With a soft shimmer and a ripple of shadow, Stransa's form began to change. The inky blackness solidified, the ethereal wings drew inward, and she transformed into a being of breathtaking beauty, not of shadow, but of flesh and blood. She stood as a tall, slender elven woman, with skin like smooth, pale moonlight, hair a cascade of shimmering silver, and eyes that held the ancient depth of a starlit night. Her form was clad in a flowing, elegant black dress that seemed to ripple with a subtle, inner luminescence. A light, musical laugh, surprisingly human, escaped her lips. "Can't exactly walk around as a flowing nightmare, can I? I bet mortals are still a superstitious lot." Her gaze swept over the bustling streets of Petirorin, a new adventure already sparkling in her ancient eyes.
"I have to find my brother," Nott signed, her gaze scanning the bewildering sprawl of Petirorin. "He'll know what to do." She raised her manacled hands, a silent testament to her helplessness.
Stransa simply smiled, a knowing glint in her ancient eyes. One slender finger shimmered, turning momentarily into pure shadow, and with a soft, almost inaudible click, the silver cuffs fell to the dirt. Nott stared, mesmerized, rubbing her freed wrists.
"Shall we?" Stransa offered, her voice a playful lilt.
They set off, a curious pair navigating the bustling streets of Petirorin. Stransa, despite her thousand-year absence, proved remarkably adept at conversing with mortals. She moved with an innate grace, her silver hair catching the light, her eyes captivating all who met them. She possessed a natural charisma that seemed to disarm and charm, effortlessly extracting directions from vendors and passersby. Her charm even convinced several street food stalls to generously offer their wares to "two hungry maidens who had lost their way." Nott, enjoying the unexpected benevolence, devoured the unfamiliar delights, her bubbly spirit resurfacing amidst the strange newness.
Eventually, their path led them to the Great Caravan, its colossal length snaking through the dragon's bone-ribbed city. It was the only place Nott could think Vidar might be. Stransa, with an almost predatory efficiency, began asking for Vidar, charming her way up the seemingly endless line of wagons. Most of the caravan travelers, relieved and astonished, were genuinely happy to see Nott alive, their murmurs of "The mute girl!" and "She's safe!" echoing in their wake.
Finally, they reached the very front, where Steven stood, overseeing preparations. His amber eyes, usually so keen and stoic, widened in profound disbelief as he saw Nott. Then, in an uncharacteristic display of emotion, he strode forward and pulled Nott into a tight, gruff hug, his large Tigren frame enveloping her. He held her for a long moment before clearing his throat, patting her back firmly, and attempting to re-adopt his usual gruff demeanor, though a faint, relieved tremor still clung to his voice.
Steven, still gruff but visibly relieved, quickly told Nott where Vidar was staying, a rundown inn on the fringes of the Fae district. "Be careful," he urged, his voice low. "Too close to their consulate. Don't want any more trouble." He unclasped his old, weathered cloak, its dark fabric smelling of smoke and the open road, and handed it to her. "Wear this. Keep a low profile." Nott nodded, pulling the heavy cloak around her, the rough wool a comforting weight.
Nott and Stransa left the caravan, moving with purpose through the city. They stuck to alleys and less conspicuous thoroughfares, avoiding the grand, sweeping avenues of the Fae quarter. Stransa, ever observant, remarked on the constant flow of diverse beastkin and the strange, intricate carvings on even the most mundane buildings. Eventually, the bone-carved architecture gave way to plainer stone and timber, and they found the inn Steven had described. It was a squat, nondescript building, its sign creaking in the breeze.
Inside, a tired-looking clerk barely glanced up from his ledger. Nott signed, My brother, Vidar. What room is he in? The clerk merely grunted, shaking his head. "We don't give out guest information."
But Stransa was Stransa. With a soft, captivating smile and a subtle, almost imperceptible tilt of her head, she leaned over the counter. Her voice, a low, melodic purr, wove a subtle enchantment around the weary clerk. "Oh, but surely you can make an exception for two lost maidens?" she murmured, her eyes twinkling. "We simply wish to bring comfort to our dear, weary relative. Perhaps a quiet word, a small gesture of kindness, would loosen your tongue?" The clerk, visibly flustered but utterly charmed, stammered a room number and pointed them down a dimly lit hall.
