The elf clad in black furrowed his brow in confusion. His body, curiously, registered no pain, and the bell behind him, one that should have clanged with a resounding chime, remained utterly silent.
Hesitant, he cracked his eyes open and blinked, taking in his surroundings. The mysterious figure in the distance, bow still in hand, hadn't loosed another arrow. But more importantly, the elf quickly surveyed his own body; no sign of injury, not even a scratch. His breath caught as he looked around. No one else in his tribe seemed to be hurt either. What had just happened?
It dawned on him slowly. His own nerves had tricked him, he'd misread the entire situation. He hadn't been hit, and neither had anyone else. He'd been so tense, so wound up in his inexperience, that he had imagined the worst. He glanced around, feeling a hot flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck, hoping no one had noticed his panicked reaction.
Before he could gather himself, a hand clapped firmly on his shoulder, startling him.
"Good aim," a voice said, smooth but amused. The mysterious man, now standing much closer, wore a mask that concealed his face except for his sharp, observant eyes. "But you look like you were ready to faint from nerves. Is this your first time saving someone?" He tilted his head. "Lucky the arrow had enough force, or that could've ended differently. Be more careful next time."
The elf nodded vigorously, cheeks burning. He glanced again at the bell, puzzled. A moment ago, it had seemed ready to crash to the ground, but now it was frozen in midair, silent.
He turned fully to look, and his breath caught again. The other elves stared in disbelief, their mouths agape.
The bell was pinned against the wall, perfectly still. The iron arrow had struck it with such force that it pierced straight through the thick metal, and the yellow orb at its center was impaled cleanly, nailed to the wall along with the bell. The entire apparatus hung there, silent and motionless, as if suspended by some supernatural force.
The elves, renowned for their archery skills, were stunned. None of them, masters of the bow though they were, had ever seen such pinpoint accuracy combined with such raw, terrifying power. The arrow hadn't just hit the mark, it had obliterated it.
The masked man, unfazed by the awe surrounding him, sighed impatiently. "What are you all standing around for? Time to move!" His voice carried a hint of annoyance, snapping the elves out of their stupor. As if on cue, they hurried to gather their things and prepare to leave.
As the group dispersed, the mysterious archer scratched at his exposed hair, muttering, "Not even a thank you. Rude bunch." He cast a final glance at the iron arrow buried deep in the wall, then turned on his heel, walking away without a backward glance. The arrow stayed lodged in place, as if to mark his passing.
He didn't seem concerned that his remarkable skill might draw attention. If anything, he carried the weight of knowing his actions could expose the truth about him, but he didn't seem to care.
---
The next morning dawned too early for the group of five. The sharp, insistent knock on the door jolted them awake. Enola, still bleary-eyed, stifled a yawn while Chris rubbed his eyes, slowly rising from the couch. Oliver exhaled deeply, muttering under his breath, "Already? Can't even sleep in for a bit," as he sluggishly got to his feet. Meanwhile, Lesley's face darkened, clearly irritated that the rude awakening had disturbed his girlfriend.
Chris shuffled to the door and pulled it open. A pair of soldiers from the city stood on the other side. "We need you to come with us," one of them said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
"What's this about?" Oliver asked with a yawn, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly unimpressed by the early interruption.
"There was a murder in the city last night. We need your cooperation in the investigation," the soldier replied, his gaze steady.
Oliver exchanged a glance with his companions. "Alright," he said after a moment, his voice still thick with sleep. "Let's get this over with." He turned back to the group, adding, "Come on, let's not keep them waiting."
Grumbling under their breaths, the rest of the group reluctantly followed, though none of them could entirely shake the weight of the situation. A murder? That certainly wasn't something they expected to deal with.
The soldiers led them to an open area outside, where two arrows lay on the ground, one was short, almost unassuming, while the other was long and made entirely of iron, its sharp tip glinting ominously in the morning light.
"Do any of you use a bow?" one of the soldiers asked, his gaze sharp.
"Me," Oliver said, stepping forward, though he couldn't ignore the subtle tension in the air. He could feel the eyes of more than twenty soldiers on him, silently observing, assessing.
"What's the deal with these arrows?" he asked, a hint of impatience creeping into his voice.
"The murderer left these two arrows at the scene," the soldier said, crossing his arms. "We need to know if you recognize them."
Oliver frowned, sensing where this line of questioning was headed. "You think I had something to do with it?" he asked, his voice steady but edged with disbelief.
