miss the circus coming to the capital, right, Cain?”

  Cain, hissed in agreement. “Droven is being a spoilsport, as usual,” he said, not looking at the burly elf, as if there were some unresolved animosity between them. “Tell me, Calithra,” he added before spitting at the base of the tree, “we’re going to turn that auction into a bloodbath, aren’t we?”

  I froze. Rivals.

  Calithra shrugged. “Do whatever you want.”

  The situation sharpened my senses and stretched my patience thin. A bloodbath, was it? But how? No matter — I had to think quickly. I needed to find a way to twist this chaos to my advantage and move before they ever saw me coming.

  The trio lingered there, playing cards for a while longer. Once the sun had fully risen and erased their shadows, they gathered their belongings and departed. The mist had lifted, and Gloomwood was bathed in deceptive daylight. I watched until they disappeared from sight, then relaxed my tense muscles once they were far enough away.

  My mind was a jumble of the voices I’d overheard. Calithra, Cain, and Droven… I leaned my head back against the tree trunk. “Damn it…”

  ***

  Noon is one of the liveliest times in the Elven capital, because elves feed on sunlight, gaining strength and becoming whole. Still, no crowd could compare to the one I was in right now.

  Cain was right; a traveling circus had come to the Elven capital, and apparently the number of half-bloods who preferred to be circus freaks rather than live in Varrendale had increased considerably. Sickening.

  I only wished Nerissa could see it that way. Perhaps then she wouldn’t have been so eager to come and see here. Half-bloods, deemed worth noticing merely because they were different, could find refuge in the Elven lands only by satisfying the curiosity of the purebloods and serving as their entertainment.

  A half-blood rode past me on a unicycle, and a little farther down the street a half-siren, half-fae woman sang softly as she played the harp. The purebloods watched them with expressions of surprise—often laced with ridicule and quiet contempt. And I couldn’t stand any of it. I had to get away from here.

  I pulled the hood of my cloak over my head and kept my gaze fixed ahead. I did not look at the clown, nor the acrobat, nor the poor magician whose cheap tricks were met with ridicule.

  From the very beginning—before this circus nonsense distracted me—my plan had been to go to Iskra’s forge and find out what he would demand to make me a new whip. Old Iskra wasn’t exactly a friendly troll, nor would he be satisfied with small payments, but as a former royal blacksmith, his craftsmanship was flawless.

  Finding the shop was much easier than I had imagined. The shack, which had clearly deteriorated since my last visit, was immediately recognizable. When I pushed open the door, a small bell rang and a layer of dust settled over me. Inside, it smelled of rust, ash, and mud; it was hot as hell.

  “Who’s there?” Iskra’s raspy voice came from the room behind the counter. Then he opened the door and came out with a limp. His sullen face, coal-black eyes, hunched posture, and short stature were exactly as I remembered from years ago.

  “It’s me,” I said, bending double to avoid hitting the low ceiling. “Asterin Eloyne.”

  He furrowed his bushy eyebrows. “Why are you here?” He wiped his green hands on his apron and began making his way through the crowded goods.

  “You forged me a whip.” I dodged the chandelier hanging from the ceiling at the last moment as I followed him. “Do you remember?”

  “Of course I remember,” he cackled. “You’re talking about the whip with the silver serpents.”

  “Alright…” I swallowed, the shame making my scalp tingle. “I lost it.”

  First, a twitch ran through his broad, green jaw; he then began to scold me in that shrill, cracked voice of his. “You stupid girl! Do you have any idea how much I struggled for it?” At the same time, he waved his finger at me. “That whip was one of a kind!”

  The tingling sensation spread to my cheeks. “I want a new one.”

  “And I want Prince Tharen’s crown.” He threw the cloth he used to wipe his hands down hard on the counter. “But unfortunately, we can’t always have what we want. Go back to your region.”

  I sighed. “Come on, Iskra…” I took a few more steps toward the troll, who had turned his back on me. “It may not be as valuable as Prince Tharen’s crown, but I have an offer for you.

  Iskra wasn’t the type to hide his excitement; the moment he heard the word “offer,” he looked at me over his shoulder with sparkling eyes. I smiled, knowing I had his attention. “How about this?” I leaned toward him and whispered in his ear. “The blood of a noble.”

  Iskra stirred excitedly in place. “How are you going to obtain it?”

  “I’m not going to tell you my methods,” I said as I straightened up. I knew Iskra would never refuse. I also knew I could never deceive him. “Just tell me whether you’ll do it or not.”

  He swallowed. “Deal.”

  “Alright.” I glanced back at him over my shoulder as I walked out the door. “Then I’ll be back soon.”

  I closed the door behind me and stepped out into the navy-blue alleyway, letting out a troubled sigh. I walked without knowing where I was going, Iskra’s question echoing in my mind. How difficult could it be to get a few drops of blood from a room full of nobles gathered to offer it?

  I kicked a stone that caught under my foot and sighed; I already missed Varrendale.