Mordeu was shocked, and he wanted to see what was going on. Not only that, why was nobody helping him out? However, there was no point in wasting time asking. He pushed his way through the crowd and found himself on the front row of the crowd, where he could watch without exerting a strain on himself.
Only, he wasn't there just to watch; he wanted to help out.
On seeing the scene, he realized the reason why nobody was helping out.
In the center of the crowd was the son of Alvitir, the boy with white hair. A sword was in his hand, and his attacker stood in front of him, holding a sword as well.
It wasn't reasonable that a wolf would be fighting with a sword, and also, where had his family or the guards gone?
The son of Alvitir was wearing white robes, the same one he had on earlier that day when Mordeu arrived; however, it had been stained with blood now. He was circled around by the crowd, and his gaze had overflowing murderous intent in them; it was cold and unforgiving.
On the floor, Mordeu found two dead bodies of assassins clad in black attire that covered their faces just like the last one standing. His gaze moved back to the boy with white hair; Mordeu could see that his chest was heaving up and down; from the look in his eyes, he was already tired. Or maybe that was his default look because that was how he looked when they had arrived earlier.
His sword was slim and blue, and his slim fingers were wrapped around them steadily.
The assassin advanced with his sword, and he dodged it, maneuvering it out of his way. It was an impressive move to everyone watching, but the assassin was not pleased. He tossed his sword away and positioned his fists for an attack.
Alvitir's boy saw this, and he hardened his grip around his sword; Mordeu could see that something changed in his gaze, but he was not certain.
Before either of them could make a move, another figure wearing white jumped into the scene, and from behind the assassin, in the midst of everybody, she struck a hand into him, so deep that it came out the other way. Only the nature that her hand had gone in with wasn't how it came out as.
Her hand was covered in blood.
Her hand dripped blood, and her fingers were wrapped around something red and coated in the same blood. The night was illuminated perfectly, and what was in her grasp could be seen by the public.
There was a silence; the only thing that could be heard was the sound of Alvitir's son breathing and the thud of the assassin's lifeless body as it fell to the ground after she had removed her hand.
Mordeu was pleased, disgusted, and impressed.
After she pulled out her hand, she lifted her eyes from the organ in her hold and focused them on someone standing behind her brother. Her legs moved like a predator, and the desire to kill was obviously leading her movements, and she was letting it.
Mordeu glanced ahead of her to see where she was headed.
The daughter of Alvitir, with her hand dripping blood on the gray-colored gravel of the earth, strutted like a maniac about to slaughter a child regardless of whether she was being watched or not.
Her feet stopped in front of a figure; it was the elven princess.
The daughter of Alvitir lifted her hand stained with blood, her hand that held the heart of the assassin, above her, and she let it drop to the ground in front of the princess. A sort of squishing sound came from the impact as it splashed some drops of blood.
The princess swallowed, looking straight into the eyes of the woman standing before her. Mordeu could see she was holding herself back from glancing at the heart on the ground.
Mordeu listened intently; the princess' heartbeat along with her breathing was unsteady. He couldn't completely say it was fear, but it was a feeling that was dangerously close.
"A gift," the daughter of Alvitir said.
To Mordeu, it was unnecessarily loud; he refocused his hearing to that of an average man and listened carefully with questions swimming in his heart.
"To your mother, I hope she chokes on it," she said through gritted teeth.
Mordeu looked around, and everyone except the white-haired boy wore confused looks on their faces. If he were to guess, it was because they were all asking themselves the same questions.
What has the crown got to do with the assassination attempt on the son of Alvitir?
"Ayra!"
The focus of the spectators moved to the owner of the voice. It was Alvitir; he had a look of concern and sheer frustration on his face; his white clothes were dirty, and his hair was a mess.
Ayra, his daughter, turned around and faced him; she sent a glare to the princess before she walked away to meet her father who had called.
However, she walked right past him in the company of her brother.
Alvitir was left standing there, his hands on his side and his shoulders drooping down like they aimed to touch the ground. His gaze flickered around the bodies lying on the ground, a sigh of relief escaped his mouth, but that feeling was only for a second as the look of worry and anger took over his appearance.
As he lifted his eyes, he stared at the princess for a while, glaring openly at her but his mouth was sealed shut. He turned around, and he too, left.
As the main characters of the show were gone, the crowd soon began to disperse, but Mordeu stayed rooted to the earth where he stood. Until a hand fell over his shoulders.
"That was very intense," Fjall commented.
Mordeu nodded, agreeing with him. In the moving crowd, he saw the princess of the elves; her followers were with her, none was saying a word to her, and her fists were still balled, her shoulders still shook. Maybe it was fear, but Mordeu could not guess if it was directed at Ayra or someone else.
"The Alvitirs are keeping a secret from the world," Alana said as she joined them where they stood.
Mordeu shrugged, "I think it's a family issue," he glanced towards the path the Alvitirs had taken.
Alana found the humor in that and she laughed, "That's not a family issue when she openly accuses the elves of sending assassins to kill her brother."
"Okay, maybe it isn't totally a family issue, but whatever it is, it's still none of our business," Mordeu said, he was reluctant about discussing the issue. There was a part of it he was interested in, but Alana showed no interest in it.
Alana's hands found her waist as she stared at Mordeu unbelievably, "what if those assassins had attacked us, would it still be none of your business?"
Mordeu was openly stressed about what Alana was talking about; she was obviously trying to recruit him for something he had no interest in.
Sure, the family was intriguing to him, but not in the way they were intriguing to Alana.
"The assassins were obviously not after us, and it would've been suicidal if they had attacked us; they would've been outnumbered no matter how skilled they were, and as it seemed, they weren't even good enough. Alvitir's boy took them all down with a sword," Mordeu explained.
Fjall cleared his throat, interrupting their conversation; his hand still on Mordeu's shoulder, he gently squeezed it to further capture his attention. "It wasn't that they weren't skilled, Mordeu; it was that Alvitir's boy was superfluously skilled, especially with the sword," Fjall corrected him.