“Give him to me”

  Ralyria’s pale, elegant features remained impassive, yet a flicker of something akin to confusion registered within her internal processors. her systems whirred silently. Sergeant Seron, a Soohan elf, and Vrek, a young goblin rescued from mercenaries, had no discernible prior interaction. The elf’s intense focus on the child, a member of a traveling troupe of mixed races, was an unexpected variable. She struggled to reconcile Seron’s demand with any logical basis. An elf making such a demand of a goblin child, a species with whom the Soohan held a wary courtesy born of old grudges, was outside the parameters of expected social interactions.

  Marx’s single hazel eye narrowed, his grip tightening on the crutch that now aided his mana-powered leg. “Like hell we will,” he growled, his voice a low rumble that promised violence. “This pup’s with us. He’s one of the troupe now.” He shifted his weight protectively, placing himself slightly in front of Vrek, whose small form trembled behind him.

  ProlixalParagon straightened, his glowing eyes fixed on Seron’s intense gaze. The relief of finding the children safe was instantly overshadowed by this unexpected and hostile demand. “Sergeant,” he began, his Fennician-tinged voice carrying a note of incredulity, “with all due respect, the children were merely playing. Vrek has done nothing to warrant such a demand. He is under our protection.” He remembered the fear in Vrek’s eyes during the rescue and the tentative glimmer of hope that had begun to show. He would not willingly hand the child over to this abrupt and unexplained interest.

  Seron’s pale eyes, luminous even in the fading twilight, remained fixed on the small goblin boy clinging to Marx’s tunic. His earlier relaxed demeanor had vanished, replaced by an almost zealous intensity. “You do not understand,” the sergeant stated, his voice losing its earlier crispness, becoming laced with an almost reverent urgency. “This child… he is touched by the divine. Look closely.” He gestured towards Vrek’s forehead.

  ProlixalParagon’s rotating ears swiveled, his gaze flicking to the faint, dark marking he had briefly noted before. Now, under the weak light filtering through the trees, it did indeed seem more distinct – an intricate, almost geometric shape.

  “Ancient Soohan texts speak of such markings,” Seron continued, his voice hushed with awe, yet firm with conviction. “The Chosen Vessels. Those born with the sigil of a god, destined for a purpose beyond mortal comprehension. This child… he bears the mark. He could be a great weapon, ProlixalParagon. A conduit. In the coming war against Draggor, such a being… he could turn the tide.” The sergeant’s gaze intensified, a fervor burning in his pale eyes. “Give him to me. He belongs with his own kind… those who understand his potential.”

  ProlixalParagon’s glowing eyes narrowed, the swirls of rich black within his white fur seeming to deepen in contrast to the sudden tension in the air. Seron’s words, referencing ancient texts and divine purpose, felt jarringly out of place amidst the simple relief of finding lost children. “God-touched?” ProlixalParagon repeated, his Fennician-tinged voice carrying a sharp edge of disbelief. “Sergeant, with all due respect, you speak of ancient prophecies and a war against Draggor. This is a child, a frightened goblin child who was lost in the woods. He needs the comfort of his friends, not to be turned into some… weapon.” The casual objectification of Vrek, the dismissal of his current vulnerability, grated against ProlixalParagon’s growing sense of responsibility towards the troupe.

  Marx snorted, his single hazel eye glinting with protective fury. He shifted Vrek further behind him, his large hand resting reassuringly on the boy’s small shoulder. Vrek, for his part, remained silent, his wide, multifaceted eyes darting between the intense elf and the fiercely protective Fennician and goblin. The mention of gods and war likely held little meaning for him; his immediate reality was the safety he had found within the troupe. “Weapon?” Marx’s voice was a low growl. “This ain’t no bloody blade to be waved around, elf. He’s a kit. One of ours.” The possessive pronoun, ‘ours’, carried the weight of the bond formed during their shared journey and the recent rescue. Marx, despite his gruff exterior, had shown a clear protectiveness towards the children.