The soldiers didn't answer, but the heavy silence told him everything he needed to know.
"I'm sorry if you're not the murderer," the soldier began, his voice lacking any warmth. He gestured toward the other students approaching from the distance, his eyes narrowing slightly. "But you're the only ones who've recently come into the city. This kind of thing has never happened before, so I've got to start somewhere and you're the closest."
Oliver exchanged a look with his companions, then nodded slowly. "I understand," he said, his tone surprisingly calm. After a moment's thought, he added, "How about this, let one of these four go grab my bow."
The soldier's demeanor instantly shifted, suspicion creeping into his voice. "What do you plan on doing?"
Oliver raised an eyebrow, a hint of impatience coloring his expression. "What else? I'm going to prove to you I don't know how to use these arrows. Isn't that what you want?" He crossed his arms, waiting for the soldier's response.
The soldier eyed him cautiously for a long, tense moment before nodding. "Fine. Let the woman go get it."
Sandra hesitated for only a second before darting off, disappearing from sight. After a few minutes, she returned, panting slightly, with Oliver's bow in hand.
"Right," Oliver said, rolling his shoulders. He picked up the short arrow from the ground, weighing it briefly before fitting it onto the bowstring. "Let's start with this one," he muttered. He attempted to pull back the string, but the bow barely bent. "As you can see, I can't even get this thing halfway drawn," he added dryly.
Then, with an audible snap, the string slipped from his fingers, sending the arrow tumbling just a few steps forward before landing uselessly on the ground. Startled, Oliver had to jump back quickly to avoid it piercing his foot.
"Well, that was pathetic," he said with a rueful chuckle, shaking his head. "Now, let's try the iron one."
This time, there was a noticeable shift in his demeanor. Oliver moved with deliberate precision as he took the iron arrow, placing it carefully on his longbow. His movements were fluid and practiced, far more natural than before. He raised the bow, pulling the string back smoothly and aiming at a distant wall. His focus was intense, the kind that made several of the soldiers tense up, some even reaching for their weapons instinctively.
Without hesitation, Oliver released the arrow. It flew straight, cutting through the air with purpose, until it abruptly fell to the ground after only five or six steps. The iron arrow lay useless on the ground, just as unimpressive as the first.
A few soldiers couldn't stifle their laughter, and even some of the onlookers snickered. Oliver shrugged, spreading his hands with a smirk. "See? My bow can't shoot these arrows. Satisfied?"
The soldier, visibly frustrated, rubbed his temples as his face twitched in irritation. "Fine," he muttered. "You can go. For now." He waved them off, clearly agitated as he turned his attention to the next group of suspects.
As soon as they stepped out of the tense scene, Enola burst into laughter, her voice echoing down the street. "Did you see his face just now? Priceless!"
"Yeah, well, murder or not, we really should think about leaving this place," Lesley said, his tone more serious. He glanced around uneasily, clearly on edge. "Anyone with half a brain can see things are going south fast."
Oliver didn't even bother turning around as he walked, his voice casual but firm. "If we leave now, we'll only make things worse. People are already suspicious, if we try to run, they'll assume we're guilty. Not to mention the murderer is still out there. Who knows what they'd do next? The safest option is to stay inside the city walls for now. If we leave, the locals will come after us first, not the killer."
Lesley thought about it for a moment, then nodded, though his frown deepened. "Makes sense. So what do we do now?"
"Simple," Oliver replied with a faint smile, "we lie low. Stay indoors at night, don't draw attention to ourselves." He glanced back at the group with a mischievous grin. "Besides, what do they even think we're capable of? They've got nothing on us."
Lesley, still uneasy, glanced at his girlfriend beside him, then back at Oliver, choosing to stay silent.
Enola snickered again. "I'm not sure why, but I suddenly don't feel like talking to you anymore," she teased, mirroring the twitching face of the soldier earlier.
Unbeknownst to them, hidden within the shadows beyond their view, figures lingered. Eyes gleamed in the darkness, their presence filled with a murderous intent that hung thick in the air like a storm waiting to break. The soldiers were oblivious, focused on their investigation, but the shadows? They were watching. They were waiting.
And yet, Oliver, strolling casually with his companions, was too far from the danger to feel the threat that loomed. Had he sensed it, he might have laughed. The intent was so blatant, so obvious, it almost seemed amateurish.
But these figures, with their cold, murderous energy, were anything but clumsy. They were preparing for something far darker, something that had little to do with the word "elf" and everything to do with what came next.