Jaguars are patient stalkers, relying on tireless surveillance and planned ambushes rather than impulsive chases. The Black Jaguar of Elysium was no exception, willing to spend nights on end stalking his prey, an unfortunate turn of events for whatever creature loomed under the cover of the false wall.

  This was Viktor’s game, and he knew it; all he had to do was wait. So wait he did, for hours and hours, his focus unwavering from the patch of brickwork before him.

  Surely enough, Viktor’s prey would give in, dispelling the illusion as the brick face evaporated into a thick, chalky wall of fog. Its misty veil was every so slightly translucent, faintly revealing the miniature silhouette of a crouched figure. Making sense of its frame, Viktor promptly made his move, pouncing out from the shadows to grab his victim by the throat. As he stood straight, he brandished the flailing frame as it squealed in resistance.

  Viktor examined this supposed freak, drawn first to its bulging, bright eyes that gleamed a vivid gold contrasting with the remainder of its greyish palette. It had fair, young features, set upon a canvas of pale skin, dredged in grime and muck. Lumpy and matted, its dark hair fell to its knees, taking the length of its frail, nude body. Using its bony hands, the creature scratched and clawed at Viktor's arm, pleading for its life through rows of missing teeth.

  In this dire state, Viktor could see how the priest had confused his thief for a goblin. He scoffed, glad to know he had his wits about him. It was nothing but a malnourished elven boy, not much older than Fjalla, prowling the shelves of the church pantry.

  He let go of the little miscreant, dropping them onto the floor beneath him. As the creature gasped for breath and held its throat, Viktor scanned the hidden room, looking for answers.

  “What in Hades’ name,” Viktor muttered to himself in shock as he examined the space.

  The hidden room was narrower than the pantry but longer, reflecting the dimensions of the main aisle above. Its infrastructure was less maintained, with walls inlaid with large palestone bricks, in contrast to its more modern counterparts. Along the walls were gaps, intermittently spaced at regular intervals, leading up to an alcove.

  Viktor infers confidently that this was a crypt, an underground necropolis that had been abandoned in favour of the outdoor graveyard they’d seen by the entrance. However, rather than tearing down the bunker, it seems the priest had it repurposed and concealed. Gaps where sarcophagi once lay were filled with oak barrels, and the alcove, which housed the mortician’s workspace, now accommodated an uncanny contraption. A set of four large brass containers, varying in dimensions and relevant function, connected in tandem by glass tubes and copper aqueducts. Beneath one sat a stone furnace, and beneath the other was an empty tub.

  “Please,” begged the boy, who was sobbing profusely, stuttering to get his words together,” Please don’t kill me.”

  Switching his gaze to the naked delinquent, Viktor demandingly asks the boy, “Who are you? How’d you get here?”

  “M-my name is Br-Brandt,” wept the boy, trying to think of a sensible answer, “I don’t know how I got here.”

  “What do you mean you don’t know?” questioned Viktor, “Did someone drag you here?”

  “No, no, no, I ran,” whimpered the boy, “My mum told me to run, so I ran. I ran, and I left them behind. I left behind my mom, my dad, everyone.”

  The little boy could barely make sense of his words as they blended into a blubbering nonsense between his sniffling. Viktor sighed, gathering whatever patience he had to confront the kid. He was no expert at handling children, but his time with Fjalla had certainly helped with his mannerisms.

  Holding the pitiful lad by the shoulders, he asked softly, “Take a deep breath, kiddo. I am not here to hurt you. I need you to explain everything.”

  Compliantly, Brandt collected himself slowly and then explained his situation. His family home was raided during the recent Elf Madness policing efforts, forcing him to flee his village and leave his people behind. Everywhere he went, he faced persecution: he was stoned, called slurs, chased by dogs and pursued by guards. It had been weeks, if not months, since he’d left the sweet comforts of his abode, the unending torment of his ordeal depriving him of a sense of time.

