Chapter 46

  Merlin

  The air in the alley was suffocating—a rancid

  blend of damp stone and decaying refuse, a stark contrast to the perfumed

  boulevards of Avinnois. Shadows pooled deep between the towering buildings,

  their jagged forms shifting in the unsteady glow of distant lanterns.

  My heart pounded against my ribs, my thoughts a

  tempest of doubt and calculation. Had Selene noticed? If she had, surely she

  would have said something—wouldn’t she? The gnoll’s disguise had been

  convincing, but magic always left traces. Aether clung to things, insidious and

  lingering, like oil on water. Had she caught the distortion, that telltale

  shimmer at the edges of reality?

  Could she perceive it as I did—a mirage wavering

  at the seams of the world? Or was it more? A signature woven into the very

  fabric of the spell, a marker meant to deceive all but the most attuned? Had

  she been seeing through the illusion, or merely sensing the residue of its

  craft?

  A guttural snarl sliced through my thoughts,

  dragging me harshly back to the present.

  The gnoll loomed before me, half-shrouded in

  darkness, its broad snout wrinkled in a silent growl. Its fur bristled, matted

  where steel had kissed flesh in past battles. Yellowed fangs gleamed as its

  lips curled.

  “Give it back to us...” The words slithered

  through the air, thick and wet, a voice never meant for common speech.

  Selene had growled low in her throat, a sharp,

  animalistic hiss—like a fox cornered with no escape. Her fingers twitched at

  her side, poised to unsheathe nails, but we were outnumbered. My pulse hammered

  as I tightened my grip around the bundle in my arms. The baby stirred, its tiny

  weight a fragile contrast to the looming threat.

  “Oh-ho… what do we have here?” The second gnoll’s

  voice dripped with amusement, thick and slurred around jagged teeth.

  The first stepped forward, its beady eyes

  gleaming in the dim alley light. “Well, look at that, boys…” It sniffed the

  air, the wet, guttural sound sending a chill down my spine. “Smells like

  money.”

  A third let out a wheezing chuckle. “That fox

  girl’s easily worth thirty platinum,” it mused, tapping the rusted edge of its

  blade against a clawed finger.

  Realization slammed into me. These weren’t

  adventurers. Their armor was mismatched, their weapons crude but well-worn. No

  guild insignias. No sigils of rank.

  Slavers.

  The air thickened with tension as they closed in,

  their hulking forms blocking our only exit. Selene shifted closer, muscles

  taut, breath steadying—ready to fight.

  Then, without warning, one of the gnolls—the

  fourth in line—dropped.

  No sound. No struggle. One moment standing, the

  next a heap on the cobblestones.

  The others froze.

  Then came the sound—sharp, unnatural. A sickening

  sizzle. The acrid scent of burning fur filled the alley. Arcane energy crackled

  in the air.

  Someone had fired an arcane arrow.

  Gnoll number three crumpled mid-step, his body

  twisting unnaturally before he hit the ground with a dull thud. A shadow

  moved—too fast, too fluid—before the second could react. He had barely managed

  a strangled, “Merlin—” before something sleek and silent pierced his throat.

  I caught the glint of the weapons as they

  withdrew—daggers, black as the void, pulsing with residual energy. Shade magic.

  The wounds were clean, precise. No wasted movement. Whoever wielded them was an

  artist of death.

  Selene, once rigid with defiance, stood

  slack-jawed, eyes wide with something I had never seen in her before.

  “Pretty,” she whispered.

  “What?” I turned to her, half-expecting madness

  to have taken hold.

  “She’s pretty,” Selene murmured, her voice

  distant, dreamlike, as if she were seeing something beyond the flickering

  torchlight.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  She…? My breath caught.

  Selene wasn’t just seeing the figure—she was

  seeing everything. The aether around us unraveled in waves of raw information,

  and my sister, ever the oddity, read it like an open book.

  I, too, saw the shadowed form weaving through the

  darkness, but to me, she was little more than a shimmering specter, a whisper

  of movement. To Selene, she was whole. Clear as day.

  And she was beautiful.

  The woman—Merlin, as the gnolls had called

  her—emerged from the gloom, her presence cutting through the alley like a

  blade. In one hand, she held a bloodstained leather bag.

  “Finally caught up with you,” she said, shaking

  the bag with a smirk. “Your… crew says hi.”

  Merlin was unlike any elf I had ever seen. Her

  skin, luminous in the dim alley light, bore the ethereal glow of her High Elf

  ancestry, yet beneath it lay the shadowed undertones of Dark Elf blood. She was

  a living contradiction—light and dark woven into a single, striking form.

  But it was her hair that first caught my eye. A

  cascade of raven black, thick and lustrous, yet styled with a warrior’s

  precision. The sides and back were shaved close, the fade so sharp it framed

  her cheekbones like the edge of a blade. The longer strands were swept in a

  dramatic comb-over, spilling down one side of her neck like ink over porcelain.

