After finishing his meal, Oliver strolled leisurely down the sunlit street, his pace unhurried, almost languid. The warmth of the afternoon sun kissed his skin, while the cool, salty sea breeze brushed against his face. The air carried that unique scent of the ocean, both refreshing and soothing, though it added to his already growing fatigue. Each step felt heavier, as drowsiness began to settle in.
Earlier, during lunch, Oliver had ordered a steaming bowl of noodles. It had been too hot to eat immediately, so he waited for it to cool down, slowing his pace compared to his companions. They had long finished their meals and, mindful of the crowded establishment, departed ahead of him to continue their patrol. Or rather, to continue walking, as there was no immediate urgency. The mission required no strict coordination, and besides, vigorous activity after eating wasn't advisable.
As he wandered, Oliver let out a contented sigh, murmuring to himself, "This breeze, this sunshine… a nice cold juice would be perfect right about now." Absentmindedly, he scratched his head with his right hand, feeling the tickle of the arrow feathers strapped across his back as they brushed against his arm, adding an itch to his already relaxed state.
But suddenly, the peaceful atmosphere shattered. From a narrow alley to his left, the unmistakable sound of a child crying pierced the air, immediately pulling Oliver out of his sleepy haze. He wasn't the only one to react. A nearby soldier, alerted by the cries, stiffened. His face tensed, and without hesitation, he drew the sword at his waist, rushing toward the source of the distress.
Oliver turned his gaze toward the alley and saw a little girl, sitting on the ground, wailing inconsolably. The soldier, clearly on edge, quickly discarded his weapon and knelt beside her, speaking in a soothing tone, trying to comfort the child. It seemed she was lost.
For a moment, Oliver considered walking away. This wasn't his concern, after all. But as he began to turn, something caught his eye; something wrong. In the shadowed corner above them, barely visible, an arrow was already notched in place on a crossbow. Worse yet, a second arrow was being carefully loaded, and its aim was set on the unsuspecting soldier below.
Oliver's brow furrowed. His instincts screamed danger. It seemed that whoever had set up this trap wasn't targeting the girl at first; no, the soldier, or perhaps the child herself, was the real victim.
Without drawing attention to himself, Oliver approached the scene. His right hand, which had been scratching his head moments ago, now discreetly brushed against the feathers of his arrows. His left hand moved with equal subtlety, grazing the longbow that hung at his side.
Maintaining his calm demeanor, he suggested to the soldier, "Why don't we take her back to the street? It's likely her parents are already looking for her out there." The soldier, still focused on the crying girl, nodded in agreement. Carefully, he picked her up, sheathed his sword, and began leading her toward the main road.
Oliver followed closely behind them, every sense on high alert. The crossbow above remained trained on them, the danger still looming. Yet, despite the tension, the arrows were never released.
Once they reached the bustling street, a sudden cry erupted from the little girl. "Dad! Mom!" she shouted with glee, spotting a disheveled couple searching frantically for her. She bolted from the soldier's arms, rushing into their embrace, and the family was reunited. The soldier, now smiling, gave a small nod of satisfaction and returned to his post.
No one else had noticed the danger lurking in the shadows. No one, except Oliver.
He let out a quiet sigh, shaking his head as he walked away, the tension slowly dissipating from his body. The incident had passed without conflict, and the arrows remained unused. Still, Oliver couldn't shake the feeling of unease as he rejoined his companions. He forced his expression into a neutral mask, concealing any sign of what had just transpired, and resumed his leisurely walk with the group, his fatigue from before returning as if nothing had happened.
But deep down, he knew. Those arrows… they had been meant for him, or perhaps his comrades. And they were no ordinary arrows, they were the work of the elves they had encountered the day before.
As night fell, the mood of the group remained light. Enola, the most jovial of the bunch, jingled a gold coin in his hand, one embossed with the half head of a crow, looking particularly pleased with himself.
"I can't believe how easy this job is," Enola mused aloud. "Just a bit of walking around, and we're getting paid for it. Plus, it covers meals. Can't get better than that!"
Chris, on the other hand, was visibly drained. His eyes darted around, his exhaustion showing from a full day of vigilant observation. He remained quiet, scanning the horizon out of habit.
Meanwhile, Lesley and Sandra, who had been chatting in hushed tones all morning, continued their private conversation, leaning close as they exchanged whispers.
Oliver walked quietly, his thoughts still lingering on the unseen arrow and the hidden threat that lurked in the shadows. For now, the group remained blissfully unaware. But Oliver knew it was only a matter of time before the elves made their next move.