  He’d only recently come across this church, which he’d deemed vacant enough to shelter in. During the day, he hid down in the cellar, and at night, he patrolled the church halls, trapped within its walls by the locked door.

  “This room, boy,” Viktor asks further, gesturing to the crypt, “how’d you end up in this room?”

  “Well, the priest came down here with a couple of men one night,” he explained, “he stood right in front of the wall and shouted ‘YILMA HORBA GEMES’ ”

  Just as the boy said this, the fog turned into hard brick, plunging the room into darkness. Clasping the boy firmly by the shoulder, Viktor repeated the incantation, revealing the room once again. Peaking at the fog door, he nodded in fascination.

  “Those men,” he continued, “did they take anything?”

  The boy shrugged, “Just a couple of those barrels.”

  Viktor got up, walked to a barrel puncturing it with his bare finger. He set his hand beneath the leaking hole, pooling the flowing liquid in his palm before lapping it dry.

  “Hound’s nectar,” deduced Viktor, sucking his tongue and smacking his lips, “good kind too.”

  He turned to the boy, intrigued by this new finding. He wanted to know more.

  “I’m assuming they paid for those barrels,” Viktor posited.

  “Probably, they discussed coins for a minute or so,” replied the boy.

  “Know where he keeps those coins?” asked Viktor.

  The boy shook his head, providing as much information as he honestly could. He adds, “Definitely not within the church, I would have seen it. It’s completely dry here, even the donation box is always empty.”

  Viktor stood and looked at the brass canisters for a second, leaving the boy on hold. He’d surmised that the priest must have his cash stowed away somewhere nearby, possibly in his residence. As he began to pitch a plan in his own mind, he got to his knees, facing the boy at eye level.

  “How about this?” offered Viktor, “I help you get out of this mess, and you – ”

  He firmly pokes his index finger into the boy's chest, “You help me get some of that cash.”

  Viktor produced the church key, displaying it right between the boy's eyes as they crossed to gaze at its rusted iron frame. Looking back to Viktor, the boy stutters, “But I like it here.”

  Wincing in irritation, Viktor swiftly stands up once again.

  “Dear God, make some sense, boy!” retorted Viktor, “It doesn’t matter if you like it here. You don’t have a choice!”

  The boy’s heart dropped, his skin falling cold with fear as he picked up the hunter’s trail of thought. Brandt understood his fate was already cursed. For the man before him had no intention of letting him go without a bargain; it was either help him now or be taken to the camps like the rest of his family.

  “Even if I don’t turn you in,” continued an angry Viktor, “It won’t be long be–”

  “Fine!” sputtered the desperate child, interrupting Viktor’s monologue, “I’ll help you, Mister. But how?”

  Stunned by this swift coercion, Viktor paused to collect his thoughts.

  “I’ll tell you how,” he responds,” but first, we need to get dressed for the role.”

  Viktor assisted the boy to his feet, dusting off his bare skin as he led him out of the cellar. At the ground floor, the pair walked discreetly towards the sacristy, ensuring no onlookers could spot them through the windows. The hunter carefully opened the wooden door to the chamber, its obnoxious creaks startling the girl who sat within.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Peaking his head through the door, Viktor saw Fjalla leap to her feet, frightened by the noise. Gesturing with his hand, he asks her to remain calm.

  “Fjalla, it’s me, Viktor,” the hunter whispers, relieving the girl’s concern,” I’ve brought a friend.”

  Squeezing through the gap as he eased the door open, Viktor revealed himself in full before dragging a smaller figure behind him. The imp staggered and flailed, tripped up by Viktor’s powerful tug. Eventually, the boy found his footing, staring at his elven contemporary before waving and smiling innocently through gapped rows of small teeth.

  “EEAL!” shrieked the girl, recoiling and covering her eyes.

  Confused by the reaction, Viktor looks to the boy, recalling that not only was the boy filthy, but also completely nude. He lightly smacked the boy on the back of the head as if it were his fault.

