He set down his meal with a sigh, stood from his desk, and reached for his coat. The enchanted garment settled over his shoulders—still kept in perfect condition despite his semi-retirement. Old habits.
Four hundred years old, and he'd taken this posting specifically because it was quiet. Borderwatch was far from politics, far from the major power centers, far from anywhere that mattered. A border village where monster hunting was the biggest concern and paperwork was minimal.
Perfect vacation spot for a former S-rank who'd earned his rest.
Different races aged differently, of course. Torvan was half-giant, half-human—a combination that gave him both size and extended lifespan. Base giant longevity ran around three hundred years, give or take. Humans barely made a hundred. His mixed heritage split the difference favorably, and his strength from decades at S-rank pushed it further.
Not that base lifespan mattered much anymore. Everyone who could afford it extended beyond their natural limits. Elixirs were the standard method—magical concoctions that reinforced the body, slowed decay, bought you decades or centuries depending on quality and cost.
Torvan had been using them for the past century. Low-grade stuff mostly. His constitution and residual power meant he didn't need the expensive varieties yet. The guild provided elixirs at steep discounts for long-serving officials—sometimes free as rewards for exceptional service. He'd also stashed away a comfortable reserve during his adventuring prime.
Enough to coast comfortably for another few centuries without financial stress. Part of why this posting was so appealing—minimal work, maximum relaxation, guild benefits covering his longevity needs while he enjoyed his savings.
The costs scaled with age, of course. The older you got, the stronger the elixirs required, the more expensive they became. By the time you hit six hundred years, everyone was spending equivalent fortunes just to maintain existence—didn't matter if you'd started as a human or an elf. The costs evened out.
General wisdom put a thousand years as the practical limit. After that, diminishing returns made further extension nearly impossible without truly extraordinary resources.
Torvan planned to enjoy his next six hundred years before worrying about that wall. Plenty of time for this peaceful retirement.
By the time he reached the street, half the village was already moving toward the well. News traveled fast in small communities, especially when that news involved loud noises and strangers.
Torvan moved through the crowd with the ease of long practice. People saw him coming and parted automatically, respect and recognition clearing his path.
"What happened?" he asked a nearby adventurer—Kess, a solid B-rank who ran the equipment shop.
"Someone threw an elf into the well, Guild Master. Big splash. Everyone's watching now."
"An elf?" Torvan's interest sharpened. Elves were rare in the Republic. Not native to this continent. Exotic. Usually meant money or trouble. Often both.
"With a battlemaid," Kess added, her tone careful.
Torvan stopped walking. "A battlemaid."
"Yes, sir. Arrived carrying the elf. He was drunk, rambling. She threw him in the water. Still there now."
Torvan's mind shifted immediately from mild curiosity to professional alertness. Battlemaids meant nobility. Wealth. Power. And frequently, complications.
"What kind of battlemaid?"
Kess hesitated. "The concerning kind, sir. Aura's real. Not faking it. And the power signature... some of the appraisers are saying her equipment might be more than it looks."
Torvan started walking again, faster now. The crowd parted before him as he approached the well.
Battlemaids. He'd encountered plenty in his four centuries. The broken ones, the psychopaths, the unstable killers created through brutal conditioning. They could only be made from human females or certain beastkin tribes—the weaker ones, those with the lowest natural potential among all the races.
That was the sick genius of it. Take the weakest starting point and push it beyond all reasonable limits through training that killed most subjects. Other races had been tried—male humans, dwarves, stronger beastkin, even elves. They all died. Too much natural resistance, too much inherent strength, too much self-preservation. The training required breaking someone completely, and you could only break those who started fragile enough.
Human and weak beastkin females fit that profile perfectly. Disposable enough that nobles didn't care about the mortality rate. Weak enough that the conditioning could reshape them entirely.
Most battlemaids that resulted were dangerous but manageable. Unstable weapons their masters kept pointed at enemies.
But some—the truly expensive ones, the ones that cost kingdoms to create—were something else entirely.
And then he saw her.
