"There are 50 baskets in total, containing 250 gold coins. Please take care of them."
As the five companions left the association, the sun was sinking, leaving only a faint golden glow across the city. The streets were bathed in the soft light of dusk, casting long shadows that danced beneath their feet.
"How should I put it... This is the first time I've really felt just how hard it is to earn money," Enola sighed, staring at the two crow-marked coins in his hand, her face twisted in a mix of exhaustion and disappointment. "We've been at it for hours, and I only managed to collect 50 baskets." Her earlier enthusiasm had long faded, replaced by a slump in his shoulders and a frown on her face.
Sandra looked down, a bit guilty. "I'm sorry… I couldn't help much."
Lesley gave her a reassuring smile, gently patting her on the head. "Don't worry about it. You've helped more than you think."
Off to the side, Oliver stretched his arms, wincing slightly from the soreness, humming a tune as he did. His voice was faint but oddly calming as it filled the quiet air.
Leading the way, Oliver kept his gaze forward, his senses alert despite the fatigue weighing him down. Enola let out a lazy yawn, while Chris rubbed his eyes, the weight of exhaustion pulling at them. "C'mon, let's get moving. We're almost there," he mumbled, urging Sandra and Lesley to follow close behind.
As they walked, something caught Oliver's attention, just ahead. It was fleeting, but enough to make him pause for a split second.
"We're finally done," he murmured under his breath.
After scraping together just enough money for a modest dinner, the group returned to the old inn they'd been staying at. The wooden floors creaked beneath their feet as they trudged upstairs, barely finding the energy to exchange goodnight wishes. One by one, they collapsed into bed, letting sleep claim them almost instantly.
But outside, beneath the blanket of night, something stirred. A translucent bird soared silently through the sky, its eyes gleaming with an unnatural light as it took in everything from above.
---
"How much do you think we'll make this time?"
Time seemed to stretch on endlessly. Two soldiers stood outside a massive door, their armor gleaming faintly under the pale moonlight. One, trying to fight off the boredom, broke the silence, hoping to strike up a conversation with his equally weary companion.
"Who knows?" the second guard muttered, barely stifling a yawn. "All I know is, the boss always pays well. Shouldn't be any different this time."
The first guard chuckled, though his eyelids were heavy with fatigue. The late hours were taking their toll, and if he didn't keep talking, he feared he might drift off right there on his feet. Little did they notice a cold gleam of white light, reflecting off something in the shadows, just out of their line of sight.
"I swear, if only an elf would show up here to break this monotony," the first soldier groaned, rubbing his eyes.
The second one grunted in agreement. "Yeah. Keeping us up all night like this... The only reason anyone bothers is because capturing an elf fetches dozens of gold coins. Otherwise, who'd be crazy enough to stand guard here?"
"How many did we catch this time, anyway?" asked the first guard.
"About three hundred, give or take."
"That's a decent haul," the first soldier mused. "Hey, brother, how about you cover my shift for a bit? I'll go grab us some wine and meat. Can't fight off sleep on an empty stomach."
But the other guard didn't respond. His silence was strange, unnerving even. The first soldier turned his head, confused, only to find himself face-to-face with a white blade, gleaming in the moonlight. He didn't even have time to react before he collapsed backward, his body silently caught and lowered to the ground by a figure in a dark cloak.
"Is everyone here?" a voice whispered from the shadows.
"All accounted for," another answered softly.
"Move."
Ten figures emerged from the shadows, silent as the night itself, and slipped through the massive door without a sound.
At the back of the group was a man clad in a black robe, his face hidden behind a white mask. A quiver of arrows clinked softly against his back as he walked. The arrows inside were unlike any other, entirely made of iron, from the deadly tip down to the featherless tail. The sight of them would have left any seasoned archer speechless, if not horrified.
These arrows, heavy and slow, required immense strength to shoot and were the bane of speed-reliant archers. But for the masked man, none of those drawbacks mattered. His sole purpose was to pierce armor, and nothing would stop him from achieving that goal.
The two guards stationed on the watchtower suddenly felt sharp pains in their backs, followed by an overwhelming wave of fatigue that crashed into them like a tidal wave. Before they could even register what was happening, let alone reach for the bells tied to their waists to signal danger, they collapsed to the ground, unconscious.
