When Arindor opened the door, what he saw made his breath hitch. A masked man with silver eyes stood at the center of the forge, holding River and Fonrir hostage. He held a wicked-looking sword in his hand.
Fonrir and River were tied to chairs, facing each other. While River's eyes were wide with fear, Fonrir looked mildly annoyed, as though inconvenienced by an annoying insect. Quickly, Arindor scanned the room. Three men stood around, each cloaked and armed to the teeth. The one standing next to Fonrir held a long sword. Another clutched a heavy axe, while the third had a bow which was aimed at Arindor. All three wore dark hoods, their faces cleverly hidden.
The man with the sword spoke first. "Very kind of you to join us, my friend," he said, in a tone that implied that Arindor was no friend of his. "Step inside. Close the door. And keep your hands up if you want your friends to keep breathing."
Arindor's heart pounded, but he did as he was told, lifting his hands to show he was unarmed. One of the men stepped forward and patted him down in rough and quick motins. The leader's eyes narrowed as he sized Arindor up. He motioned for him to sit.
"Who are you?" Arindor asked, his voice wavering.
The leader tilted his head, a smirk ghosting across his lips. Some of his face was visible in the dim light. "That's not your concern, boy," he said. "Worry about yourself. This is a short visit, anyway."
Arindor gritted his teeth, refusing to let the irritation show. "Fine," he said tightly, "Then tell me what you want."
The leader stalked towards Arindor, reached forward and yanked up his sleeve. He stared at the dragon tattoo, his lip curling in disgust. "The Sorcerer's Stone," he spat. "We came for the stone, yet fate hands us the sorcerer himself. Lucky day, wouldn't you say?"
The other two men exchanged wary glances, shifting uneasily. Arindor felt his heart hammering faster. "The stone's not here," he replied quickly. "You're wasting your time."
The leader laughed—a short, harsh sound. "You think I care what a scrawny brat thinks? You've got the mark. That means you're mixed up in this."
Arindor fought to keep his voice steady. "Mixed up in what? Tell me your name, at least. Are you scared to?"
The leader's eyes flashed, but he didn't answer. Instead, he crouched, leaning in close. "Names are for friends. And you aren't one. But keep talking like a child, and I'll teach you what grown men do to those who waste their time."
He gestured for his men to bind Arindor to the chair. Rough hands grabbed his wrists, binding them tight. He struggled, his pulse racing, eyes darting back to his friends. "You don't have to do this," he said, forcing calm into his voice. "If it's Regal you want—"
At that name, the leader's face twisted with rage. He leaned in, his voice a growl. "Don't speak that name. That infidel stole what does not belong to him. And I'm here to finish him."
Arindor stared back defiantly, but before he could respond, the doors behind them burst open. Regal stormed in, flanked by two guards. He had his broadsword drawn in one hand, and, in the other hand, he held a spear. His voice cut through the room. "Arindor! Duck!"
Arindor threw himself sideways, tipping the chair to the floor. Regal hurled the spear, piercing the man with the axe. Chaos erupted as the leader roared, springing into action. His sword flashed. He cut through Regal's guards with swift, deadly strikes, almost as though they were straw targets. Red pooled on the floor as he dispatched the first, spinning to drive his blade through the second with brutal force.
His eyes found Regal. "You!" he growled, as if he recognized the old man.
Regal's sword met the leader's in a flurry of furious blows. The clashing steel rang through the room as they circled each other, each strike more intense.
"Run, you fool!" Regal yelled, glancing over at Arindor. "Run!"
With a surge of strength, Arindor broke free of his bonds and bolted for the door. He looked back just in time to see the archer drawing his bow to take aim at him. But Fonrir, still bound, lunged forward, throwing himself against the man, making his aim go wild. The arrow missed Arindor entirely and lodged itself in the wall.
Arindor didn't wait. He stumbled out into the night, lungs burning. Footsteps thundered behind him.
Then he saw her—Eloween, racing toward him in her nightdress, blonde hair wild around her face. "Arindor!" she cried.
He tried to warn her, his voice raw with panic. "Run! Eloween, get out of here!"
She crashed to a stop next to him. "What's happening? I heard strange noises from—"
Eloween froze as her eyes caught something behind him. She gasped, her expression shifting from worry to horror. The world seemed to slow to a stop. There was a soft think as an arrow found its way to her chest. Blood blossomed on her nightdress. Eloween stared at the arrow, then at Arindor. She staggered, then crumpled.
"No!" Arindor fell to his knees beside her. The blood would not stop spreading. She gasped, struggling to breathe. Arindor fumbled to stop the blood. He yanked the arrow out of her, then pressed his hands over the open wound. Her eyes were already going dim. Her breathing was faint.
He choked her name. "Eloween, please. Come back to me." Arindor begged.
His fingers shook as he brushed blood from her face, but it was too late. She was gone.
A shadow fell over him. The archer stood above, bow drawn and aimed at his chest. Arindor looked up, fury and despair churning together. His vision blurred, every muscle tensed. And then, something deep within him snapped. He felt an overwhelming surge of power surge upwards. He screamed and light exploded from his body, piercing the darkness In a blinding flash. The archer stumbled back, shielding his eyes.
The night was filled with an unnatural glow and the archer was thrown backward. He hit the wall of the blacksmith's shop with a sickening crack. The sound of his bones breaking echoed through the quiet night. The impact fractured the wall, sending a deep crack crawling up the building. The structure groaned under the force, but it held, barely.
Arindor stayed frozen. He stared at Eloween's lifeless body in disbelief. He lifted her and held her close, hands trembling as he brushed a stray lock of her blonde hair from her face. "Eloween," he whispered, voice breaking. "Please… please wake up."
He waited, holding his breath, praying for a sign, anything. But she was still. Her body was already growing cold.
Time lost all meaning. Seconds stretched into what felt like hours. He didn't hear anything, didn't feel anything but the weight of her absence. The world faded around him.
"Arindor…" a faraway voice called him.
He looked up, blinking, and saw Regal standing over him, his face grim. His sword hung in his hand. Blood dripped from the blade. Arindor's throat tightened, voice barely more than a whisper. "Is… is he dead?"
Regal gave a short nod. Behind him, Fonrir and River stumbled out of the house. They were bruised and bloodied, but alive. They looked at Arindor, but he couldn't meet their eyes. Shame and grief weighed on him, twisting his insides.
Regal's took in the scene. The shattered wall. The dead archer. Eloween lying lifeless on the ground. He took it all in, then looked back at Arindor.
"This is why you can't stay here, Arindor." He said. "You won't always be able to control what's inside you. Not right now, at least. The emperor will keep sending people after you. More men like those. If you stay, people will get hurt." He paused again, glancing at Eloween's body. "People you love."
Arindor clenched his fists, jaw tight. He didn't want to leave. Gesa was his home. These were his people. But the sight of Eloween, cold and still, was enough to make him understand. Regal was right. He had to leave. He had to learn control, to understand the power that surged within him.
"Who were they?" Arindor asked, voice raw.
Regal's face darkened. "They call themselves the Silvers," he said. "Mercenaries. Sent by Emperor Salvax himself."
Arindor's looked back down at Eloween. He brushed her cheek with his fingers one last time. Then, gently, he laid her on the ground and stepped back. There was a hollow ache in his chest where his heart used to be.
The sky was changing. A faint line of light crept across the horizon, breaking the night. Arindor straightened himself.
"The time to leave has come," he said. "Where are we headed?"
Perhaps it was something in his eyes or his bearing, or it was the fact that he had just lost one of the people he loved. But this time, Regal gave him an answer. "The elven city of Logath."
Arindor nodded. "To Logath then," he said.