  “Put something on, will you!” he told the lad jestingly, who was rubbing the point of impact and turned red in shame.

  They wrapped the boy in a shawl from the priestly wares, appropriately setting the tone to discuss their plan.

  “This is Flan,” Viktor introduces the boy to Fjalla, who sets her hand out to shake his.

  Blushing, he grabs her hand back, shaking it before attempting to correct the hunter, “Actually, my name is –”

  “Doesn’t matter,” the hunter interrupts,” What matters is, Flan here, is going to help us make some money.”

  Fjalla stares in surprise, her mouth slightly open as she looks to Viktor and then to the boy.

  Shrugging, the boy responds,” I still don’t know how I am supposed to do that.”

  Rubbing his coarse beard, Viktor begins, “You said the money was nowhere inside the church itself, right?”

  “Mhm,” nods the boy.

  “Well, I doubt the priest has the arms to be digging around the graveyard to hide it there,” ponders Viktor, “ and priests aren’t known to leave their holy ground. If I had to guess, he hides his money in his little hut.”

  Fjalla was picking up on Viktor’s scheme, frowning in disapproval as she watched her contemporaries discuss a potential crime.

  “You’re a sneaky fella, Flan,” Viktor claimed.

  Brandt shrugged, slightly nodding in agreement.

  “If you were to get into that priest’s room,” continued the scheming hunter, “you could probably find his stash without making too much noise.”

  “I guess,” replied the boy, secretly beginning to like the plan.

  “Hold on, you too,” interrupted a furious Fjalla, grabbing the attention of the to-be criminals, “you aren't planning to rob a poor old man, are you?”

  Rolling his eyes, Viktor comforted the girl,” Listen, that money should not have been made in the first place; it doesn’t exist. You can’t steal something that doesn’t exist.”

  Fjalla frowned and stared disapprovingly right at Viktor.

  “Not to mention that man is anything but poor,” Viktor justifies, pointing towards a random direction violently.

  Still unsatisfied, Fjalla shut her eyes and raised her chin.

  “Listen. No one is going to get hurt,” Viktor whispered, holding the girl by the shoulders,” Not to mention, you don’t have to steal anything.”

  The girl opened her eyes, exhaling as she looked down in defeat. She had to trust Viktor if she wanted to see her Papa again. Smiling in a mix of pride and relief, he pats the girl on the shoulder.

  “Now grab me that satchel,” he ordered the lass,” I am about to get crazy.”

  From the satchel, Viktor drew two preserved hare carcasses that he’d kept as a food reserve. He gutted the dead animals and began an off-putting process of disassembling the corpses and collecting their entrails. Viktor would then use the bloodied remains to smear the boy's skin and hair in strokes of crimson. The hunter made sure to keep bits of organ meat and shattered bone hanging around the elf’s mouth and fingers. As he stood hunched over, lathered in blood and grime, grinning through crooked teeth, Brandt was the spitting image of a hobgoblin from a horror story.

  “Could have fooled me,” nodded Viktor, proudly relishing his handiwork, concerned at how convincingly devilish the boy’s appearance was in the dimly lit room.

  Fjalla, who had her eyes covered throughout the unsightly visual, refused to gaze upon the hunter’s fabricated hellspawn. Eventually, her curiosity would win, as she slightly parted her fingers to take a peek at the dark figure.

  THRKKK!

  A bolt of lightning brightens the room, reflecting harsh light off the boys' ghoulish outlines. The girl staggers, screaming as she bumps into the wall behind her.

  Viktor breaks out into a fit of devious laughter as the girl glares at him; he’d been exceptionally mean as of late.

  “I’m sorry, little miss,” apologises a cheerful Viktor.

  Shaking off her frustration with the hunter, Fjalla asks, “What exactly is the plan?”

  “You told me you used to ride a horse?” enquired Viktor.

  “Mule,” the girl responded.