The bell, meant to be their lifeline, gave a faint, almost pitiful chime as it fell, barely loud enough to alert anyone nearby.
But even that soft sound caught the attention of the guards below. They looked up, only for that instinctive action to be the last thing they ever did. A moment later, two figures, cloaked in shadows, appeared at the base of the tower, their crossbows still raised from the deadly shots they had fired. Without a word, they exchanged brief glances, communicating silently as if they had done this many times before.
In an instant, the group of ten split up, each knowing their roles. One remained behind to keep watch, while the other nine vanished into the dark, moving swiftly and purposefully toward their separate objectives.
The night remained eerily quiet. Even the distant caw of crows seemed to echo louder than usual in the stillness.
Up in the tower, one of the fallen guards still clung to life. Though the elves had the means to use lethal poison, they had opted for a fast-acting anesthetic instead, allowing them to neutralize their enemies quickly without giving them a chance to raise an alarm. Yet, in a stroke of misfortune for the intruders, one guard's finger twitched, a sign that the effects of the drug were beginning to wear off.
Minutes later, the ragged forms of elves, gaunt and weak from captivity, were brought forth by the shadowy figures. Though their faces were pale and their limbs trembled from malnourishment, the elves mustered what strength they had left to bow in gratitude. Tears of relief shone in their eyes, for they knew how close they had come to a fate far worse than death. Their voices trembled with thanks, and the black-cloaked figures hurried to reassure them, focusing on guiding the elves to safety.
In their eagerness to help, however, the rescuers let their guard down, neglecting the watchtower where one of the soldiers had begun to stir.
The twitching fingers turned into a shaky attempt to rise. The guard, still groggy and barely able to stand, reached for the bell at his waist. His hands fumbled with it, but just as he prepared to shake it and raise the alarm, his leg gave out. He fell to the ground once more, and the bell slipped from his hand, flying through the air with a clatter.
The sound startled the ten figures below. They immediately turned their attention to the guard tower, eyes wide as they watched the bell soar into the air. It was heading toward the roof, and if it landed, the resulting noise would surely alert the entire area.
Panic flickered in their eyes. They knew that if the bell rang loud enough, all their efforts would be in vain. Worse still, the elves they had just freed could be recaptured or worse, killed; before they had a chance to escape.
The two archers who had shot the guards earlier instinctively raised their bows, loosing arrows toward the flying bell. But their shots were in vain. The arrows merely glanced off the bell's surface, not altering its path in the slightest.
Realizing the situation was about to spiral out of control, the leader of the group acted fast. "Move!" he barked, pushing the elves toward the city's outer edges. "Get them out of here!"
There were others waiting outside the city, ready to help the elves escape. The plan could still succeed if they could just get the elves to safety; even if it cost them their lives.
Suddenly, one of the cloaked figures noticed a presence that sent a chill down his spine. High above them, perched on a rooftop, was a figure; a human, judging by his lack of pointed ears. The mysterious figure was silent, his face expressionless, but something about him felt menacing, dangerous.
In the moonlight, the cloaked figure saw the glint of metal, and his heart sank. The figure above them wasn't just any archer. The arrow nocked in his bow was made entirely of iron. An iron arrow; a weapon designed to pierce even the toughest armor. The elf's blood ran cold. He knew that kind of arrow could kill them all in one shot if aimed properly.
Desperately, the elf pushed the others out of the line of fire. He knew what was coming. If that iron arrow struck, at least a dozen of the weakened elves would die. He had to act fast, even if it meant sacrificing himself. He threw himself in front of the nearest elf, trying to shield them from the deadly shot.
The mysterious archer, cold and precise, released the arrow. Time seemed to slow as the iron missile hurtled toward its target. The elf, still trying to shove his companions out of harm's way, closed his eyes, bracing for the inevitable.
At the last second, he flung his dagger in a desperate attempt to deflect the arrow. But it was futile. The dagger was knocked aside with ease, and the arrow sped on, unrelenting. The elf knew he couldn't stop it. All he could do was push one last companion out of the way and hope that his sacrifice would buy them enough time.
In the moonlit silence, the arrow flew straight and true, and the elf, heart heavy with despair, waited for the impact that would decide his fate.