Oliver rolled his stiff neck, feeling the tension that had settled in his muscles after the long day. His eyes, however, were distant, lost in thought as his mind turned over something that lingered just out of reach.
When they finally returned to the inn, the group used the coins they had earned to secure another night's stay. Exhausted but relieved to have a roof over their heads, they retreated to their familiar room. Each of them dropped onto their usual spots, the weight of the day pulling them into sleep almost instantly.
It might have been a simple day of walking, but even walking can drain you after hours of treading the same paths under the relentless sun.
As the moon crept across the sky, casting pale light over the city, a figure appeared at the entrance to the Adventurer's Guild. The man, cloaked in black with an expressionless white mask, stood silently in the shadows for a moment, his presence a quiet threat. He moved with eerie calm, pushing open the door, which wasn't locked at all, as though the building had nothing worth guarding.
Inside, silence enveloped the man. His footsteps creaked on the wooden floor, the sound echoing through the empty space. Dust swirled lazily in the beams of moonlight filtering through the windows. With gloved hands, the masked man approached the counter, testing the door next to it.
To his mild surprise, it swung open with no resistance.
The man let out a low, humorless chuckle. "I suppose paper isn't worth locking up," he murmured under his breath, the sound barely louder than a whisper.
From the folds of his robe, he produced a small pouch of green powder, which he poured into his hand and gently blew over the piles of documents scattered across the room. A soft, ethereal green glow pulsed from a stack of papers in the corner. The man moved toward them with deliberate care, retrieving five specific sheets from the pile.
"I'd rather not deal with those overzealous elves, but less trouble is always better," he muttered, slipping the papers into his cloak. He closed the door behind him and slipped back into the night, leaving no trace of his presence.
Outside, the city was guarded, though barely. Weary soldiers lined the walls, fighting sleep as their heads bobbed with exhaustion. In their momentary lapse, the masked man disappeared into the shadows, unnoticed.
With every step, he felt the watchful eyes of the city fade behind him, as he made his way to the rocky seashore. Finding a secluded spot, he crouched behind a large rock, ensuring he wasn't followed. From his cloak, he pulled out the papers and his gloves, setting them together. With a flick of a match, the flame sparked to life, and within moments, the documents were consumed by fire, turning to ashes that scattered in the salty breeze.
As the final embers died out, the man stood, brushing his hands clean of the task. "Next, the elves," he muttered, gripping the longbow at his side. His eyes were sharp with intent as he disappeared into the night once more.
Not far away, a tense confrontation was brewing among the elves. The elf leader, clad in black, was shouting furiously at a thinner, younger member of the group.
"Why didn't you listen to me this morning?!" the leader barked, his voice booming as if he didn't care who heard. His anger was palpable.
The younger elf, shrinking under the weight of the accusation, defended himself, "She was just a little girl! And if you hadn't insisted on staying in the city, we wouldn't have been spotted at all!"
"So, it was his decision to stay behind," the masked man thought, eavesdropping from the shadows. He absentmindedly drummed his fingers against the iron arrow hanging from his bow.
"What's wrong with staying in the city?" the leader sneered. "We could've killed a few more humans aiding the Black Crows while we were at it!"
The thin elf flinched but remained defiant. "And you're saying it was your idea to target the little girl?!" A voice rang out from the entrance of the alley, sharp and cold.
All the elves snapped to attention, tense for a fight. But when they saw the man standing there, his mask gleaming in the moonlight; they hesitated, recognition flashing in their eyes.
The leader glared at him, but his posture eased. "What do you want?" he growled.
The masked man tilted his head, as if pondering the question. "Crying… attracts attention," he said thoughtfully. "It's not a bad tactic, really. If she kept crying, someone would've come. You weren't wrong to try to silence her, but…"
His voice trailed off, and in one swift motion, he unslung his longbow, nocking an iron arrow with lethal precision. The tension in the air was palpable as the elves froze in place.
"I wouldn't move if I were you," the masked man warned, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "This arrow can go through all of you and still pin that one," he gestured toward the young elf, "to the wall behind you."
The elves stood paralyzed, fear rippling through the group.
The masked man turned his gaze to the young elf he had singled out, his tone now dripping with cold malice. "Now tell me. Do you think the fault lies with you for failing to lead your group, or with the little girl… for not crying loud enough to cover your tracks?"
The silence that followed was suffocating, as the masked man's eyes bore into his target, awaiting an answer that might never come.