  “Close enough,” he continued, ”I want you to have Kashmir on the ready. Once you hear me fire my gun —”

  “YOUR GUN?!” shouted both elves in surprise.

  “Yes, my gun,” calmly explained Viktor, urging the children to calm down,” You will ride Kashmir to the forests behind the church. Don’t go too far in. Flan and I here will catch up to you soon.”

  “Understood,” responded Fjalla, much more confident than Viktor had expected her to be. Sensing genuine resolve in her gaze, Viktor silently nodded in approval. She’s grown a lot from the little girl back in South Rock.

  “As for you, young man,” Viktor looked to the blood-soaked elf, “we have much to discuss outside.”

  As the pair left the girl behind to collect her wares, they made their way to the church door. Brandt watched in awe as the hunter unlocked the bleached wooden door, opening the portal to the great outdoors he’d so fiendishly longed for. Viktor waited by the entrance, gesturing for the boy to head through.

  The boy took one look towards Viktor before rushing through the windy tunnel onto the path outside. Bolting with joy, he skipped on the moist soil, savoured the pouring rain, and rolled like a young pup in the wet grass. Exhausted, he lay splayed out in the yard, heaving with a smile on his face. He closed his eyes to take in the moment; unfortunately, he would open them to a sight he wouldn’t call pleasant.

  “I know what it feels like, kid,” said Viktor, looking down at the relaxed elf, “but we got work to do.”

  Vexed by the souring of his mood, the boy compromises his joy to undertake the mission at hand.

  The boys navigate the outdoors cautiously as they approach their destination. Hiding behind a large tombstone, the examine the parsonage as they discuss and ponder their next move.

  Not much larger than the sacristy, the humble abode was constructed almost entirely of wood, save for a dormant, brick chimney protruding from its slated roof.

  Pointing towards the plume, Viktor whispers, “There. I can get you up on the roof, and you can slide down there.”

  “Ok,” responds the boy, “but how do I get out?”

  Viktor takes a moment to scan the face, spotting a lone window caged behind thick iron bars.

  Confused, the boy looks at Viktor.

  “Don’t worry about it,” explains Viktor, handing the boy a hand lantern, “just flash this once you find the cash, and leave the rest up to me.”

  Unsure, the boy shakes his head.

  Viktor responds by placing his hand on his shoulder and nodding.

  Before he could shake his head again, Viktor yanked the boy by the nape and walked towards the structure. Flailing and shaking his head, the boy whispers in a commanding and disapproving tone, “No, no, no”

  “Good luck,” Viktor replies abruptly, before launching the kid onto the roof of the building.

  The boy landed bottom-first; the fall was not one that he would call comfortable, but it was soft enough to make little noise. Rubbing his aching tailbone, he looked down at the hunter below in anger. Viktor responded with a strong thumbs-up, sneering as he crept back to position. Far too invested and having no other alternative, the elf climbed into the vent and descended onto the pile of ash below.

  As he made contact with the base, a mist of smoke took the air, covering him in soot. Once the smoke screen had parted, he squinted to make out the faint outlines of the room. It was fairly minimalist at first sight, housing nothing but a drawing cabinet, a washing sink, and the low-set bed where the priest was sleeping.

  Making sure he did not disturb the snoring old man’s slumber, the elf scoured every corner of the room. Peaking into drawers, behind the sink and below the bed, he found virtually nothing. He’d almost relinquished his search before a possibility crossed his mind. Shooting into the heavens, he whispers.

  “YILMA HORBA GEMES”

  As anticipated, a wall of fog, much like the one in the cellar, phased into the wall by the sink. He glanced at the priest, who was turning in his bed, before rushing behind the illusory curtain and reiterating the incantation to conceal himself.

  Finally safe, he used the lantern to inspect the nook he stood in. A small bit cosier than a closet, the space was brimming with piles of cash and precious coins, interlaid between various luxurious relics. Golden bracelets, jewelled goblets, ornate rings and more; the priest was not too shy of embellishing himself with worldly delights. One corner of the room was stocked with scrolls and pamphlets, a puzzling change in pace for the boy as he saw no value in them.

