Dark Elf’s Obsession

Elowen

The forest smells wrong tonight.

Not wrong like danger — I know that smell, the sharp green-copper of something bleeding nearby, the way animals go quiet before a predator moves through. This is different. Heavier. Like the air itself has been sitting too long in an enclosed space, turning stale and strange at the edges.

I keep walking anyway. Dara has been burning for three days.

Her mother stood in my doorway this morning with that particular kind of hollow in her eyes that I recognize all too well — she's someone who has run out of options and is now standing in front of the last one.

I told her I'd get the feverroot. I meant it.

So here I am, an hour past dark, pushing deeper into a forest that everyone in Duskmire has enough sense to avoid, because the alternative is going home empty-handed and I don't know how to do that.

The wildspont is ahead. I always feel it before I see it — a low pressure behind my eyes, like the start of a headache that never quite arrives, and that faint metallic taste at the back of my throat.

Copper and old rain. The trees get stranger tonight the closer I get.

Bark that weeps something dark and slow.

Roots that push up through the earth at angles that don't make structural sense, like whatever's underground is restless.

My lantern catches something off to the left and I stop.

Fungus. Colonizing a rotted log the way fungus does, except the color is unseemly — a pale, bruised violet instead of gray, threaded through with veins that are darker than usual.

I watch it for a moment. The veins move.

Not like breathing, not rhythmically. They pulse in patterns, uneven and deliberate, the same way water flows around something submerged.

Wild magic doesn't do that naturally. It spreads, yes, but diffusely. Gradually. What I'm looking at has direction.

I note it, but don't touch it, and keep moving. It makes me feel uneasy, but I'll have to worry about what it means after Dara has her medicine.

The feverroot is exactly where it should be — a hollow between two exposed cliff roots, brick-red stems and broad waxy leaves, that faint iron-and-green smell I could find blindfolded by now.

I crouch and start cutting carefully, taking only what I need.

Leaving the root system intact. There's no reason to be wasteful about it.

That's when my whole spine shivers. It's not a sound.

It's not movement I can point to. It's just — certainty.

The sudden, human awareness of being watched, that weight pressing in from behind, too deliberate to be the wind.

I stay crouched. Keep my hands moving. The trees behind me are completely still.

Even the small rustling things that usually scatter when I pass through have gone quiet.

If something wanted me dead, I'd already be dead.

That's not bravado. That's just math. Whatever's back there is watching, not closing. I finish cutting the feverroot, wrap it in damp cloth, tuck it into my satchel, and stand up slowly.

I turn around.

Trees. Darkness. The violet fungus drumming its quiet, directionless message in the middle distance.

Something tears in from the left, fast without warning or sound. Just impact — it hits my shoulder and I'm airborne for a half-second before I slam into the cliff face. Stone tears my palm open. I spin, knife up, and get my first look at the…the thing.

It's enormous. The sheer size of it, wrong for the space it's moving through, shoulders broader than anything that should be able to move quietly.

Its limbs are jointed in places they shouldn't be, and it lurches when it walks while looking slow but covers ground fast. The fur — if that's even the right word — shifts color as it moves.

Black bleeding into gray bleeding into a deep red at the edges, like cooling embers.

Its jaw hangs too low. Too many teeth, layered in overlapping rows, and its eyes are completely white.

No iris. No pupil. Just flat, opaque surfaces that catch no light.

It's not hunting by sight. The head swings slow, those white eyes moving past me and back, locating me through something I can't name.

Instead of waiting around for it to get me, I run.

The ground is a disaster. Roots, soft corrupted patches, cliff-wet stones.

My light dies somewhere in the first twenty yards and I don't stop for it.

I'm rushing by the wildspont's ambient glow — that sick violet-white that seeps up through the soil and outlines the roots in just enough relief to keep me upright.

My satchel bounces against my hip. The feverroot.

Still have the feverroot. Don't drop the feverroot.

The pressure at my back means it's still behind me.

I cut hard right, duck under a branch, and feel the air move an instant before it catches my leg.

The impact isn't claws. It's crushing — like my leg has simply been grabbed and the joints aren't meant to flex in that direction.

I hit the ground and roll, instinctively protecting the satchel, and come up hard against the ravine's edge with nothing behind me but open air and the sound of water a long way down.

The beast seems to slow.

It knows. The gait changes — from pursuit to approach, measured and unhurried. Those white eyes move across the space between us and there's a way it carries itself now that I can only describe as patience. It's done this before. It knows what a ravine means.

My shoulder is on fire. The left one, from the cliff face or the initial hit — when I try to raise my arm fully it doesn't cooperate.

My leg holds but barely. I have my belt knife, it's small designed for cutting herbs and is absolutely not going to stop this thing, and I hold it anyway because I'm not standing here at the end of my life with empty hands.

The creature lowers its head. Those rows of teeth catch the wildspont's glow.

"You're very ugly," I tell it. My voice comes out steady, which is more than I expected. "And honestly, the whole thing has been quite rude."

It takes another step.

I'm calculating. If I can get the blade into something soft, redirect it even slightly — if there's any purchase on the ravine wall — if I throw myself left at the last possible second —

It lunges, and I close my eyes, expecting to feel the pain immediately.

Instead, it's paused. Something has distracted it flying above. I look in the same direction. Arrows.

Three of them, so fast the sounds blur together.

Not the light hiss of a human hunter's shot.

Heavier. Almost even, like each one was given with the same precise pause between them.

Black shafts, fletched dark, tipped with something that catches the wildspont's light silver.

They hit the beast behind the left eye socket in a cluster so tight they're nearly touching.

The thing drops.

No drama. No slow fall. It just stops being upright and the ground shakes like an earthquake when it lands, and I'm trying to move because my body hasn't caught up to the fact that I'm still alive. But, my leg gives. I catch myself on the ravine with both hands and haul back from the drop.

I look up to see a figure on the ridge, coming down.

Moving with the kind of easy, slow, smooth precision that takes centuries to build, nothing wasted, nothing uncertain.

Silver armor, dark at the bracers where the blood has dried.

A bow still in hand. And even at this distance, even with my vision going soft at the edges —

Not human.

The ears. The height. The proportions that are just slightly too long, too deliberate.

A dark elf.

I try to process this. The beast is dead.

The dark elf killed the beast. A dark elf is now walking toward me.

I'm not sure if this is better or just different, and I'm losing the ability to reason through it because the blood from my palm has reached my elbow and my shoulder has progressed from fire to a deep, grinding wrongness that suggests something more serious than bruising.

He reaches the forest floor. Closes the distance. His face resolves — hard and angular and utterly unreadable, and he's looking at me with a quality of attention that I've never experienced from another person. Not alarmed. Not sympathetic. Just — watching. Like he's deciding something.

I open my mouth.

I have no idea what comes out. Something. Nothing useful. But I'm sure as hell not asking the elf for help.

The wildspont vibrates beneath me, and I stop being able to hold the edges of things together.

The last clear thought I have is of the feverroot still in my satchel.

Someone needs to get it to her.

Then the dark elf's face, and the silver of his armor, and the glow of the corrupted forest all fold into each other, and there's nothing left at all.