  Ralyria remained outwardly still, her elegant, forged features betraying no emotion. However, her internal processing continued to analyze the situation while she stood with her spear at the ready. She was a silent, unyielding shield.

  Seron’s luminous gaze remained fixed on Vrek, seemingly oblivious to the defensive wall the others had formed. “The mark does not lie,” he insisted, his voice taking on an almost hypnotic quality. He stepped closer, and both Marx and ProlixalParagon instinctively tensed. “The Soohan Scrolls of Divination detail the signs. The Vessels are rare, appearing only in times of great need. The convergence of celestial events at the time of their birth, the unique markings… Vrek exhibits all the criteria.” He reached out a pale hand, his fingers outstretched towards the trembling goblin child.

  ProlixalParagon moved swiftly, placing himself directly between Seron and Vrek. His shorter stature was no deterrent; his posture radiated a fierce protectiveness. “Sergeant,” he said, his voice firm and unwavering, “your beliefs are your own. But this child is not yours to claim. He is under the protection of the Vermillion Troupe. We found him lost and frightened, and we will not abandon him to some grand, potentially dangerous destiny based on ancient texts we know nothing about.” He thought of the hardships the troupe had already faced, the constant threat of Dustreach and the memories of the abandoned enclave. He would not willingly subject one of their own to further uncertainty and potential harm.

  Marx echoed his sentiment, his grip tightening on his crutch. “He stays with us, elf. End of story.” He subtly shifted his weight, ready to use the crutch as a weapon if necessary.

  Seron’s hand remained outstretched for a moment longer, then slowly retracted. His intense gaze, however, did not waver from Vrek. “You do not understand the gravity of this,” he said, his voice laced with frustration. “Draggor’s forces grow stronger every day. Their incursions become bolder. We need every advantage we can muster. A god-touched vessel… such power could break their lines, inspire our warriors, ensure the survival of Soohan and all the free lands.”

  “And what of the child?” ProlixalParagon countered, his glowing eyes holding Seron’s unwavering gaze. “What becomes of Vrek in your grand strategy? Is he simply a ‘weapon’ to be wielded and discarded? He is a living being, Sergeant, not a tool.” He thought of Ralyria, the automaton who was slowly showing signs of a nascent consciousness. Even constructs deserved respect and autonomy; surely a living child deserved even more.

  Seron’s expression flickered, a hint of something akin to conflict crossing his sharp features. “The gods choose for a reason,” he murmured, almost to himself. “His destiny is greater than… than simple companionship.”

  “Destiny is a path we forge ourselves, Sergeant,” ProlixalParagon stated firmly. “Not one dictated by dusty scrolls and the whims of distant deities. Vrek’s path is with the Vermillion Troupe, amongst those who care for him. And that is where he will stay.” His hand instinctively rested on the hilt of his dagger, a silent promise of resistance. The fragile peace they had found after escaping Dustreach was not to be broken by this unexpected and unwelcome intrusion. The children were safe, and ProlixalParagon, Marx, and Ralyria would ensure they remained so.

  The tense standoff in the quiet clearing erupted as Sergeant Seron’s pale, luminous gaze, previously fixed on Vrek, snapped to ProlixalParagon. His elegant features contorted with a sudden fury that belied his earlier measured demeanor. The air crackled with a palpable shift in his mana, a subtle shimmer distorting the starlight around him.

  “Insolent whelp!” Seron spat, his voice losing its smooth, commanding tone and hardening into a venomous snarl. “You dare defy a servant of the divine? You stand against the will of the gods themselves?”. Without waiting for a response, his hand flashed to the curved moonsteel blade at his hip. The draw was swift and fluid, the polished metal catching the faint light with a deadly gleam.

  Marx roared, a primal sound of fury and protectiveness. His weathered olive complexion showed a deep line of concern across his brow. His single hazel eye blazed with a fierce light as he shifted his weight, his mana-powered prosthetic leg providing a stable base. He swung his crude but effective crutch in a wide arc, planting its reinforced end firmly in the ground, ready to use it as a brace or a weapon. “Touch this kid, elf, and you’ll regret the day you were born!” he bellowed, his teeth bared in a menacing snarl. Vrek, huddled behind Marx, whimpered softly but clung tightly to the big man’s roughspun tunic.

