The statue of the Great Dragon Above All loomed over the dark elf as she sank into a kneeling bow before it. Its black stone glistened as the light filtered through the stained windows, bouncing onto the ground and filling the church with splendorous holiness. It was truly an honour to serve the dragon, the priestess knew this.

  “I am humbled to be thy servant, O Myrofyr,” said the dark elf, breathlessly. She whispered her prayer over the course of ten minutes, pausing every now and then to raise her hands to the sky before crumpling forward to touch the ground. She ended the prayed by clasping her hands together and tucking her head low. It had been a good prayer.

  Ilyria’s pointed ears twitched as she stood up deeply lilac skin radiating from the light reflecting onto her from the statue of her wise deity. Her amethyst eyes focused on the Mercian man approaching her. He shared her grey hair, but while hers shone with life, his was that of a man well past his prime.

  She bowed her head. “Do you have need of me, Brother Tyrus?” she asked, keeping her tone respectful even though she knew a scolding was coming.

  “Sister Ilyria,” said the man coldly, stopping before her and his face descending into a frown. “Is it true?”

  “It is true, Brother,” she said unashamedly.

  Tyrus sighed and dragged his hand across his face. “We have strict rules in this church about how to deal with blasphemers who disrespect the great Myrofyr,” he said. “We cannot assault the citizens Abnar’s Watch so carelessly.”

  Ilyria arched her back, standing straight and firm in a failed attempt to match her fellow clergyman’s height. “I will not simply turn a blind eye to such disrespect. If you had heard what the fool said, you would have been unable to hold back yourself, Brother Tyrus.”

  “We are bound by the rules of the city if we are to continue running this sect. If we anger the guards too much, the lords of the city will take action and see us removed. This statue will be torn down and something else erected in the Great Dragon Above All’s place, Ilyria. You know this as well as I do.”

  Ilyria scowled, her cheek twitching as she struggled to hold back a few unpleasant words. After taking a few seconds to calm down, she spoke with great care. “Brother Tyrus. If it is the rules of the city that we tolerate blasphemy, that is what we will do, but if it is brought inside these walls, I have no choice but to act. To take no action would be condoning blasphemy of our god within his own halls. Surely, you see that this is borderline blasphemy in itself.”

  “Enough!” barked Tyrus. “I do not like it any more than you do, Sister, but we are on thin ice already and you are only making things worse.”

  “I do not—”

  “Please,” said the exasperated Tyus, shutting his eyes and craning his neck back. “Please fetch what we need from the market for the evening rites and do not cause further trouble. I will try and smooth things over as best as I can, but it will no doubt involve bribery which we barely have the means to pay. Our coiffeurs are running dry and kupons do not come as easily to us as they had even a decade ago.”

  Ilyria gritted her teeth and gave a false smile. “Very well,” she said. “I am sorry to have brought this upon us, Brother, but I am not sorry for teaching a blasphemer a lesson.”

  “Go…” sighed Tyrus as he shook his head.

  Ilyria did as she asked, taking long strides across the hall and down the aisle towards the open doors. The Great Dragon Above All watched her leave and she had no doubt as she walked from his church that he was proud of her actions, trouble with the city be damned.

  As one of the few dark elves in Abnar’s Watch, Ilyria attracted a lot of attention wherever she went. Not only was she an abnormality, she was considered beautiful by those of her own kind. It caused many of her fellow elves great sorrow when she departed their glorious nation of Balmoria to preach in Mercia.

  “A human country?” they would ask in disgust.

  “Servants of Myrofyr are needed where we are needed,” Ilyria would reply every time. It mattered little to her where she served the dragon, as long as she was doing her duty one way or another.

  As she walked into the market, she drew a mixture of greetings from those who knew her and stares from those who did not. Having spent two years in Abnar’s Watch, she was surprised that so many had yet to lay eyes on her, but she herself was bad with faces so these people may very well have been travellers.

  She stopped at a stall selling candles and incense. “Excuse me, Leandra,” she said sweetly. “I am here to purchase four of your yellow candles and a bottle of Sweet Nether Pine for the evening rites.”

