Chapter 7
Our arrival in Arcanvale was, for the most part, uneventful.
No one turned an eye to us as we stabled our horses and walked down busy streets.
But Arcanvale is different from Bellmane.
The vendors are short on stock and wear tattered clothing.
With the reputation of this settlement, I doubt the residents welcome many travelers looking to buy local food or textiles.
Rather, the people who come here are explicitly interested in the illegal trade of magic.
One of the villagers had approached us, albeit warily. She told us to wait a few days if we were looking for mages, witches, and other special guests—they tend to visit in groups, unlike the lesser magic-users who loiter drunk on pub ale.
Ronan had insisted we reserve lodging here for the night on the chance we’d meet a witch tomorrow, but I’m not sure we will need to now. Not after witnessing the awe-inspiring and horrifying actions of a female elf that had taken place shortly after we’d arrived.
“This can’t be good,” Ronan whispers next to me. My focus remains on the girl straddling a drunken man in the center of the street, knee pressed into his chest as he wordlessly begs for his life and gasps for breath.
I close my mouth. How long have I been gaping?
The braids, dark as a starless night, whip around the pale-skinned elf as her blackened and calloused feet shift against the dirt and cobblestone.
Her arms are thin and strong, with a litheness that betrays the fact that she’s used to climbing and fighting.
I am sure she has never bent over a desk or sat through long meetings.
Her gaze swirls around, no doubt searching for witnesses, before it falls on me. She’s quite the distance away, but her eyes are the most intriguing color I’ve ever seen, so bright that even a mile away I’d be able to confidently tell anyone the hue.
Vibrant, burning, pink .
She glances at her prey, perhaps considering slicing his throat open for whatever he’d whispered to spark her anger. She wouldn’t have attacked him if he’d approached her kindly…or maybe she would have.
I stand from the table where Ronan and I seated ourselves during her scuffle, and before I can rethink my actions, I’m walking toward her. Ronan’s chair screeches against the patio as he stands to follow.
A strange yet enticing fear overwhelms me as I take one step after the next, bringing me closer and closer to the agitated elf. The sound of steps behind me gives me courage, the support of Ronan close at hand. But anticipation and curiosity carry me the final distance.
Her eyes flash to mine once more as she stands to her feet. I hold her gaze as she moves once in my direction, then stills.
If malice could take form, it does now, sparking in the air with static that makes the hair on my arms straighten.
The bright pink in her irises seems to switch to an equally vibrant orange, or maybe it’s the sunlight now shining in her face as she angles a squint at me.
Her features are sharp, with a nose that tilts upward and cheekbones that hollow out the curves of her face.
Her ears are tinted a dark red, and crusted blood speckles along their outer edges, a recent wound, if I had to guess.
Her expression is still filled with rage, but I have a feeling it’s not aimed at me.
Her attention flickers over my shoulder to where Ronan stands quietly.
Something in her face darkens, and a slow sigh raises her shoulders.
I wait a few seconds, expecting her to respond to our approach.
When she doesn’t, I clear my throat and scan the forest beyond the stone path encircling Arcanvale.
“Excuse my bluntness, but that was impressive.” I offer a smile, then remembering she can’t see it beneath my mask. “We don’t get these kinds of brawls in inner Arioch.”
I don’t mention that she shouldn’t be here. She probably already knows. No, she definitely knows, if the way she carries herself is any indicator.
She tilts her head to the side and one of her braids slides off her shoulder, tumbling behind her.
Her arms cross over her bandaged chest as she shifts her weight to one foot.
This posture is different compared to how she’d interacted with the villager.
She’s more relaxed, but she still hasn’t let down her guard.
“You’re not from Arcanvale, or you wouldn’t be talking to me,” she says with a sharpness. Her lips quirk up. “And you call that a brawl?”
I swallow, nodding in response to her first statement. “No, we are not from here. Just passing through. Might I ask what you are doing here?”
She squints at me, and I swear the orange shifts to a darker shade, almost brown.
I glance to the forest behind her. It’s so close.
And, as I’ve been taught, unguarded. The treaty between humans and magical beings states that, by honor alone, none may cross the divide between the forest and the human area of the kingdom.