The battlemaid stood at the basin's edge. Black and white uniform, practical but revealing in the way that expensive custom work always managed. Dark hair, pale skin, weapons at her belt. Young-looking, though with her kind that meant nothing.
But it was the aura that made him stop.
Darkness. Not the theatrical kind that young adventurers sometimes cultivated to look intimidating. Real darkness. The kind that radiated from creatures that had killed so often it became part of their nature.
And the way she stood. Perfectly still. Perfectly balanced. Watching everything with eyes that tracked movement with predatory precision but showed no emotion whatsoever.
Empty.
Completely, utterly empty.
Torvan felt something cold settle in his chest. Recognition he didn't want to have.
He'd seen this before. Once. Years ago.
Over a century ago, when he'd been younger and the Republic had sent a delegation to the Kingdom for trade negotiations. He'd been part of the security detail. And he'd seen her.
The Queen's battlemaid.
The stories about that creature still circulated. Ten thousand girls sacrificed to create one perfect servant. Ten thousand children put through training that killed all but one. The cost had exceeded the Kingdom's entire annual budget—spent over years, resources poured into creating a single weapon.
The old King's final gift to his most promising child. His daughter. The current Queen.
She'd used that battlemaid to eliminate every rival to the throne. Every sibling, every cousin, every potential claimant. Within a week of her father's death, she'd consolidated absolute power. The Kingdom's propaganda called it "restoring order." Everyone else called it what it was: mass murder enabled by a walking weapon.
The hypocrisy burned. The Kingdom preached law and justice and order while creating monsters like that.
Torvan had seen that battlemaid from a distance during the negotiations. Had felt the same wrongness, the same emptiness, the same sense that he was looking at something that wore a human shape but wasn't human inside.
He'd been at his peak then. S-rank. One of the strongest on the continent. And he'd known—absolutely known—that if it came to a fight with that creature, he wasn't certain he could win.
Most battlemaids were broken. Psychopathic. Unstable. Dangerous but still fundamentally people—driven by twisted emotions, capable of fear and rage and devotion. You could predict them. Fight them. Beat them if you were strong enough.
But the expensive ones—the ones like the Queen's monster—were different. They were empty. Golems in human form. Combat calculations with no self-preservation, no hesitation, no humanity. Fighting them was like fighting a force of nature. No fear meant no openings. No emotion meant no manipulation. Just pure, mechanical violence until one side stopped moving.
And now, standing at his village well, was another one.
Not again. Please don't let this be another one of those.
Torvan forced his expression to remain neutral and continued forward, assessing the situation more carefully.
The elf in the water was gasping, drinking desperately, clearly in the late stages of severe dehydration. Young-looking—though again, with elves, that meant little. Black hair and eyes, which was unusual. Most elves had lighter coloring. Golden, silver, green. Black was almost unheard of.
And his ears. Full, pointed, unmarked.
Not a slave, then. Free-born, or at least not visibly marked as property.
The elf's clothing, even soaking wet, looked expensive. Well-made. The kind of quality that spoke of wealth and status.
As Torvan got closer, he caught fragments of conversation from the villagers who'd been near the well when the pair arrived. Adventurers repeating what they'd heard, voices low but carrying.
"...said something about killing hundreds..."
"...heard him say she can't dress herself, needs help..."
"...kept calling her 'mistress' and talking about her being strong..."
"...mentioned she's vulnerable with clothing? But deadly everywhere else?"
"...something about watching her fight, called it beautiful..."
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
The picture forming was... concerning. A drunk young master rambling about his battlemaid's combat prowess, her beauty, her need for assistance with intimate tasks like dressing.
Either the elf was a perverted young noble with an unhealthy fixation on his servant, or...
Or something else was happening that Torvan didn't quite understand yet.
He pushed through the last of the crowd just as the elf managed to pull himself fully out of the basin. Water pooled around his feet. He swayed, clearly still drunk and recovering, but conscious now.
The elf cleared his throat and spoke, his voice hoarse but attempting noble composure.