  Ralyria remained a study in silent, deadly readiness. Her pale, elegant features remained impassive, but the almost inaudible whirring of her internal mechanisms intensified. Her spear, crafted for lethal precision, was held steady, its tip now aimed directly at Seron’s chest. The subtle flicker of mana around her form indicated she was prepared to move with blinding speed.

  ProlixalParagon’s glowing eyes narrowed, his white fur, laced with swirls and patterns of rich black, seeming to bristle with protective energy. He shifted his stance, his dagger, a familiar weight in his hand, held low but ready. “Sergeant,” he began, his Fennician-tinged voice still carrying a note of warning, “this is madness. You would resort to violence against those under your protection, over a child you just met?”.

  Seron ignored him, his gaze locked on Marx. “Stand aside, brute. This is beyond your comprehension.” He lunged forward with surprising speed for his tall frame, his moonsteel blade flashing in a swift, deadly arc aimed at Marx’s side.

  Marx, despite his broad shoulders and build, reacted quickly. He pivoted on his prosthetic leg, using the crutch as a fulcrum, narrowly avoiding the slicing blade. The force of Seron’s movement carried him slightly past Marx, creating a momentary opening.

  Ralyria moved in that instant with her characteristic silent grace. Her spear thrust forward, a blur of motion, aiming for a vulnerable point in Seron’s light armor. The tip grazed his arm, drawing a thin line of crimson. Seron hissed in annoyance and spun to face the automaton, his initial target momentarily forgotten.

  ProlixalParagon seized the opportunity. He darted forward, moving low, and flung his dagger. The blade spun through the air, catching the dim starlight, and struck Seron in the thigh, mirroring his earlier takedown of the mercenary. Seron roared in pain and stumbled, his attack on Ralyria faltering.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  “Enough!” Seron bellowed, clutching his injured thigh. His eyes burned with an almost fanatical intensity as he glared at the three who stood against him. “You will not stand in the way of destiny!” He channeled his mana, and the air around him began to crackle. A faint silver aura enveloped his form, and his eyes glowed with an unnatural light.

  Marx, seeing the surge of power, hefted his crutch, preparing to engage the enraged elf directly. “He’s going to do something stupid,” he growled, his hand tightening on the makeshift weapon.

  Ralyria adjusted her grip on her spear, her internal sensors undoubtedly analyzing Seron’s escalating mana signature. She shifted her stance, ready to intercept any magical assault.

  ProlixalParagon, despite his smaller stature, stood his ground, his dagger held ready. He knew they were outmatched in terms of raw power, but they had the element of surprise and their unwavering determination to protect Vrek. “We will not let you take him, Sergeant,” he stated firmly, his voice echoing in the sudden stillness before the renewed clash. “He is with us, and we will defend him.” The fragile peace of the night had shattered, replaced by the imminent threat of a desperate fight against a powerful and enraged foe.

  The fight in the starlit clearing became a whirlwind of motion and desperate defense. Seron, fueled by his conviction about Vrek’s divine nature and enraged by their defiance, pressed his attack with a ferocity that belied his earlier composure. His moonsteel blade flashed in swift, deadly arcs, forcing Marx to rely on his prosthetic-assisted agility and the sturdy length of his crutch to parry and deflect the blows. Each clang of metal against wood echoed in the tense clearing, a stark counterpoint to Vrek’s increasingly distressed whimpers.

  Ralyria moved with her characteristic silent efficiency, her spear a constant threat, seeking any opening in Seron’s defenses. The automaton’s precise movements and unwavering focus made her a formidable opponent, forcing Seron to divide his attention between her and the heavily built Marx. ProlixalParagon, nimble and quick, darted around the larger combatants, looking for opportunities to exploit Seron’s focus, his dagger a constant threat of a well-placed strike. The air grew thick with the scent of displaced earth and the faint metallic tang of the graze Ralyria had inflicted on Seron’s arm.