Which means no one will stop the crossing from happening, but it’s frowned upon and considered a breach of the fragile peace.
One step. What would crossing the threshold into a magic-filled forest feel like? Any different than the cobblestone I stand on now?
“I was on my way to the castle,” she says, drawing my attention back to her.
Her mouth opens to say something else, then decidedly closes when Ronan steps forward, bumping against my shoulder.
She shifts her weight between both feet, and her hand slips around her thigh.
I catch the unmistakable sheen of a knife.
My throat goes dry.
“What a coincidence,” Ronan says when I take too long to respond. He gives my arm a squeeze and laughs lightly. “We are also headed to the castle.” A challenge glints in his eyes as he nudges me with his elbow, raises his eyebrows, and nods his encouragement for me to continue the invitation.
My jaw unhinges for a moment as I try to find the right words.
How do I articulate my desire to have an elf teach me how to fight like she did, without sounding desperate?
I am desperate, but I can’t sound that way, especially not as a prince.
Still, I can’t deny how flustered I feel.
When her eyes narrow on me, I realize I’m running out of time.
Precious time. For me, and also for her.
“Ah, yes! As a matter of fact, we come from the castle. I’m visiting today to…
” I glance around the village for any reason other than the truth for our visit, but there is hardly anything unique about the run-down buildings and exhausted merchants.
As the seconds pass, I realize the truth is the one thing I can provide without seeming utterly incompetent.
I’m a terrible liar. “I’m looking for a magic-wielder.
One who can teach me the ways of magic and swordplay.
I didn’t know exactly who I was searching for, but after seeing you, I?—”
She shakes her head, her pale cheeks flushing. “So? You were…impressed?”
I nod, but my eyebrows tense. Is she offended? Embarrassed? Angry?
Ronan chimes in. “That poor man probably won’t wake for a whole day, thanks to your…
technique.” The bitterness in Ronan’s tone is a bit of a surprise, but I do my best not to react.
I’m too busy watching the elf’s eyes change once again to that alarming, bright pink.
She doesn’t seem to notice my stare, and instead, the elf glances at him and snaps her teeth together like a predator, displaying her sharp canines in warning.
It is a rather scary look, but I don’t feel fear.
I’ve never met an elf before, and she doesn’t seem at all like the ones I’ve read about in my textbooks.
For one, I didn’t think we’d be able to understand one another, seeing as our languages are different.
And instead of barbaric movements slowing down her speed, she’s graceful and practiced, like a honed assassin.
The way she carries herself, with such confidence and assurance, tells me there’s a lot more I don’t know about her people. A lot more I want to know.
Ronan raises his hands in mock surrender and continues for me while I study her. “Ramiel here was impressed with you, and would like you to take him under your wing until he faces a life-threatening duel in a few months.”
I take a moment to catch my breath, hoping the elf doesn’t read too deeply into the timing of the duel and connect it to who I might be. Thankfully, Ronan doesn’t mention my duel is against a dragon. That information is highly confidential, unknown to everyone except those spectating the fight.
If she does realize the significance of the timing, she doesn’t say anything. Maybe elves aren’t aware of the kingdom’s affairs, including coronations.
Her attention returns to me once more, eyes swirling with vibrant color, and her cheeks red. Her feet shift beneath her, kicking up dust.
“Did you see a Sanvira, by chance? He was my…escort,” she says, her voice losing its sharpness as she pronounces the word.
She rubs her arm as she continues, absently staring into the village behind us.
“He seemed to be in a hurry to get me to the castle. I’m not sure following you would be in my best interest, since it was under the king’s orders that I attend his court… ”
Before she can finish, I reach for her arm and mentally kick myself for the instinctual movement. I know what a summons like that means. And if she’s telling the truth—which she must be, since she’s an elf bound by her words—that means her escort’s disappearance saved her life.
And I will doom it once again.
She merely gapes at where my hand holds her, and I realize that, already, I’ve clumsily revealed who I am.
If Ronan’s mention of the Feast of Undying hadn’t revealed my ancestry, the silver ring pressing cold into the muscle of her forearm certainly does.
But I’m not the king, and no one knows there’s a second prince.
She’s going to think I’m my dead brother.