"Thank you, my dear," he said in the common tongue. "Your... decisive action was appreciated. I feel much better now."
The battlemaid just looked at him with that blank, analytical expression. No response. No acknowledgment. Just silent observation.
Perfect battlemaid behavior, actually. They didn't speak unless commanded or necessary.
The elf's black eyes focused on Torvan. Recognition flickered—not personal recognition, but the awareness of seeing someone with authority. Someone important.
Someone who could help or hinder.
The crowd had grown considerably. Easily forty or fifty people now, watching this bizarre spectacle with varying degrees of amusement and concern.
And the battlemaid's eyes fixed on Torvan with that dead, analytical stare.
Assessing. Calculating. Determining threat level.
Torvan kept his hands visible and his posture non-threatening. The last thing he wanted was to provoke a genuine battlemaid of this caliber while surrounded by his people.
One wrong move, one perceived threat to her master, and this could turn into a bloodbath.
"Greetings, travelers," Torvan said in the common tongue, keeping his tone warm and professional. "Welcome to Borderwatch Village. I'm Guild Master Torvan Greythorne. I see you've had... a difficult journey."
The elf straightened as much as his condition allowed, water still dripping from his hair and clothes. He took a breath, clearly trying to focus through the alcohol and exhaustion.
"Guild Master Greythorne," he said, his voice hoarse but attempting formality. "Apologies for the... entrance. Desert crossing was more difficult than expected. Is there an inn? We have coin and need rest. Urgently."
Simple. Direct. No elaborate explanations or excuses.
Torvan recognized the approach immediately. Someone trying to maintain dignity while barely holding themselves together. The elf was still drunk, still recovering from severe dehydration, still swaying on his feet. But he was coherent enough to be polite, practical, and get to the point.
Respectable, given the circumstances.
"Of course," Torvan said warmly. "The Wayward Traveler has rooms available. Clean beds, hot meals, private bathing facilities. I'll have someone escort you there immediately."
The elf's relief was visible. "Thank you. That's... yes. Thank you."
He swayed again, gripping the basin's edge for stability.
The battlemaid shifted slightly—barely a movement, just a subtle adjustment of weight. But Torvan caught it. She was ready to catch him if he fell. Constant vigilance. Always watching her master's condition.
Professional. Efficient. And deeply unsettling in how mechanical it appeared.
"Kess," Torvan called over his shoulder. "Escort our guests to the Traveler. Best available room. Tell Mira to prepare food and draw a bath. Put it on the Guild's tab—we'll settle payment later."
Kess nodded and stepped forward, careful to keep a respectful distance from the battlemaid. "This way, please. It's not far."
The elf nodded gratefully and took a step toward her.
His legs buckled.
The battlemaid moved. So fast Torvan barely tracked it. One moment she was standing at the basin's edge. The next she was supporting the elf, one arm around his waist, steadying him with casual strength.
No panic. No rush. Just instant, precise response.
Fast. Too fast. That's not normal speed.
The elf leaned against her, clearly embarrassed but too exhausted to care. "Thank you, my dear. I'm... not at my best currently."
The battlemaid remained silent. Just supported his weight and waited for direction.
"Right," Kess said, voice carefully neutral. "This way, then."
She led them toward the inn, the crowd parting automatically. Nobody wanted to get too close to the battlemaid with her aura radiating that quiet, mechanical menace.
Torvan watched them go, his mind already working through implications.
An elf with money, traveling with a battlemaid of unusual quality. Crossing the desert despite being unprepared. Arriving half-dead and drunk at a border village.
Running from something? Heading toward something? Just monumentally stupid about travel planning?
And that battlemaid. That empty, perfect, terrifying battlemaid who moved like death in a maid uniform.
I'm too old for this, Torvan thought.
But he'd handled complicated situations before. This was just another one.
He turned to his assistant, Marcus, who'd followed him from the guild hall. "Get me a full report. Everything those two do, everywhere they go, everyone they talk to. I want to know who they are and what they want."
"You think they're trouble, boss?"
