The Wraithmire stretched out like a damp, endless maze, its twisted trees half-sunk in murky water, their roots slick with moss. Laura trudged through the mud, her red dress clinging to her legs, yellow pants caked with grime that squelched underfoot. The air smelled of rot and wet bark, sharp enough to sting her nose. Beside her, Figarland moved with a thief's quiet stride, his wild brown hair plastered with rain, leathers creaking as he scanned the mist. His sword hung at his hip, its runes flickering faintly, a restless hum threading the stillness. The tavern's ruin was a day behind them, but the weight of being hunted clung like the damp.
A low growl rumbled through the fog, followed by a sharper snarl. Figarland's hand snapped to his sword, his jaw tightening. "Trouble," he muttered. Laura's staff sparked to life, the crystal atop it spitting embers. "More of your mess?" she grumbled, shaking mud from her cloak. Before he could answer, a horn cut the air—short, harsh, and close. Figarland's smirk faded. "Move, fireball."
The mist shifted, and a man stepped into view. Lean and wiry, he wore gray leathers faded to a dull sheen, a longsword strapped across his back, its hilt wrapped in worn red cloth. A scar slashed his left brow, twitching as he stood there, calm as death. Two wolves flanked him—massive, bloodthirsty beasts with matted black fur and eyes like burning coals, their fangs bared, dripping with hunger. A pendant hung from his belt, pulsing faintly in time with Figarland's sword. Three cutthroats loomed behind him, blades notched and ready.
"Figarland," the man rasped, voice rough as gravel, rubbing a coin between thumb and finger—a tic Figarland mirrored for a split second before stopping. "Still running with my prize?" His gaze flicked to the sword, sharp and possessive. Laura's spiky red hair quivered as she stepped up, bandana sagging with damp. "Who's this jackass?" Figarland's tone stayed flat. "Garren Farrowland. Old pal. Keep moving."
Garren smirked, thin and cold. "Can't outpace me, Figarland. Not with that." He snapped his fingers, and the wolves lunged, claws tearing through the mud. Laura swung her staff, a wind gust ripping outward, knocking a thrown net aside before it could snare them. Figarland's sword flashed violet, slashing at a wolf—it snarled, retreating, but the second snapped at Laura's leg, grazing her with a hot sting. She hissed, "You're toast," and slammed her staff down. A ball of fire streaked out, singeing the beast's flank, sending it yelping.
Garren drew his longsword, closing in fast. Figarland met him, steel clanging against the alien blade's eerie hum. "That's mine," Garren growled, swinging low. Figarland dodged, but a cutthroat's dagger nicked his arm, blood seeping dark against his sleeve. Laura spun, driving her staff into the ground—a wind blast hurled the attacker into the muck with a dull thud.
Garren pressed, relentless, his moves too precise, like he'd sparred Figarland a hundred times. He flung a dagger, grazing Figarland's shoulder. Laura roared, "Back off!" and unleashed a blazing spiral of fire and wind, forcing Garren to leap back, wolves snarling at his sides. The pendant pulsed louder, and Figarland's sword flared—wild, erratic. A shadow tore from it, a wraith of claws and flickering eyes, slashing blindly.
"Fig!" Laura shouted, ducking as it swiped. Garren rolled clear, spitting, "Damn you and that blade!" One cutthroat wasn't fast enough—claws ripped his arm, and he crumpled, howling. Figarland grappled the wraith, forcing it back into the sword, his hand blistering black. Garren retreated, blood on his scar, wolves pacing. "I'll take what's mine, Figarland," he snarled, horn blaring as he melted into the mist.
Laura slumped against a root, chest heaving, staff dim. "Old pal, huh?" she rasped. Figarland wiped blood from his lip, eyes distant. "Used to run together. Not anymore." He rubbed that damn coin again, then stopped when she glared. "What'd you do to him?" she pressed. He didn't answer, just sheathed the sword—its hum fading, but alive. "Focus on breathing, cupcake. He'll be back."
