"What a great outcome, Faelan," Vincent said, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he looked around their confines.

  "It is not that bad of an outcome, Vincent," answered the elven guard who had been sitting next to him in the wagon hours before. His name, Faelan, had been revealed when they encountered the not-so-savage elves in the forest.

  "Yeah, Vincent," the other guard chimed in from his corner.

  "Of course it isn't," Vincent retorted, an ironic smile playing on his lips. "We're just in jail after rescuing a princess."

  "This is no prison, Vincent."

  "Forgive my rudeness, Faelan. Let me rephrase." He cleared his throat with a few exaggerated coughs. "We are in this great, prison-like dungeon deep underground, with no sunshine whatsoever."

  "This is neither a dungeon nor a prison," Faelan insisted, gesturing to the thick, woven roots that formed the walls and bars of their cell. "We are beneath the Great World Tree."

  "Doesn't change the fact that we're in a cell," Vincent countered, staring pointedly at the root-formed bars. "Behind literal, rooty bars."

  "Do not worry. Once the princess speaks to the king, you will be treated as a hero and given fair compensation."

  "I doubt that," the other elf spoke up, drawing the attention of both Vincent and Faelan. "The princess was not given permission to leave the forest. She will likely be... reprimanded. And we will probably be here for a while."

  "Of course," Vincent sighed, his mind already turning over the possibilities of a prison break.

  He turned his gaze back to Faelan. "What were you doing in the human lands to begin with?"

  "I believe the princess already told you that is confidential," the seated elf interjected.

  "Yes, she did," Vincent conceded. "But considering our current situation, I believe I now deserve an answer before I decide whether or not a prison break is worth the trouble."

  The first elf fell silent, but Faelan let out a resigned sigh.

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  "We were searching for a merchant," Faelan admitted.

  "A merchant?" Vincent couldn't keep the disbelief from his voice. "You nearly started a war over a tradesman?"

  "It is not so simple," Faelan said, his voice dropping. "It began with our king. For centuries, since his reign began, the blessing of the World Tree has faded. We watched it sicken, and we watched him sicken with it. His mind... fractured. He became consumed by a single purpose: find a specific merchant. He poured our kingdom's resources into the search, leading expeditions himself. He believed this merchant held a power—the only power that could restore the Tree."

  He paused, the memory clearly painful. "Decades passed. The king's obsession died out. He gave up the search and retreated from the world,even passing the crown to his son. But the princess... she never forgot her grandfather's original conviction. She believed the merchant was real and that he was our only hope. After the peace talks in the human lands, she commanded us to deviate from our route. She was willing to risk everything on the slim chance of finding the one person who could save our home. The rest, you know."

  A merchant with the power to revive the World Tree? Could they be connected? Vincent’s thoughts immediately flew to the "merchant" the diamond fiends had mentioned, but he dismissed it as an unlikely coincidence.

  "Well, guess I'm staying put for now," he sighed. "But I hope I won't have to enjoy your hospitality for long."

  The sound of approaching footsteps echoed in the chamber, and all three perked up, turning their heads toward the noise.

  When the figure reached their cell, the two elves instantly recognized her and rose to their feet in a gesture of deep respect.

  Vincent, who remained seated, asked, "And who are you? The interrogator?"

  "Do I look like an interrogator?" a calm, measured voice replied from behind the mask.

  In response, Vincent gave a deliberate, slow scan of her attire. She was covered from neck to toe. A plain green coat lay over a simple white shirt, devoid of any ornamentation. A long, unadorned white skirt fell to the floor. Completing the sterile ensemble were black gloves and a white mask that obscured her mouth and nose.

  "Lady, our races wear different clothes for different things," he retorted. "So how in the hell do you expect me to guess your job?"

  The elf rolled her eyes at his comment and unlocked the cell. "I am the Royal Physician." She stepped inside, her gaze settling on Vincent. "The princess urged me to check her savior's injury."

  "The Royal Physician, sent to treat a criminal in jail?"

  "You are not imprisoned. You are being held pending a decision on your status."

  "Sounds like a fancy way of saying 'imprisoned.'"

  "Just show me the injury," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument.

  "Sure." Vincent rolled up his left sleeve, revealing an arm that was almost completely healed, with little more than faint marks remaining.

  As the physician examined his arm, Vincent noticed the subtle tension in her posture. "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing..." she murmured, her voice low. Then, with a swift, practiced motion, she pulled a slender knife from her coat. "Which is the problem."

  "What's with the knife?" Vincent asked, hurriedly pulling his hand back and putting distance between them.

  "Are you scared of knives?"

  "Very much so. Now, the reason?"

  "Given the creatures the princess described, I expected your hand to be necrotic beyond repair, or at the very least, bearing a curse."

  "But it's not. Which is good. So why the knife?"

  "I need to check your blood. It is impossible to simply heal from such afflictions without a trace."

  "Check for what?"

  "For a subdermal infection. Or a curse with no surface mark."

  "You could have said that before pulling out the knife."

  "I did not expect a man who fights fiends to be such a coward about a lancet."

  "Would you have preferred I decapitated you?"

  "Yes." Her stoic expression remained utterly unchanged throughout the exchange.

  "I see." Vincent let out a short, incredulous laugh and extended his hand. "Fine. Here."

  "I will also need a sample from your other hand."

  Vincent rolled his eyes but complied, rolling up his right sleeve.

  With efficient, practiced motions, she made a small, precise cut on each of Vincent's palms, collecting the blood in two separate glass vials. "I will inform you of my findings," she announced, and without another word, she turned and left.

  For the time being, Vincent

  decided to wait. He would hear what she discovered before deciding whether an escape was necessary.