  As the fight raged on, Vrek, huddled behind Marx, became increasingly agitated. The sounds of clashing steel, Seron’s angry shouts, and the palpable tension in the air were overwhelming the small goblin boy. His large, multifaceted eyes, already wide with fear, began to glisten with unshed tears. He clutched tighter to Marx’s tunic, his small body trembling with escalating distress. The faint, dark marking on his forehead, the focus of Seron’s zealous pronouncements, seemed to pulse faintly beneath his skin.

  With each near miss of Seron’s blade and each forceful block from Marx, Vrek’s whimpers escalated into choked sobs. He buried his face in Marx’s back, his small hands clenching the fabric so tightly his knuckles turned white. The chaotic energy of the fight, the sheer terror of the situation, seemed to be building within him, a pressure cooker of fear and confusion.

  Suddenly, a low thrumming sound began to emanate from Vrek. It started subtly, a barely perceptible vibration that resonated more in the ground than in the air. But it grew rapidly, a deep, resonant hum that seemed to vibrate in the very bones of those present. The dark mark on Vrek’s forehead began to glow, a soft, ethereal light that intensified with each passing moment. The intricate, almost geometric lines of the sigil burned with an inner luminescence, casting strange shadows in the flickering starlight.

  The ground beneath them began to tremble more violently. Cracks spiderwebbed across the forest floor, the brittle undergrowth snapping and shifting. With a sound like the voice of the earth itself, a gaping chasm tore open between Seron and the three who stood protecting Vrek. The fissure was sudden and profound, a jagged tear in the fabric of the clearing that plunged into darkness, its depths unseen. A gust of cool, stale air rose from the newly formed abyss, carrying with it the faint scent of turned earth and something ancient and unknown.

  Seron stumbled back, his eyes wide with disbelief and a dawning awe. The sudden appearance of the chasm, the raw power that seemed to emanate from the glowing mark on Vrek’s forehead, had an immediate and profound effect on him. His enraged expression melted away, replaced by a look of utter astonishment and reverence. The moonsteel blade, still clutched in his hand, wavered as his grip loosened.

  As the thrumming subsided and the ethereal glow from Vrek’s forehead softened, Seron sank to his knees at the edge of the newly formed chasm. His pale eyes, still luminous in the twilight, remained fixed on Vrek, now no longer with desire or anger, but with a profound, almost religious awe. His lips moved silently, as if uttering a prayer or a sacred oath. The fight was forgotten, his previous rage extinguished by the undeniable display of power he had just witnessed. The “divine touch” he had spoken of had manifested in a way far beyond his expectations, separating him from the object of his zealous pursuit with a chasm that spoke of forces far greater than himself.

  Seron remained on his knees at the edge of the chasm, his awe-struck gaze fixed on Vrek, who was still trembling slightly behind Marx. The silver aura that had enveloped the elf moments before flickered and subsided, replaced by an expression of fervent conviction. The sight of the raw power emanating from the small goblin boy, a power so immense it had physically rent the earth, seemed to have solidified his belief beyond any doubt.

  He slowly rose, his movements stiff but purposeful, his pale eyes now shining with an almost fanatical light. He gestured towards the still-glowing mark on Vrek’s forehead, his voice hushed with reverence but firm in its pronouncement. “Did you see it?” he breathed, his gaze sweeping over ProlixalParagon, Marx, and Ralyria. “Did you witness the divine touch? This is why!”.

  He stepped closer to the edge of the chasm, his focus entirely on Vrek. “This proves everything the ancient Soohan texts foretold!” he declared, his voice gaining strength. “The Vessels, marked by the gods themselves, appearing in times of great need! This child… he is one of them! This power… it is not meant to be hidden away, guarded by those who cannot comprehend its significance!”.