  Severe yet elegant—a perfect reflection of what she was. Battle-mage.

  Spell-sword. Killer. Scholar.

  Her eyes, silver-blue and deep-set beneath

  elegantly arched brows, gleamed with an unsettling intensity, as though they

  had seen too much, learned too much. One moment, they could be warm, almost

  teasing; the next, cold enough to freeze the marrow in my bones. Her lips, full

  and well-shaped, carried the ghost of a smirk, as if she held a secret no one

  else could ever grasp.

  She moved like liquid shadow—effortless, silent,

  predatory. The black, elastic leather of her attire hugged her form, built for

  speed and precision. No wasted fabric, no unnecessary weight. Silver clasps

  caught the light, tiny flourishes of elven craftsmanship hidden in the folds.

  At her throat rested a single obsidian pendant, a

  relic of unknown power.

  Merlin—was both elegance and lethality, a weapon

  honed to perfection.

  Merlin's voice danced through the shadows—soft,

  yet commanding—as she spoke, “You, the last one standing... I know exactly what

  you're going to do.” Her eyes gleamed with unsettling certainty, as though she

  could read his every thought before it took form.

  The Gnoll snarled, yellow eyes wide with panic.

  His gaze darted around, his mind racing to decide what to do next. As Merlin

  had predicted, he lunged—swift, vicious, desperate for blood. But his claws

  missed, slicing through empty air where she had been only a moment before.

  “Next?” she asked, her tone thick with mockery.

  The Gnoll swung again, a wild, backhanded strike,

  but once more, he missed. The only sound was the whoosh of air, his frustration

  palpable. In a panic, he fumbled for something in his pouch—likely a vial,

  perhaps poison or a magical concoction. Just as he prepared to hurl it,

  Merlin’s hand flicked out, a flash of silver, and with a precise motion, his

  arm was severed clean through at the shoulder. The vial dropped to the ground,

  its contents spilling uselessly across the cobblestones.

  “You’re supposed to run, you know,” Merlin

  teased, her voice laced with disdain. “But you're not listening, are you?” The

  Gnoll's eyes burned with rage, and with his remaining arm, he hurled his

  sword—a final, desperate attempt to strike her down. But Merlin moved like a

  blur. With a flick of her wrist, she parried the blade effortlessly, sending it

  skittering across the ground.

  That’s when it hit me, a cold realization racing

  down my spine—Merlin could see the future. She wasn’t merely predicting his

  moves; she was reading him like an open book, anticipating everything before he

  even thought it.

  "Seen that one too," she quipped, a

  smirk curling on her lips.

  Then, in a swift motion, she raised her dagger to

  deliver the final blow. But just before the blade could meet its mark, a heavy

  clang echoed through the alley. The strike was deflected.

  A dwarf, thick with muscle and grizzled in

  appearance, had blocked her attack with a massive battle hammer.

  I stood frozen, caught between awe and confusion,

  unable to comprehend what had just transpired.

  The dwarf sighed heavily, his thick beard

  twitching with irritation as he wiped his brow. “Lady Merlin...” His voice

  rumbled through the alley, thick with frustration. “When we took this bloody

  bounty you posted, I assumed you wanted us to do the killing?” He eyed her,

  clearly unimpressed.

  Merlin let out a soft laugh, almost playful, the

  sound cutting through the tension. With a fluid motion, she sheathed her

  dagger, her lips curling into a mischievous smile. “My apologies, old friend…”

  She waved her hand, as if the matter were inconsequential. “I assumed when you

  advertised ‘we do the dirty work,’ you meant…”

  Her eyes flicked to the entrance of the alleyway,

  and instinctively, I followed her gaze. Two ogres stood there, silent giants

  whose mere presence made the already narrow alley feel even tighter. One was

  enormous—a hulking male who nearly touched the rooftops, his massive arms

  bulging with muscle. The other, a shorter female, was just as broad, her

  stature as much a threat as his. Despite the childlike curiosity in her face,

  she was an intimidating force.

  The dwarf exhaled slowly, his shoulders sagging

  in resignation. “I should’ve known…” he muttered under his breath. Then,

  glancing back at Merlin, he added, “Look, lass, we’re not a cleanup service.”

  Merlin grinned, unfazed. “Ah, but you get paid

  either way, right?”

  The dwarf hesitated, a flicker of doubt passing

  across his face before he shrugged, defeated. “Well, regardless, can’t let you

  kill the last one... he still needs to be interrogated.”

  With a sharp whistle that echoed off the stone

  walls, he called out, “Alright, Zug… clean ‘em up.”

  The towering ogre pointed to the dead gnolls, his

  deep voice slow and deliberate. “Gru…”

  The younger ogre grunted, rolling her shoulders

  before speaking in a tone almost bored, “Ok, papa.”