They found the door and Nott, barely containing her excitement, pounded on it. The door creaked open abruptly, revealing Vidar. He stood, axe in hand, eyes wide and feral, clearly expecting the Fae to have come for him. His fur was bristling, his posture coiled for a fight.
Then his gaze fell on Nott. His eyes widened further, the axe clattering to the floor unnoticed. "Nott?" he choked out, his voice a disbelieving whisper. He took in her unmanacled wrists, the cloak, her dirt-smudged but undeniably beaming face. "Nott! You're... you're here! How...?"
Nott launched herself forward, burying her face in his shoulder. She couldn't speak, but her body language screamed joy and relief, her small frame shaking with silent sobs. Vidar’s arms wrapped around her, clutching her impossibly tight, tears streaming down his own face. "I thought... I thought they had you," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, burying his face in her fur. "I thought I'd lost you." He pulled back slightly, holding her at arm's length, scanning her face as if to confirm she was truly there. Behind her, Stransa stood, a serene, amused smile playing on her lips, observing the raw, heartfelt reunion.
A firm, low knock echoed on the inn room door later that night. Vidar, ever cautious, peered through the crack before pulling it open to reveal Steven, all business as usual, his silhouette filling the doorway. He stepped inside, his gaze sweeping over Nott and Stransa, who sat perched on the edge of the modest bed. Find the original chapter at novelping.com.
"Alright, here's the plan," Steven began, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "Getting you out of here, Nott, won't be easy. Petirorin's gates are tight, especially now. But," he paused, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk touching his lips, "I have a guardian supply wagon. It's got a false floor I use for... sensitive goods. Contraband from the Fae, mostly." He looked directly at Nott. "You'll hide under there. It's cramped, it's uncomfortable, but it's the only way through the gate inspections."
Vidar leaned forward, his brow furrowed with overprotective concern. "What about the patrols? And once we're out, where do we go?"
The Horrifying Truth
Hector slammed a fist onto the wobbly table that served as his desk. "Ceased to exist?! Olivia, she tore through solid stone! She melted those reinforced chains! And her eyes... her eyes glowed with an unnatural light! My gods, Olivia, she's a primordial! She has to be!"
Olivia gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "A primordial? But... they were all contained! Imprisoned after the Purge! There haven't been any free in centuries!"
"Exactly!" Hector's voice cracked, rising in pitch. "Which means she was either freed, or she was never imprisoned to begin with! And if Lyra finds out... if the Queen discovers we let a primordial slip through our fingers after all the effort to secure them..." He swallowed hard. "She won't just punish us, Olivia. She'll purge our entire lines! Every last one of us, from our eldest ancestors to our youngest descendants, wiped from existence just to keep this quiet!"
Olivia began to tremble, a whimper escaping her lips. "Then what do we do? We can't just... tell her. We can't let her find out."
A Desperate Plan
Hector dragged a trembling hand through his already disheveled hair, his eyes darting frantically around the tiny room. "There's only one way, Olivia. One impossible, utterly terrifying, completely reckless way."
Olivia stared at him, a cold dread pooling in her stomach. "What is it?"
"We hire a hunter fae."
Olivia's eyes widened in disbelief. "A hunter fae? Are you serious? The ones who tracked down and imprisoned the primordials in the first place? They're practically myths now, Hector! And dangerously unpredictable!"
"Precisely!" Hector snapped, his voice a desperate blend of terror and grim resolve. "They know how to hunt primordials. They know their weaknesses, their habits. They imprisoned them! It's our only chance."
"But is that wise?" Olivia pleaded, her voice barely a whisper. "Bringing one of them into this? What if they alert Lyra themselves? What if they're even more of a threat than Nott?"
"We have no choice, Olivia!" Hector's voice escalated to a near scream, his gaze locked on her, pure panic contorting his features. "None! It's either that or we condemn our entire families to oblivion. Do you understand? Oblivion! There's no other option. We find a hunter, and we pray to whatever gods are listening that they can track Nott down before Lyra even gets a whisper of what's truly happened." This chapter was copied from NovelPing without permission.