  Seron extended a hand across the newly formed abyss, his gaze imploring. “You must understand! This is not mere chance. This is a sign! A manifestation of divine will! He must be nurtured, guided, trained to harness this incredible power. In the coming war against Draggor, a being such as this… he could be our salvation! He could turn the tide, protect Soohan, and ensure the freedom of all the free lands!”. His words echoed his earlier pronouncements about Vrek potentially being a great weapon and a conduit.

  ProlixalParagon’s glowing eyes narrowed, his white fur, with its distinctive black swirls, bristling slightly at Seron’s fervent claims. He stepped forward, placing himself even more firmly between the elf and the trembling goblin boy. “Sergeant,” he stated, his Fennician-tinged voice resolute, “what we saw was a child in distress. A powerful reaction, perhaps, to fear and the chaotic energies of our conflict. It does not give you the right to claim him, to turn him into some weapon based on ancient prophecies you interpret to suit your own ends.”

  Marx rumbled in agreement, his single hazel eye blazing with protective fury. He hefted his crutch, its reinforced end planted firmly on the ground. “He’s right, elf,” he growled, his teeth bared in a snarl. “This ‘divine vessel’ you see is just a scared kid who needs his friends. We found him, we’re taking care of him, and that’s the end of it. This power of his, whatever it is, it’s his to understand, not yours to exploit for your war”. He remembered his own feelings of being deemed useless after losing his leg, and the thought of Vrek being treated as a mere tool undoubtedly fueled his protectiveness.

  Ralyria remained a silent sentinel, her pale, elegant features still impassive, but the almost inaudible whirring of her internal mechanisms intensified. Her spear remained steady, its tip still aimed indirectly at Seron, a silent but firm declaration of their unified stance. Her programming, despite its evolving nature, still prioritized the safety and well-being of those under their protection. Seron’s demand for Vrek, devoid of any concern for the child’s well-being, would likely register within her as a potential threat.

  Seron’s expression shifted from awe to frustration, his pale eyes burning with intensity as he looked at their defiant stance. “You fools!” he exclaimed, his voice rising. “Don’t you understand the magnitude of this? This is not about my desires, but about the fate of Soohan! The gods have shown us a sign, a way to prevail against the darkness that threatens to engulf us! And you would stand in its way, clinging to your misguided notions of protection and companionship?”.

  He gestured again towards Vrek, his voice taking on a more urgent, almost desperate tone. “He belongs with those who can understand him, who can help him control this power, guide it for the greater good! You are merely delaying the inevitable, putting him and yourselves at risk by denying his true purpose!”.

  ProlixalParagon shook his head firmly. “His ‘true purpose,’ as you call it, Sergeant, should be his own to discover, not one forced upon him by fear and the exigencies of war. We offer him safety, friendship, and the freedom to be a child. You offer him a destiny as a weapon. We choose the former”. He thought of the hardships the Vermillion Troupe had faced and their commitment to protecting each other. He would not allow Vrek to become another pawn in the ongoing conflict.

  Marx spat on the ground near the edge of the chasm. “Like I said, elf. End of story. Lay another hand on this kid, and you’ll find out just how protective a one-legged woodcarver can be”. He tightened his grip on his crutch, his posture radiating unwavering resolve.

  Ralyria remained silent but unyielding, a physical embodiment of their refusal. The three stood as an impassable barrier between Seron and the small, trembling goblin boy, their determination fueled by a growing sense of protectiveness and a deep distrust of the elf’s zealous pronouncements. The fragile calm after the opening of the chasm was shattered, replaced by a renewed tension, the silent standoff hinting at the potential for further, more violent conflict.

  The tense standoff between Seron and the protectors of Vrek hung heavy in the starlit air . Seron, still kneeling at the edge of the newly formed chasm, his eyes wide with a fervent conviction, reiterated his demand . "You see the power! This is undeniable proof! Vrek is touched by the divine! You cannot deny destiny! For the sake of Soohan, for the sake of all of us against the Draggor menace, you must give him to me!" His voice, though still carrying a note of awe, now held an edge of desperate urgency.

