The crossbow string sang.

  ProlixalParagon moved before thought took hold. The bolt hissed past his ear, cutting a thin line of heat through the air, and struck a brittle branch behind him with a sharp *crack*.

  “Down!” he snapped, his voice cutting across the hollow like a thrown knife.

  The camp erupted into chaos.

  Marx lunged forward with a barked curse, axe flashing. Ralyria moved like a streak of pale light, her spear catching the flicker of firelight as she shifted into a defensive stance. Tirok and Mevra darted ahead, blades drawn, while Sira pulled one of the children behind cover.

  The mercenaries shouted, surprise breaking their lines. One yanked a Goblin child to his feet by the scruff, eliciting a sharp cry of fear. The other younglings huddled against the rock wall, wide eyes reflecting fire and fear.

  ProlixalParagon’s pulse roared in his ears, the scents of sweat, dust, and blood thick in the air.

  He flung a dagger — the blade catching one of the mercenaries low in the thigh. The man buckled with a choked curse, collapsing into the scrub.

  Then—

  A horn.

  Low, deep, mournful. Not Dustreach’s signal. Not any call a Draggor patrol would sound. This was older, richer in tone, carrying across the flats like a voice from forgotten trees.

  The mercenaries stiffened.

  Marx froze mid-step. Ralyria’s spear dropped a fraction.

  From the dark at the hollow’s edge, a figure emerged.

  Tall. Cloaked. Silver hair gleaming faintly in the starlight. The sharp, elegant features of a Soohan elf.

  But unlike the cold, brutal killers ProlixalParagon expected, there was no predatory malice in the elf’s pale, luminous gaze. Only a measured, weary sort of regard. The sort of look one gives to trouble long familiar.

  Three more figures followed, slender shapes bearing curved moonsteel blades and bows strung with gutstring.

  The mercenary leader spun, his voice cracking.

  “This is none of your quarrel, elf! We’re on Draggor soil!”

  The elf stepped forward, his voice dry, smooth, carrying the cool weight of command.

  “Your soil ends at the salt flats, human. And your quarrels do not excuse the harming of children.”

  ProlixalParagon’s stomach unknotted slightly. He caught the glint of a crescent-pendant at the elf’s throat — a Soohan emblem, but one marked with the sigil for *kinless wanderers.

  The elf’s gaze settled on ProlixalParagon, eyes narrowing — not with hostility, but curiosity.

  “Fennician.”

  ProlixalParagon straightened, his dagger still ready.

  “These little ones are under our protection. I’ll see no more blood shed over them.”

  The elf inclined his head. “Your people have no love from Draggor, and ours no quarrel with yours.” He turned back to the mercenaries.

  “You will leave. Or you will fall.”

  For a moment, the mercenaries hesitated — long enough for Marx to step up beside ProlixalParagon, teeth bared.

  “I suggest you listen,” Marx rumbled.

  Ralyria moved to flank them, spear steady.

  The lead mercenary’s face twisted, but his courage was already seeping from his bones. He knew better than to test Soohan steel on open ground, especially with witnesses.

  He spat in the dust.

  “This isn’t over.”

  Then he turned and fled, his men scrambling after him into the dark.

  ProlixalParagon exhaled sharply, the tension leaving his shoulders all at once.

  The Soohan elf stepped closer, lowering his hood. Silver hair framed a face both sharp and weary, his pale eyes like reflected starlight.

  “You have little time. Dustreach will send others when these men fail to return.”

  ProlixalParagon nodded grimly. “We ride tonight.”

  The elf hesitated — then extended a hand.

  “Come to Soohan’s border. I’ll see your people granted safe passage. The west road’s no place for Fennician caravans these days. Nor Goblin ones.”

  Marx raised a brow. “Why help us?”

  The elf’s lips curled into a faint, wry smile.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Because we remember what it means to be hounded out of lands by men with too much law and too little mercy.”

  ProlixalParagon grasped the elf’s wrist in a firm, grateful clasp.

  “You have our thanks. What name should I give our elder?”

  The elf’s eyes glimmered faintly.

  “Call me Saelith.”

  And without another word, Saelith and his kin slipped into the night, vanishing as swiftly as they had come.

  ProlixalParagon turned to the others, meeting their waiting gazes.

  “Gather the little ones,” he ordered. “We move before the moon rises.”

  In the distance, another horn sounded — but this one carried no promise of mercy.

  And the night thickened around them like a closing fist.

  ProlixalParagon sheathed his dagger with a sharp motion and strode toward the cleft where the five younglings huddled. The Goblin boy — the youngest, no more than six summers by the look of him — flinched as he approached, clutching his sister with trembling hands. The two Fennician kits, wide-eyed and bone-thin, shrank against the rock, their dust-caked fur marked by soot and the copper tang of old blood.

  ProlixalParagon knelt, lowering his voice to a soft, steady rasp.

  “You’re safe now. No one’s going to take you.”

  One of the Fennician kits, ash-gray with faint stripes like faded ink, blinked up at him.

  “You came back,” the boy whispered, voice raw from thirst.