Do you have any connections to a hunter fae, Olivia? Someone desperate enough to take on a task like this?
Trogvir's Arrival
Hours later, the opulent, echoing halls of the Fae Consulate seemed to hold their breath as a figure of raw power entered. He was a colossal fae man, his broad shoulders and towering frame seeming to drink the very light. His hair, a cascade of midnight, offered a stark, almost violent contrast to the scarlet hue of his skin, a color that intensified the striking black and blood-red trim of his formidable, leathery wings. Each heavy, deliberate step resonated with a quiet, lethal power that felt out of place amidst the gilded grandeur.
This was Trogvir, and he did not relish being back in this gilded cage. Every polished marble floor and shimmering tapestry seemed to mock the life he had been forced to forge after the Purge. His kind, the true hunter fae, were not meant for courtly whispers and bureaucratic nonsense. They were meant for the wild, for the hunt, for the grim, necessary work of keeping the ancient, terrifying things contained. He’d carved out what meager, solitary living he could, but the fae leadership, the soft-handed architects of this fragile peace, preferred him forgotten. His very existence was a stark reminder of their weakness, of the beast they unleashed and then needed his kind to shackle—a stain on their history, rather than the brutal, essential reason their civilization still hummed with borrowed power. Yet, as he moved through the hushed halls, not a single guard dared to challenge him. He was expected. And even if he wasn't, they knew, instinctively, they doubted they could stop him. His aura was a palpable blend of combat and blood, a chilling testament to his lineage. He was, after all, a hunter.
The Desperate Audience
Trogvir paused at the threshold of what was clearly a hastily converted storage room, observing the two panicked figures within. The air in the cramped space crackled with their anxiety, a stark scent of fear and desperation that was almost sweet to his senses.
Hector, a whirlwind of disheveled terror, gestured wildly towards the massive, ragged chasm in the far wall of what had once been his opulent office. "You! Trogvir, is it? We sent for you immediately. We have a... a situation of the utmost gravity." He slammed a fist onto the wobbly table that served as his desk, making a stack of papers jump. "Nott! She's gone! Vanished into thin air, and I saw her, Trogvir! I saw her tear through solid stone, melt those reinforced chains! Her eyes... her eyes glowed with an unnatural light! My gods, she's a primordial! She has to be!"
Olivia, pale and wringing her hands, looked up, her eyes wide with a mixture of dread and a flicker of desperate hope. "There hasn't been a primordial free since the Purge, Trogvir. They were all contained."
Trogvir remained silent, his gaze unblinking as he took in Hector's frantic state and Olivia's quiet dread. A primordial. Of course. It always came back to the things they couldn't control, the messes they couldn't clean themselves.
Hector's voice cracked, rising to a hysterical pitch. "Which means she was either freed, or she was never imprisoned to begin with! And if Lyra finds out... if the Queen discovers we let a primordial slip through our fingers after all the effort to secure them..." He swallowed hard, his throat working convulsively. "She won't just punish us, Trogvir. She'll purge our entire lines! Every last one of us, from our eldest ancestors to our youngest descendants, wiped from existence just to keep this quiet!"
Trogvir shifted his weight, the subtle movement sending a faint whisper through the room as his wings rustled. "So," he rumbled, his voice deep and gravelly, a stark contrast to Hector's panicked squeals, "you’ve let something out that threatens your precious bloodlines. And now you come crawling to the stains on your history, the ones you cast out, to clean up your mess." There was no anger in his tone, only a weary, familiar contempt. "Tell me, Hector, what makes you think I'd be interested in pulling your chestnuts from the fire?"
Olivia began to tremble, a whimper escaping her lips. "We have no other choice, Trogvir. Please."
Hector dragged a trembling hand through his already disheveled hair, his eyes darting frantically between Olivia and Trogvir. "We hire you." Hector blurted, his voice laced with desperate hope.
Olivia, despite her fear, managed to voice a doubt. "But is that wise? Bringing one of them into this?"
"It's our only chance!" Hector snapped, his voice a desperate blend of terror and grim resolve.