"I think they're dangerous. Whether they're trouble depends on what they do next."
Marcus nodded and headed off to organize the observation.
Torvan watched the elf and his battlemaid disappear into the inn, then turned back to the dispersing crowd.
Just another day in Borderwatch.
Though somehow, he suspected this one would be more memorable than most.
Torvan sat in his office the next morning, reading through the night reports with growing concern.
The sun had barely risen, but he'd been awake for an hour already. Old habits from his adventuring days—sleep light, wake early, always be ready. Four centuries of survival instinct didn't fade just because you retired to run a border village.
His assistant, Marcus, had compiled everything into a neat summary. The inn staff's observations, the gate guards' notes, independent reports from adventurers who'd witnessed the arrival.
Torvan read it all twice.
Initial Arrival - Innkeeper Mira's Report:
Guests: Male elf (apparent master) and female human battlemaid (apparent servant)
Elf demanded single large room. Standard security request for nobles traveling with battlemaids. Paid upfront without negotiation. Generous tip provided—one Empire gold coin. Note: Empire currency, not Republic. Significant.
Elf consumed massive quantities of food and drink. Ordered three full meals worth of portions, ate everything. Drank two pitchers of water, one of ale. Appeared severely dehydrated and malnourished despite expensive appearance.
Battlemaid ate nothing. Drank nothing. Stood behind master entire time. Silent. No verbal communication observed. Only hand gestures when directing staff.
Left additional food in room per standard battlemaid protocol (they sometimes eat in private). Food remained untouched through all subsequent checks.
Torvan paused at that detail. Battlemaids not eating in public was normal—part of their conditioning made them uncomfortable with certain activities around strangers. But not eating at all? Even in private?
He continued reading.
Evening Check - Servant Girl (Lina) Report:
Checked room approximately three hours after guests retired. Found:
Elf: Passed out on bed, fully clothed, appears to be sleeping off exhaustion and alcohol.
Bath: Prepared as requested but unused by elf. Battlemaid was using it instead. Bathing while master slept.
Food: Completely untouched. Still on table where left.
When asked if anything was needed, battlemaid pointed to door. No words. Just gesture. Clear dismissal. Complied immediately.
Note: Battlemaid did not seem surprised or embarrassed at being interrupted during bath. No reaction at all. Unusually calm.
Torvan frowned. A battlemaid bathing while her master slept wasn't particularly strange—they were still human, still needed hygiene. But the complete lack of reaction to being interrupted? Most people showed some response. Surprise, annoyance, acknowledgment.
Nothing suggested something beyond normal human behavior.
Late Night Check - Servant Girl (Lina) Second Report:
Returned approximately four hours later to remove bath water as requested.
Found: Elf in process of dressing the battlemaid.
Elf appeared panicked when door opened. Face flushed, movements hurried. Clearly embarrassed at being discovered.
Battlemaid showed no reaction whatsoever. Just stood there, partially dressed, waiting for elf to continue. No embarrassment, no concern, no acknowledgment of the interruption.
Long silence followed (estimated 10-15 seconds). Neither spoke. Elf and battlemaid appeared to be... communicating? But no words exchanged. Possible telepathic link suspected.
Finally, battlemaid made hand gesture: permission to remove bath. Elf nodded confirmation.
Proceeded with water removal. Both watched in silence. Left without further interaction.
Food: Still completely untouched.
Note: The silence during communication was distinctive. Have observed adventurer parties with telepathic links before. Similar pattern—pause, then coordinated response without visible/audible communication. Suspect elf and battlemaid share mental connection.
Torvan set down that page and picked up the morning report.
Morning Check - Servant Girl (Lina) Final Report:
Checked room at dawn to offer breakfast. Found:
Elf: Sleeping normally in bed. Appears fully recovered from yesterday's condition. Breathing steady, color returned to normal.
Battlemaid: Awake. Sitting in chair near window. Fully dressed in uniform. Weapons visible at belt.
When asked if elf was awake or if breakfast was desired, battlemaid pointed to door again. Silent dismissal.