  ProlixalParagon reached for the waterskin at his hip, pulling the stopper free and holding it out. The kit snatched it with shaking hands, drinking too quickly, water spilling down his chin.

  Ralyria knelt beside him, her pale metal form moving with a grace no flesh could match, gathering the children one by one. Marx crouched on their other side, offering a gruff, toothy grin to the Goblin twins.

  “We’ve got you now, pups,” he rumbled. “You stick to us like burrs on a mule’s tail, you hear?”

  A flicker of wary hope glimmered in their faces.

  “Troupe’s this way,” ProlixalParagon said, rising, his gaze sweeping the horizon.

  The wind shifted — and with it came the distant, unmistakable thud of hooves on hard-packed earth.

  Guards.

  ProlixalParagon’s ears flattened.

  Dustreach’s enforcers, and close.

  He turned sharply to Marx and Ralyria.

  “Move. Now.”

  They didn’t hesitate. Ralyria scooped up the smallest child with ease, cradling the limp form against her shoulder as if it weighed nothing. Marx took a Goblin boy’s hand. Tirok and Mevra moved like shadows, guiding the others, keeping low.

  The troupe’s trail lay to the east, toward the thin line of vardos now cresting a shallow rise in the distance — already wheeling toward Soohan’s border.

  A brief glow of torchlight flickered at the far end of the flats.

  Guards.

  Four riders. Maybe five.

  Draggor’s patrols were easy to spot even at a distance — chain shirts over boiled leather, crimson sashes denoting their station. One bore a pole with a crescent-bitted banner.

  And they were heading straight for the troupe.

  “Marx, take the right flank with the children!” ProlixalParagon snapped, motioning. “Ralyria, with me on the rear!”

  The air crackled with tension as they broke into a run, the brittle grass whispering underfoot. The little ones stumbled, but Marx half-lifted a Goblin cub against his hip, moving like a battering ram through the darkness.

  The desert was merciless — hard-packed earth and loose stones making every step treacherous. Dust clouds rose behind them, catching the light of the riders’ torches.

  A horn sounded.

  Closer.

  ProlixalParagon cursed under his breath.

  They crested a shallow hill and the troupe’s vardos came into full view — pale shapes against the dark, canvas sides swaying, wheels cutting hard lines into the dirt. The lead wagons had already turned east, a line of dark figures at the reins.

  Lyra stood atop the vardo at the rear, silver fur gleaming like moonlight. She spotted them at once.

  Her voice carried on the wind.

  “Make for the salt flats! They won’t cross it to Soohan ground!”

  ProlixalParagon gestured for Marx and the others to veer wide, the children clinging to them as they sprinted toward the lead wagons.

  The guards shouted behind them, the rhythmic pound of hooves growing louder, torchlight dancing wildly across the flats.

  ProlixalParagon could feel the weight of their pursuit like fire at his back.

  Ralyria fell into step beside him, her eyes catching starlight, spear gripped tight.

  “We won’t outrun them on open ground,” she said.

  “We don’t have to,” ProlixalParagon panted. “Just reach Soohan’s line.”

  Ahead, the land began to change — brittle grass giving way to a pale shimmer of salt-rimed earth. The open flats. The old border no Draggor patrol willingly crossed.

  Another horn blast split the night.

  Too close.

  The first arrow struck the earth near Marx’s feet, throwing up a puff of dust. The big Goblin roared in defiance, hoisting one of the children higher.

  “Move, dammit!” ProlixalParagon shouted, his lungs burning.

  The last of the vardos cleared the rise, Lyra motioning them in with a sharp, rustling cry.

  “Faster! Salt line’s near!”

  A second arrow skimmed ProlixalParagon’s shoulder — a burning slice of pain — but he kept moving.

  And then, as if summoned by the land itself, figures appeared on the flats ahead.

  Soohan elves.

  Saelith stood at their head, his cloak billowing like a banner, curved blade unsheathed. Half a dozen warriors at his flanks, their weapons gleaming faintly in the moonlight.

  He lifted a hand.

  “Cross now,” he called to ProlixalParagon.

  “They won’t follow you past our claim.”

  The Vermillion Troupe’s lead wagons hit the salt flats first, wheels rattling on the brittle earth. Marx cleared the rise with the children in tow, Ralyria just behind.

  ProlixalParagon was last.

  He sprinted the final distance, his body screaming, breath ragged. The first Draggor rider crested the hilltop a heartbeat later, torch held aloft.

  And stopped.

  The pursuers reined in hard at the edge of the flats.

  Lyra’s vardo rolled past ProlixalParagon as he staggered onto Soohan ground, Lyra’s golden gaze locking with his.

  “You brought them home,” she rasped.

  A breathless, half-wild grin tugged at ProlixalParagon’s lips.

  “Never a doubt.”

  Behind them, the Draggor guards cursed and shouted, pacing the line but unwilling to cross.

  Saelith stepped forward, his voice cold as the salt wind.

  “Your reach ends here, men of Draggor. Return to your walls.”

  And the border held.

  The Troupe was safe — for now.

  But ProlixalParagon knew the road ahead would only grow darker.

  And the continent of Varethis, the kingdom of draggor, was no doubt far from finished with them.