  Unwrapping himself of the shawl, the boy stuffed the large cloth with as many valuables as he could find before binding it like a sack and slinging it over his shoulder. He set his ears against the wall, listening carefully. He’d recognised the muffled sound of the old man’s snoring and taken it as a greenlight to dispel the illusion.

  Walking out of the cubicle with his newly found loot, he flashes the lantern out the window, signalling the hunter to make his next move.

  Silence.

  For a moment, nothing changed, making the boy question whether he’d been abandoned and if the hunter had been playing him all along.

  CLANG! CRASH!

  Shards fly as the window shatters, the iron cage meant to protect the glass pane flying through and landing square across the other side of the room. The ruckus not only interrupts the boy’s paranoia but also rouses the priest in a state of panic. As he frantically studied the scene, the elderly man’s eyes were drawn to the mysterious figure beneath his bed.

  Short-statured. Hunched-over. Pointy-eared. Blood-soaked. Crooked-toothed.

  The priest kicked his feet hysterically as he curled up by the frame of his bed. He crossed his skinny arms above his chest, inhaling deeply before screaming out in terror.

  “GOBLIN!”

  Promptly, the boy leapt through the window. He stopped to collect some coins that had fallen out before; he saw, out of the corner of his eye, the hunter waving at him.

  “RUN,” mouthed Viktor from behind a grave, pointing northwards.

  Taking whatever remained in the bag, the boy dashed in the direction assigned to him.

  “GOBLIN!” yelled out the priest, who had made his way to his window, peaking outside as he called for help, “MR VIKTOR. THE GOBLIN.”

  BANG! BANG!

  Viktor fired two shots into the air as he came hopping out from behind the graves.

  “WHERE IS HE, MR PRIEST?” Viktor yelled out, “WHERE IS THAT BASTARD?”

  Viktor’s acting was simply terrible, to put it mildly; he often relied on his victims being too hazed or afraid to call it out. Fortunately, the priest was trembling in terror.

  “THAT WAY, MR VIKTOR,” he replied, pointing north, “ THE FILTHY CREATURE STOLE MY MONEY!”

  “Your money?” rudely asked Viktor, his eyebrow raised in suspicion, “I thought you didn’t make any money.”

  “OH MR VIKTOR, THIS IS NO TIME FOR THIS!” the priest yelled, smacking his pane in frustration, “CATCH THAT DAMNED GHOUL!”

  “Sir, yes, sir,” responded Viktor, firing shots into the air as he ran north.

  His fruitless argument with the priest had bought the elven boy a fair bit of time, allowing him to vault the church fence and travel a fair bit into the wilderness beyond.

  Viktor, however, was an impressive runner and debatably the best tracker alive. He’d given the boy the courtesy of reaching a hidden corner of the woods before he finally caught up, emerging from the shadows before the boy’s eyes. The gesture frightened the boy momentarily, as the hunter placed a composed palm on his shoulder.

  Once the boy had settled, Viktor gestured to the bag, asking it be handed to him. The boy complied, and the hunter held it to his face. Peering into its contents, he estimated its worth and muttered.

  “Non-profit my ass.”

  “What now?” asked the boy.

  Seemingly ignoring the boy, Viktor looks up at the storming heavens and lets out a sharp whistle.

  Moments later, galloping through the thick of the forest, Kashmir comes galloping towards the pair. Atop her saddle, a panic-stricken Fjall attempted to hold onto the horse’s reins, shaken by the mare’s spontaneous flight. She fell to a mixture of relief and anger as the mare halted right by Viktor, realising this was part of the hunter’s plans.

  “Well now,” Viktor responds, finally acknowledging the boy's question, “Now we travel in style.”

  With the priest left in an unspeakable conundrum, the enriched trio were free to ride comfortably along the easy road to Dansfurt.