  ProlixalParagon, his white fur containing swirls of rich black, stood firm, placing himself squarely between Seron and the trembling goblin boy. Marx, his single hazel eye narrowed in defiance, gripped his crutch like a weapon. Ralyria, silent and unyielding, remained a watchful presence.

  As Seron pressed his case, his fervent pronouncements echoing across the clearing, a subtle shift occurred in the atmosphere. A faint but familiar odor reached ProlixalParagon's sensitive, rotating ears. It was a damp, earthy scent, mingled with a distinct mineral tang – the unmistakable smell of the forgotten dungeon west of Yendral’s Hollow, the place they had recently explored. The scent was faint, carried on the cool air rising from the chasm's depths, but to ProlixalParagon, it was undeniably present.

  His luminous eyes, which had been fixed on Seron's impassioned face, flicked downwards towards the jagged tear in the earth. He remembered the cool, stagnant air that had emanated from the descending passages. He recalled the strange mineral tang that had grown stronger as they delved deeper. A cold realization began to dawn. The sudden, violent rending of the earth… the peculiar scent… it couldn't be a coincidence.

  ProlixalParagon took a hesitant step towards the edge of the chasm, his ears twitching, his nose testing the air more deliberately. The mineral scent was stronger here, almost metallic, just as it had been in the deeper parts of the dungeon, particularly near the chamber where the stone door had sealed them in. His gaze pierced the darkness of the chasm, his enhanced vision struggling to penetrate the inky blackness.

  Then, he saw it.

  Faint, scraping sounds, like stone against stone, drifted up from the depths. Small pebbles and loose earth cascaded down the chasm's sides. And then, a shape began to emerge from the darkness. Spindly, multi-jointed legs scrabbled against the uneven rock, followed by a chitinous, obsidian-black carapace. Its multifaceted eyes, glowing with an eerie inner light, flickered into existence as it gained purchase on the chasm wall.

  Another followed, and then another. The insectoid Mana Originating Beasts, the formidable guardians they had encountered in the dungeon's second chamber, were climbing out of the chasm. Their razor-sharp mandibles snapped audibly, and a low, clicking sound echoed from their movements. The chasm, it seemed, had not simply separated Seron from them; it had torn open a direct path to the forgotten dungeon, unleashing its dangerous inhabitants upon the starlit clearing.

  ProlixalParagon’s breath caught in his throat. "Marx! Ralyria!" he exclaimed, his voice sharp with alarm, cutting through Seron's continued pleas. "The chasm… it's the dungeon! Creatures… they're coming out!".

  Marx, who had been maintaining his aggressive stance towards Seron, turned his single eye towards the chasm, his brow furrowing in confusion. He caught sight of the first of the insectoid creatures as it hauled itself onto the edge, its obsidian form a stark contrast to the forest floor. His initial defiance towards Seron morphed into a grim realization of a new, more immediate threat. "What in the blazes…?" he muttered, hefting his crutch defensively.

  Ralyria, her head tilting slightly, processed the information with her characteristic speed. Her pale, elegant features remained impassive, but the almost inaudible whirring of her internal mechanisms intensified. Her spear shifted in her grip, no longer aimed indirectly at Seron, but now tracking the movements of the emerging creatures.

  Seron, who had been so focused on Vrek and the perceived divine miracle, was momentarily stunned. He stared at the crawling creatures with a mixture of confusion and dawning horror. His reverence seemed to falter as the monstrous beings, far from any divine manifestation he might have envisioned, began to clamber out of the chasm he had attributed to celestial power. "What… what are these?" he stammered, his hand instinctively reaching for the moonsteel blade at his side. The awe in his eyes was rapidly being replaced by fear and uncertainty. The divine power he had witnessed had seemingly unleashed something far more dangerous and earthly than he had anticipated. The fight between Seron and Vrek's protectors was no longer just a matter of differing beliefs; it had become a matter of immediate survival against a common enemy inadvertently unleashed by Vrek's mysterious power.