The empire's diplomat rode through the dense forest, the path narrow and winding as twilight bled into the sky.
His brow furrowed beneath the weight of his mission—a peace talk that could change the course of The elven empire's fractured alliances. His mount trotted cautiously, sensing something wrong in the thickening silence.
He reached for his pouch to check the scrolls, but the royal seals were still intact. But before he could even loosen the string, a sharp whistle cut through the air. The diplomat froze, eyes widening as he realized too late what was happening. The woods erupted with movement.
A swift figure darted from behind a tree, a flash of silver catching the fading light.
He reached for his sword, but it was over in an instant. The dagger slid between his ribs with expert precision. His mouth gaped open, no words escaping, only the sound of his breath rasping as his vision blurred. His attacker wore no insignia, no mark of allegiance—only a blank, cold mask that betrayed nothing.
The diplomat collapsed from his horse, the weight of his task never to be fulfilled. As the light left his eyes, the assassin reached down, retrieving the scrolls bearing the royal seals.
With a cruel smirk hidden behind the mask, the assassin lit the papers aflame, scattering the ashes into the wind.
The empire would never know what became of their envoy, and the fragile peace he carried with him would be buried with his body beneath the forest floor.
The next few days went in a blur, and Fang focused on recovering.
He sat down to read the scroll he received, pondering on the next move.
Lands of arable soil, flourishing on the hills of the small town of Greenhill.
The cold climate delayed the food growth yet this village is the biggest food provider in the western border of the elven kingdom.
Boasting an impressive number of 5000 residents, their farmer populace is as resilient as their fields and forests.
Living on top of the hill, they became master archers, and among their ranks were some ice mages.
Those mages are sons and daughters of an old and renowned family, known by many for their decline after the war.
Fang read the report of the current suspects; seeing they have every reason to be the ones stirring trouble, he reached a verdict in his mind.
Rolling the scroll tightly, he offered it back to Varden.
"Are you certain of this information?"
Varden's stiff posture was accompanied by the precise placement of pins and ribbons on his shirt.
His sword rested on his belt, the sheath keeping it in place with a piece of metal wire.
His pants were ironed properly, and one could easily mistake him for a high-ranked military general.
Well, they won't be wrong to.
"If your information is correct, and Isgram's suspicions are also correct, what are we waiting for? We need to strike them fast and hard. To quell any flame of rebellion will only add merit to our alliance, certainly in the eyes of the empire."
"That is if it isn't the empire's idea all along..." Varden sighed.
His experience with the higher echelons of the empire was no joke.
He knew they were capable of operating in such ways, manipulating people in intricate manners that caused several betrayals over the globe.
'If the empire needed Fang and his group gone, they wouldn't send an assassin. Certainly not one who is equipped with a poison that is known to the empire; it must be a foreign poison, according to Alona's report.
The question is, will the empire conspire with the dwarves or the humans to do something so drastic?
Poison-making is exclusive to the human kingdoms, and most of them are already recorded in the almanac.
If she can't identify it, it should be either a new variant from the human empire or most likely dwarven due to the fast pace of events.
The empire sure is elusive like always...'
Seeing Varden in deep thought, Fang let it go for now.
He focused on the beautiful terraces behind the mansion, small houses, and big fields of rice and wheat around them.
The agricultural level of this village sparked envy in him, as he had never seen so much food in his life or his previous life.
The waterfall that started at the top of the steep hill at the edge of the village to the east ended in a stream of clean water all across the village.
He saw several kids swimming around in the water, and their parents entertaining them with small water spells.
His smile widened, but his heart felt even emptier.
'The children here are well fed, well clothed, and they only lack resources. Their best resource is their people. So many children in one place, yet twice as many adults with the drive to protect their youth.
Is this parenthood? Have I been having it that bad till now or is it just a bad comparison?'
He stood up and waved to Varden to join him.
"Come, we have much to do. I hope Isgram finished the trap preparations."
In the last two weeks, Fang focused on recovering his mana and muscle mass.
He made sure to train lightly, rest hard, and eat anything Alona made him.
He didn't expect her to be such a good cook, but he was surprised, just like the rest of the group, by her meat stew.
The one who enjoyed it the most, though, is Gaia, who has grown to be a glutton in the last two weeks, too.
Those meals always ended with Gaia bear hugging the young girl, suffocating hugs that pushed the air out of her lungs forcefully.
Isgram laughed every time she begged for help with a red face, trying to claw her way out of her embrace.
But every time her eyes landed on Fang to ask for help she saw a peaceful expression on his face, one that proved how much her treatment worked.
Fang walked on the icy smooth stone tiles, feeling the rugged texture designed to prevent slips even in the harsh winter.
As he and Varden walked towards the isolated shack near the Eastern edge of the village, they heard a loud explosion.
The former general straightened his posture, rolling his shoulders to loosen the stiffness in his back. Despite being cast to the empire's periphery for years, away from the core of military affairs, his instincts were still sharp. But his body... his body wasn't the same as it had been when he was commanding legions.
Varden saw the massive fireball descending toward the village, but the villagers were used to it by now.
The children were warned not to go near the "Mad mage" as they called him.
"This never ends, does it?" Varden muttered under his breath. His fingers twitched as he called on his mana, feeling the familiar rush of energy flood his limbs. The wind answered his call, but it came slower than he would've liked. A telltale sign of rust creeping into even his strongest skills.
Varden inhaled sharply and began to focus, summoning the wind around him. The fireball was closing in fast. In his younger years, this kind of spell would have been effortless. He had commanded armies, shaping the battlefield with the force of his wind magic. But here, far from the empire's core, he had grown lax, and he could feel the strain of even such a routine exercise.
