The guard slouched against the parapet of the gatehouse, the night wind tugging at his cloak and stinging his cheeks.

  His partner had gone to “take a piss” twenty minutes ago and hadn’t returned.

  Alone now, half-asleep, he let his thoughts drift to warmer places—to his wife, to their newborn swaddled by the fire.

  It wasn’t much of a home, but it was theirs, and his long hours on watch meant food on the table and a roof overhead.

  In Ravannia, that was more than most could claim.

  His chin sagged toward his chest.

  The world grew still.

  Then—a flicker of motion in the dark.

  His eyes snapped open, heart hammering, as he leaned over the battlements.

  Shapes moved on the road below.

  A party was approaching.

  He scrambled to the rear of the gatehouse and bellowed, “They’ve returned! And it looks like they’re bringing prisoners!”

  Chains rattled as the drawbridge groaned down, the portcullis lifted with a harsh screech.

  The company crossed slowly, the wind sweeping cold across the plain.

  Bound men trudged in their midst, heads bowed in defeat.

  “Quickly—inform Lord Gunther,” one guard barked, sending a younger man running toward the hall.

  The others leaned forward, squinting into the gloom.

  “Who are those poor sods?” one muttered.

  “Doesn’t matter,” another said. “The lord will bleed the truth out of them soon enough.”

  The grim company stepped into the courtyard, boots ringing against the stone.

  “Welcome back, Kessler!” the senior watchman called. “Good to see you’ve returned victorious.”

  The bald man at the head of the company gave a brief nod but kept his cloak drawn low, one hand clutching it a little too tightly at his throat.

  “And you’ve brought us a prize indeed—the last survivor of House Leon.” The veteran’s eyes narrowed at the faded lion upon one prisoner’s tabard. “Relics won’t save you now. The lord will be eager to meet you, boy.”

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  The company was all within the walls now.

  The veteran turned back to their leader, frowning.

  “Tell me, Kessler—did they put up a hard fight?”

  There was a pause.

  Too long a pause.

  “Yes,” the cloaked man rasped at last, voice low and strange.

  The veteran’s brow furrowed.

  His gaze fixed on the half-hidden face, on the hand still clutching the cloak as if afraid to let it fall.

  Something was wrong—terribly wrong.

  “Now!” Leon shouted.

  Whether by trickery or sheer will, the ropes about him fell slack.

  In an instant he had a knife in hand—no one saw from where—and drove it into the throat of the veteran guard.

  As the man crumpled, Leon seized his sword and charged.

  The others with him cast off their feigned bonds and surged forward.

  Steel clashed as they fell upon the startled garrison.

  “It’s a trap!” cried one guard—but his words ended in a gurgle as a spear struck through his neck.

  The bald giant—no Kessler at all—had made the throw.

  Then Baronsworth lifted his hand.

  From beyond the walls a golden radiance answered: Lightbringer came soaring to him as if called by fate itself.

  It hummed into his grasp, alive with a vibrant harmony that stirred the air.

  He caught it, and in the same breath hewed into the fray—shield, mail, and flesh yielding before him like shadows at dawn.

  Terror rippled through the defenders.

  This was no rabble but a storm given form.

  High above, the lone sentry on the gatehouse stood frozen.

  His crossbow lay at his feet, yet fear held him fast.

  From the corner of his eye a shape stirred—slim, hooded.

  Before he could cry out, the figure lowered his hood: a fair face, hair like silver, ears keen as blades.

  The Elf placed a finger to his lips. “Shhh.”

  With a motion fluid as water he drew forth two falcatas from his belt.

  Their hilts clicked together, and in his hands they became a bow strung with pure light.

  At the draw an arrow bloomed, radiant; loosed in an instant—then another, and another—each finding its mark below.

  The guard was awestruck.

  This Elf moved like no fighter he had ever seen—swift, graceful, and silent, as he rained death upon the citadel’s men.

  It was a macabre dance—terrible, yet beautiful to behold—as he wove between light and shadow.

  His hair caught the moonlight one moment, then vanished into darkness the next; it was as if he existed half in this world and half within the night itself—a veritable Silver Shadow.

  The guard’s hand twitched toward his weapon.

  Without even looking, the Elf spoke, voice cool as tempered steel:

  “I would not. You would be dead before your fingers reached the trigger. Go now, friend. Return to your loved ones. Our quarrel is not with you, but with the thief who squats in this hall. Do not throw your life away tonight.”

  The guard’s breath caught.

  He saw his wife in his mind’s eye, their newborn curled by the fire.

  To risk this stranger’s wrath, and never hold them again—for what?

  A pat on the back, a few coins from Gunther’s purse?

  He looked once more at the silver-clad figure, bow blazing, eyes sharp as a hawk’s.

  The choice was simple.

  He rose carefully, hands lifted where the stranger could see them, every step backward measured and slow, as though before a predator that might spring at the slightest twitch.

  He edged toward the stair, heart hammering, and began to descend.

  “Th-thank you!” he called shakily as he reached the bottom.

  The long-haired stranger glanced his way, met his eyes for a heartbeat, and smiled—a faint, knowing curve.

  Then he turned back to his bow.

  Arrows sang from the string in effortless cadence, a bright rhythm of death that never missed its mark.

  The guard did not linger.

  He ran into the night, breathless and grateful for a second chance at life.

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