Note: Asked night guard if battlemaid had slept. Guard reports she was visible through window multiple times during night watch. Always awake. Always in same position. Never appeared to sleep or rest.
Food from previous day: STILL untouched. Completely ignored.
Conclusion: Battlemaid does not appear to eat or sleep. Unclear if this is extreme discipline/conditioning or something else. Recommend caution.
Torvan leaned back in his chair, processing.
A battlemaid who didn't eat. Didn't sleep. Didn't speak. Moved with inhuman speed when her master needed support. Communicated telepathically. Radiated an aura of darkness that made veteran adventurers nervous.
And an elf—rare in itself—who paid with Empire currency, traveled unprepared through a lethal desert, and was apparently capable of affording a battlemaid of this caliber.
He picked up the final document. Research findings from the guild's records.
Intelligence Report - Marcus:
Searched all available records for elf nobility matching description:
- Male elf, appears young (20s-30s by human standards)
- Black hair and black eyes (extremely rare coloring for elves)
- Well-educated (speech patterns suggest noble training)
- Wealthy (Empire gold, expensive equipment, high-tier battlemaid)
Republic Records: No matches found.
Syndicate Continental Database: No matches found.
Note: Elf nobility on this continent is almost non-existent. Elves are not native here. The few elf nobles that exist are well-documented in our records due to their rarity. This individual matches none of them.
Possible Explanations: 1. Empire origin - The Empire is highly secretive about their noble families. Information access is restricted. If this elf is Imperial nobility, our records wouldn't have details. 2. Foreign continent - Could be from across the sea. Would explain the exotic nature and lack of records. 3. Hidden/exiled nobility - Deliberately avoiding documentation.
Empire Gold Coin Analysis: Authentic Imperial currency. Mint date approximately fifty years old based on markings. Note: Gold coins circulate for centuries, so age of coin doesn't necessarily indicate recent Empire contact. Even centuries-old Imperial coins are not uncommon in circulation.
Recommendation: Possible Imperial noble traveling incognito. Treat with appropriate caution and respect. Empire relations are... complicated. Avoid incidents.
Torvan tapped his fingers on the desk, thinking.
The Empire. That would explain a lot. They were secretive, isolated, paranoid. Their nobles rarely traveled outside Imperial territories, and when they did, they did so quietly. An Imperial elf would be exotic even by Empire standards—they had some elves in their territories from the old conquest days, but they were uncommon.
And the battlemaid...
If the Empire had created something like that, something comparable to the Kingdom's Queen's monster, it would explain the quality. The Empire had resources. Knowledge. Methods dating back ten thousand years.
It would also explain why they were so unprepared for desert travel. Imperial nobles were sheltered, protected, unused to hardship. Sending one into the Desert of Nothing with just a battlemaid and no supplies was exactly the kind of stupid decision privileged nobility might make.
Or they're running from something. Fled in a hurry. Didn't have time to prepare.
Either way, not his problem unless they made it his problem.
Torvan made his decision.
"Marcus," he called.
His assistant appeared in the doorway immediately. "Yes, Guild Master?"
"Continue observing, but don't interfere. Be helpful if they request assistance. Be respectful. Don't ask too many questions. If they're Imperial nobility, we don't want incidents. If they're something else... well, we'll find out eventually."
"And if they cause trouble?"
"Then we deal with it. But until then, we treat them as valued guests. The Republic way—strength and coin earn respect. They've shown both."
"Understood, sir."
Marcus left to relay the orders. Torvan returned to the reports, reading through the details one more time.
A battlemaid who didn't eat or sleep. The only human behavior observed: wanting to bathe. And apparently being unable to dress herself—the elf had to help her, which suggested it wasn't some fetish play but actual necessity.
An elf with black eyes and Empire gold.
Telepathic communication.
Equipment that might be more than it appeared.
And that empty, mechanical stare that reminded him of the worst monster he'd ever encountered.
I'm too old for this, Torvan thought again.
But he'd handled complicated situations before.
This was just another one.
Probably.