He crouched low, then shot into the air, the wind propelling him upward with a violent gust. The spell required more effort than he expected. As he reached a height just below the fireball, his feet trembled slightly from the force of his takeoff.
The fireball reached close enough for Varden to split the house-sized fireball with his winds.
"Wind, heed my call! Wind axe!"
A blast of wind messed up Fang's hair completely, now reaching the rest of the village as this wasn't any simple gust of wind.
'Not cool Varden, so fucking not cool.' Fang sighed as he fixed his long hair with his right hand.
His left hand was focused on summoning his scout to go and call Isgram out of the shack where he conducted his experiments.
"No way in hell I am going to smell like BBQ before lunch with the girls, Isgram."
As he waited for his scout to find Isgram in the now blown-up shack, he watched Varden approach the fireball.
His figure shrank in the distance, but the fireball only seemed to gain more volume.
The wind blade was weaker than what Varden had hoped.
His control faltered for a brief moment, but the spell gained strength as it neared the fireball, swelling with the gathering wind.
The friction of wind and flame created a pulse in the air, causing a faint sonic boom that echoed across the village.
The blade finally struck the fireball, slicing through its core. The fire dispersed in a brilliant burst of flame and heat, the scattered remnants of the spell fizzling into harmless embers before they could reach the village.
The wind blade generated from his kick created a mini sonic boom, resounding lightly all across the village.
As the wind blade neared the fireball, it started to gain more power and dispersed the flaming ball.
Varden landed with a heavy thud, his breath coming out in short, controlled bursts. He hadn't expected it to be this difficult.
'Dammit,' he thought, clenching his fists. His power was still there, but the years of inactivity had dulled his edge. He could feel the strain in his muscles, the sluggishness in his movements.
Fang approached him, fixing his hair again with a smirk. "Not bad, but you messed up my hair."
Varden shot him a tired but amused look, shaking his head. "At least it's not a whole village on fire, huh?"
He glanced back at the dispersing flames and then toward the shack, where Isgram's experiments had clearly gone out of control again. The fireball had been dangerous, but the real danger, Varden knew, was his growing rustiness. He hadn't had to wield magic in combat situations for years. Being stationed at the fringes of the empire had made him soft in ways he hated to admit.
"Maybe I need to spar more with Isgram," Varden said under his breath. His voice was laced with frustration, though he kept his demeanor calm. He knew he couldn't afford to slip further, not with the looming threats from the empire, the dwarves, and now this village of Greenhill.
As they neared the shack, Fang's thoughts returned to the report.
'Greenhill. It had become a breeding ground for potential rebellion.
The signs point to them, yet I have a feeling they aren't capable of doing something like that without strong backing.
Isgram should be designing a better trap, there must be a way to harness the flames to our benefit.
If I can make them make a move, I will make sure to claim their troops and add them to my army.
The mana cost will be outrageous, but an army of 100 simple warriors is attainable.'
Fang sighed, his schemes are still too hypothetical.
The scout's vision picked up on the presence of Isgram, and Fang stopped in place just a couple of steps away from the road leading to the shack.
Varden still regulated his breathing so he was grateful for Fang's stop.
Fang dispelled his scout, and from the ruins of the shack came out a grumbly small man, his ginger beard now embellished with black charring marks.
Seeing Fang and Varden standing on the path to the shack, still keeping their distance due to obvious reasons he had to say it:
"Godamn it, now I need to shave my beard!"
He couldn't hold his grumbly expression any longer as he saw the dumbfounded look on their faces, and he burst out laughing!
"You're one hell of a bastard, my friend. You need to stop drinking, you're losing your only good brain cells this way. That is if there were any, to begin with.."
Hearing his insult Isgram went on a cursing spree, and Fang kept examining the shack with an exasperated look on his face.
Standing on the side as Fang lectured Isgram while Isgram cursed at him, he couldn't help but reminisce about how similar those two were to the king and his advisor.
'Terry would have laughed at those younglings, he must be banging heads with the king right now. I wish I could have stayed with you, friends.
But it seems I found a new reason to fight, and if the empire isn't the one to order the assassination then we might be able to ally with the empire under Fang's banner.
I wish you were a bit more reasonable, brother... I sure hope you aren't behind this mess.'
Far from the village of Davra, a pair of scouts rode back, their clothes torn and blackened from ash. Their horses are heaving heavily, and their legs are clearly injured.
The guard tower on top of the hill noticed them approaching on the horizon, signaling them to head toward the clearing to the south.
There, a small band of black-clothed elves waited, and in their midst, one anxious man walked back and forth.
Seeing the scouts, he let out a breath of relief which didn't last long.
When he saw their state, his face grew grim.
"What the hell happened to you two?! I hope you weren't discovered because you would be foolish to return here after that!"
"Sir, we have been attacked by some fire spirits, we have no idea whether they are magical beasts or someone's spell!"
The young man trembled with anger, but also fear.
Fire spirits are rare in the winter, but they can still burn fields and cripple their economy instantly!
"Did they chase you?"
The two didn't answer, their faces solemn and grim.
"I asked you two a question, did. They. Chase. You?"
'Fuck me, this silence isn't good...' he thought.
"Sir, they did."
The man looked up at the sky, and some snow fell on his head.
The wind howled, but the sound of ice crystalizing was heard sharply.
The two men were frozen instantly, their bodies stiff to touch.
"Get rid of them away from the village. Ditch all items or signs of our village.
If someone asks questions in the village, bring them to me."
A fearful guard asks, his body cold, almost as cold as the man he serves, "And what if it's their families?"
"They don't have any. They are orphans picked especially to serve me in life...
And unfortunately, in death.
Now throw them out of here, I need to update the dwarves on the complications..."