Though there was a flicker of hope, strange potions with various, unsettling smells had been discovered in nearly every village. The timing of their appearances was curious, each time, it coincided with a village event, as if the burning of something unknown released the peculiar odors into the air.
One theory suggested an elf held a grudge against someone in these villages. Yet, considering how widespread the issue was, this explanation seemed impossible. It couldn't be just one rogue elf behind it all.
He turned on his heels, determination lining his features, and set off toward several large elf settlements, hoping to uncover some clues. The first village he arrived at sat nestled beside a tranquil lake, its waters shimmering under the midday sun. This village, like many others, was home to countless elves, though most appeared to be moving about with a sense of urgency, as if something pressing demanded their attention.
This place, as he recalled, was a hotspot for radicals; elves who were always on the edge of action. Whether planning to declare war on humans or strategizing a daring raid to free their captured kin from the dreaded Black Crow, this was where tensions were highest. If anything out of the ordinary was happening, this village would be the first to show signs.
But just like his previous visits, nothing had changed. The village hummed with its usual tension, but nothing seemed out of place. No signs of recent tampering, no strange disturbances. Perhaps this village had yet to be affected, or maybe it simply wasn't worth targeting, at least not yet.
He was right to suspect this. After all, capturing the elves who lived in these deep, remote forests was nearly impossible. Instead, it seemed that someone, or something, was trying to provoke the elves, to lead them away from their peaceful methods of dealing with conflict. The open landscape and the lurking threat of betrayal from within made the elves vulnerable. Seducing them into making rash decisions would be a far easier task than capturing them by force.
As for the threat of internal traitors? To these elves, anyone who might betray them was either desperate or suffering, someone so broken they could no longer be trusted. The elves believed that only those who were comfortable, well-fed, and secure would have the strength and loyalty to stand by their people. Even Oliver had been influenced by his teacher's wisdom, softening his hard edges. Otherwise, he would never have cared about these affairs.
From his perch high in the trees, Oliver silently observed the village, pondering the strange potions and the ominous signs. He had no idea what the traitor's true intentions were, but one thing was clear: something was coming.
"Perhaps the other villages will offer more clues," he muttered under his breath, leaving the trees to continue his search.
After a ten-minute walk along a narrow trail, Oliver arrived at another village. This one was also close to the lake, but unlike the last, it seemed unusually noisy. Standing atop a tree, he scanned the crowd but resisted the urge to send his bird companion, knowing its presence was too limited now. Instead, he retrieved a small telescope and focused on the gathering below.
Among the crowd, Oliver's sharp eyes landed on a familiar face; a male elf whose leg had once been pierced by one of Oliver's iron arrows. The elf stood with a bandaged thigh, speaking passionately to those around him.
"Why hasn't his wound healed?" Oliver wondered. Elves were renowned for their potion-making skills, and a wound like that should have healed within days. Something wasn't right.
As the elf continued speaking, his voice rose above the noise of the crowd. "You've all seen it! Humans can no longer be trusted. They've begun to strike at us. Do we really need to wait any longer?" He gestured to his injured leg, his face twisted in anger. "How long are we going to wait? Until the entire elf race is wiped out?"
The crowd's reaction was mixed. Some whispered among themselves, others exchanged uneasy glances, while a few stared in open anger, their fists clenched. Every elf seemed affected, each in their own way, but all of them were stirred by his words.
Oliver watched from his hidden vantage point, his fists tightening within his sleeves. There was something more to this elf's words, something insidious that made the crowd restless. He would confront this elf soon enough, but for now, he observed, letting the tension in the air thicken.
The elf strode toward the village entrance, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. His "speech" had gone off perfectly, just as he'd rehearsed. It wasn't the first time he had completed such a task, and by the evening, he'd have more coin in his pocket. The thought made him smirk. "Such an easy job," he mused, "and they're paying me every single day." He couldn't help but think his employer was a fool, sending him money for something so trivial.
Lost in his self-satisfaction, he didn't notice the figure shadowing him. In fact, even if his mind had been sharper, he likely wouldn't have noticed.
After leaving the village and following the narrow path toward his home, the elf turned a corner to descend a small hill. That's when he felt it, a cold, sharp blade pressed against his throat.
The sudden icy touch of the dagger sent a jolt of panic through him. "What; what do you think you're doing?" he stammered, trying to sound defiant but failing miserably.
"Careful with your tone," a voice rasped behind him. The blade dug ever so slightly into his neck, just enough for him to feel a trickle of pain. It was a sharp reminder that he was at the mercy of this unseen assailant.
Gone was the smug elf from moments before. Now, fear crept into his voice. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry! What do you want?"
The hoarse voice continued with a mocking calm, "Who told you to say what you did?"
The elf's mind raced. It had been such an easy job, something he'd even improvised; who would care? But the blade against his skin told him this was no casual inquiry.
"It; it was my idea! All mine!" he blurted out, too scared to think clearly.
"Is that so?" the voice replied, the words slow and deliberate. "Think carefully. If you lie again, this will be the last hill you ever walk down."
Panic set in fully now. The elf gulped, feeling the cold steel threaten his life. "No, no, wait! I was wrong; I was wrong! Someone did tell me to say that!"
The pressure eased slightly, but the questioner's grip remained firm. The elf could almost feel the tension lift just a fraction. His mind whirled. Who could be behind this?
"Better," the voice sneered, "now, who is this person? What's their identity?"
"I... I don't know," the elf stammered, his heart pounding in his chest. "Honestly, I don't know! They pay me, tell me what to say, and leave. That's it! I swear!"
A heavy sigh escaped the figure behind him. It was the kind of sigh that conveyed disappointment and irritation, the kind that made the elf wonder if his time was truly up.
"You really don't know?" the voice asked again, more resigned than before.
"I swear, I swear I don't know!" the elf repeated, his desperation clear. "I just take the money and follow orders. Please, believe me!"
For a moment, there was silence. Then, with a sudden movement, the blade was gone, and instead, the handle of the dagger struck the elf on the back of the neck. Darkness swallowed him whole as he crumpled to the ground, unconscious.
The attacker; Oliver, stepped back and scanned the area. He couldn't get much more from this elf, but he still needed to find out who was orchestrating this. If the elf said someone was meeting him every night to hand over money, then Oliver would simply wait.
Oliver climbed into the cover of a nearby tree and settled in to watch over the unconscious elf. His mind ran over the situation. Whoever was paying this fool had some deeper motive; something involving shifting the pacifists' mindset. War? It was possible, though Oliver wasn't sure yet. He'd wait. Patience was something he excelled at.
The elf below began to stir as the afternoon sun dipped lower in the sky. Groaning, the elf rubbed his neck, clearly confused. He patted his pockets nervously, and when he heard the faint jingle of coins, he relaxed, rising shakily to his feet. Oblivious to the watchful eyes above him, he hurried off.
"Rich fool," Oliver muttered to himself. The amount of money the elf carried suggested he was tied to the notorious Black Crow organization; one more reason to track him further.
As the sun sank, painting the sky in shades of orange and crimson, Oliver followed at a safe distance. The elf, unaware, quickened his pace as dusk fell. The air grew cooler, the first stars began to twinkle, and with them came the cloak of night. It was the perfect cover for what was about to unfold.
Oliver knew he was running low on magic; enough for one use, maybe; but he'd been through tighter situations. The elf ahead was clearly meeting someone. If he could catch this mysterious benefactor, he might finally uncover the plot brewing beneath the surface.
One step at a time, he followed. Soon, the dark night would reveal all.