Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Mayfair’s Most Eligible
Some monsters were born, and some were made.
Having grown up in a place like Mayfair, Griff was well aware of the difference.
Mayfair was a sprawling metropolitan area with smaller villages like Linden, Appleby, and Strathmore clinging to the edges of its skirts, and its size—not to mention its unique position just outside the taxable jurisdiction of any ruling monarch—made it a favorite calling port and sometimes home to tradesmen, travelers, and anyone looking to make a name for themselves on either side of the law, whether by daring to fight the Shadow Queen or by joining one of her covert networks of smugglers and spies.
Mayfair was certainly the only place west of the Crooked Teeth, the vast and icy mountains teeming with trolls and giants and other foul beasts loyal to the dark queen, where one could find centaurs at the market, shopping for fine dwarven crystal alongside humans, and the occasional enterprising kobold or halfling, hawking wares from exotic candies to silks to wooden toys.
There was a wizened old dwarf shaman who would read futures in the tiny imp’s bones he threw (for a handsome fee), a gnomish cheesemonger who offered a fantastic wheel of sharp white, and a half-orc blacksmith enchanting blades that sang or whistled while they were doing what they loved best: cutting things.
While the various species of the world were downright hostile to each other at times—except whenever they needed to band together to push the Shadow Queen back into the darkness again—in Mayfair, they lived and worked as neighbors, just as they had since the city’s founding some thousand years ago.
The village of Linden was fairly quiet, but closer to the city was always a riot of noises, smells, and faces rushing past in a beautiful array of varying skin tones and features, and Griff loved it. So many people to meet and rhythms to learn.
He was moving slightly slower than usual as he made his way through the winding cobbled streets to his first day of work since the attack.
Rosemaris might have saved him, but not even her magic or the elves’ rarest healing potion had been strong enough to completely cure this particular wound; he was still stricken at times by sudden, sharp pain, and it wasn’t the sort of hurt any balm or tea could touch.
And since it was nothing more than an ugly scar on the surface and he was tired of sitting around the house all day, he had decided there wasn’t going to be a better time to try seeing what his body could still do.
… Right after he paused for a little a break outside the Wyvern they were trained more like knights than guards, but they tended to stick their noses into all sorts of matters where they weren’t welcome.
There were also some who thought they shouldn’t idealize the elves like they did, preserving their history and lore, as if collective memory had forgotten in their absence that they were once the source of so much beauty and goodness, like the magic that had saved Griff’s life.
That it was their light and strength that had broken the Shadow Queen’s grip on the world in the first place, their efforts that had pushed her back to her own realm, where she spun orcs and wraiths and all sorts of undead from her dark magic.
She plotted to smother the world in her darkness and supernatural horrors, then save it by uniting all peoples and creatures under one banner—her own.
Murdering strategically so that someday she alone would possess magic and could use it to remain feared (or, in her twisted mind, adored) in her new Deathless Empire.
It was the nightmare the earliest Wardens had stood against since they first formed into a band of mercenaries fighting for the light wherever they were needed.
They had been appointed by the elves as they retreated to Stormveil, most Wardens having some elvish blood in their lineage in the hope that they would be the most inclined to protect the world the elves had loved for so long.
Most folks worried vaguely about the Shadow Queen’s return, but only the Wardens worked tirelessly in secret to prevent the possibility of another full-scale war by any means necessary—which meant making everything their business, and hiding their true purpose as more than monster hunters from the general population.
“Maybe Alys was just … window shopping? Daydreaming?” he guessed, shaking off the malaise of his thoughts. Alys was more like Mal that way, always hoping and scheming.