They pushed on, the Wraithmire's glow deepening as night crept in. Laura's leg stung, Figarland's burns ached, but stopping wasn't an option—not with Garren and his wolves out there. The swamp opened into a muddy clearing, ringed by jagged stones. A figure leaned against one, watching them with a stillness that prickled Laura's skin.
He was, without question, the handsomest boy she'd ever seen. Tall and lithe, he stood with a dancer's poise, his frame wrapped in a tailored green tunic that hugged a chest broad yet sculpted, muscled just enough to hint at strength without bulk. His legs, long and lean, stretched out from fitted black breeches, ending in polished boots that somehow gleamed despite the swamp's filth. His hair was a cascade of silken gold, falling in loose waves past his shoulders, catching the mist's glow like a halo—each strand shimmered, thick and lustrous, framing a face carved from dreams. High cheekbones, a jaw sharp enough to cut glass, and lips curved in a faint, knowing smile. But it was his eyes that stopped her cold—deep violet, flecked with silver, like twin galaxies swirling with secrets, framed by lashes so dark and full they seemed painted on. He was beauty incarnate, a prince from some forgotten tale—and Laura hated him for it instantly.
"You two make quite the racket," he said, voice smooth as honeyed wine, stepping forward with a grace that mocked their mud-caked stumble. "I've been watching since the tavern blew. Impressive confetti." He tilted his head, golden locks spilling over one shoulder.
Figarland's hand hovered near his sword. "And you're what?"
"Elias," he replied, amethyst eyes glinting. "Just Elias. I need an escort—been stranded here, and I'd rather not meet those wolves." He patted a pouch at his hip, coins jingling. "Get me to Veyrholt, my city, and I'll pay you five hundred gold when we arrive."
Laura snorted, twirling her staff. "Pretty boy's got cash? What's the catch?" Elias's smile deepened, effortless. "No trick. You're marked—wolves, blades, that sword's chaos. I need survivors, and I pay well." He tossed a smaller pouch at Figarland's feet—coins spilled, glinting in the mud. "One-twenty-five now. Twenty-five percent. The rest at Veyrholt's gates."
Figarland scooped it up, testing its weight in his gloved hand. "Solid enough. Why us?" Elias shrugged, hair swaying like liquid gold. "You outran that mess. I'd wager on you." Laura squinted, staff tapping the ground. "And what's stopping us from gutting you here and taking the lot now?" Her voice was sharp, a glint of menace in her grin.
Figarland smirked, tossing the pouch lightly. "Yeah, pretty boy. Why drag you all the way to Veyrholt when we could end it quick and keep the rest?"
Elias didn't flinch, his smile softening into something almost amused. He leaned forward slightly, golden locks framing his flawless face, voice dropping to a silken murmur. "Because the real dough's in Veyrholt. This?" He tapped the empty pouch at his hip. "A taste. The rest is stashed where only I can get it—safe, waiting. Kill me now, and you're stuck with pocket change." His amethyst eyes flicked between them, steady and sure, a prince daring them to test him.
Laura's grin faded, eyes narrowing as she weighed his words. Figarland chuckled, low and rough, pocketing the coins. "Clever bastard. Fine, we're in—barely. Lag behind, and I'll let her hex you into something slimy." Elias bowed, chest flexing subtly under his tunic, grace unshaken. "Wouldn't dream of it."
They turned from the clearing, Elias falling in step between them, his beauty a gleaming thread in their ragged tapestry. Laura's staff tapped the mud, Figarland's sword hummed faintly, and the distant snarl of Garren's wolves lingered like a promise. Veyrholt loomed ahead—the gold n Elias's hometown, a prize dangling just out of reach. The road stretched into the mist, the deal struck, but the air crackled with unspoken edges—trust thin, greed sharp, and Elias's gilded flame leading the way.