  “Ah,” said the Leandra, the stall owner with a worried look on her face. “I didn’t know you’d run out, Ilyria. I have the candles, but I sold the last bottle of Sweet Nether Pine two minutes ago.”

  Ilyria gasped. “There is nothing left?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Who did you sell the last bottle to?” asked Ilyria, her face turning magenta, so flustered she was. “Perhaps I can negotiate with him.”

  “It was some young man with red hair,” said Leandra. “A handsome boy too. He was wearing armour, carried a sword by his side and had a scarf tied around his neck. Can you believe that? In this weather and he wears a scarf.”

  “Which way did he go?” asked Ilyria, looking from side to side rapidly to try and find someone matching that description.

  “He headed in the direction of Reginald’s Avenue,” said Leandra, pointing eastwards. “I couldn’t say where he went after—”

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  Ilyria did not hear the rest of Leandra’s sentence as she was already quickstepping between the people in the crowd. Her staff bounced on her back and clocked a few unfortunate people on the head. She was tempted to use it to sweep the people aside, but the last thing she needed right now was to attract more negative attention to the church and thus do a great disservice to Myrofyr. Blasphemers were one thing, but needlessly attacking civilians was despicable behaviour and she could not believe she had even entertained the idea.

  As she broke free of the market, she ran down the street and spied a young man in armour strolling along without a care in the world. He had a golden sword that hung from his belt and he wore a shield on his arm as though he was a soldier, but he was clearly not a member of the town guard; perhaps he was a mercenary, although he seemed a little young for that.

  “Excuse me!” cried Ilyria, upon catching up to him.

  “Eh?” said Friedrich, turning around.

  The young man was about her age in human years and he was indeed handsome, as Leandra had said. He bore a look of obliviousness and Ilyria found his dopy expression immediately charming. “I need your help, Master Mercian.”

  “Master Mercian?” asked Friedrich raising an eyebrow. “Are you alright?” His eyes drifted briefly downwards before whipping back up to look in her eyes; it was a glance that did not go unnoticed by Ilyria, but she had more pressing matters to attend to than this man’s eyes upon her ample chest.

  “I need your incense,” she said.

  “Huh?” said the baffled Friedrich. He started rummaging around in his belt and pulled a small glass bottle from his bag. “You mean this? I just bought it for Teleri. She said our house smelled like rotten olives and it needed sprucing up.”

  He lives with a high elven woman? How odd. Ilyria blinked furiously and then held out her hand. “Please, may I have it? You bought the last bottle the stall owner possessed and I need it for the evening rites at my church.”

  “You’re a priestess?” asked Friedrich, looking to the black staff on her back. It was carved in the shape of a mighty dragon who was clutching onto a glowing yellow moonstone. “Ah, Myrofyr, if I’m not mistaken?”

  “Yes, you are correct,” said Ilyria eagerly. He was not put off by her dedication to the dragon. “I will gladly pay you for it plus an extra three kupons as an apology for your inconvenience. I’m afraid I have little more than that to spare.”

  Friedrich smiled and held the bottle out to her. “Consider it a donation,” he said with a wink that made Ilyria’s face turn a crimson. “Just don’t forget to bless me when you get the chance.”

  “Thank you,” said Ilyria quietly and bowing her head. “You do not know what this means to me.”

  “I hope your ritual goes well,” said Friedrich with a grin. His face faltered. “You’re not sacrificing someone, are you?”

  “By the dragon, no!”

  The young man held up his hands. “I had to make sure. You can never be to too careful.” He turned to leave and gave a wave over his shoulder, leaving Ilyria standing and staring after him.

  “What a unique fellow,” she muttered to herself, the butterflies in her stomach trying to punch their way out. “There is a great spiritual power within him. I can feel it…what does it mean?”

  She watched as the generous young man vanished around a corner. There was something peculiar about him that had drawn her in and made her feel like she could trust him. She racked her brain trying to decipher his mystery. It was not infatuation, of that she was sure, but it left her with a similar feeling to when her childhood love had told her she had beautiful eyes, only for him to find himself in an arranged marriage two weeks later. Had he ever gotten married? That was at two decades ago and the wedding would surely be within the next few years.

  “What was your name?” pondered Ilyria aloud. “I should have asked him. No, he is married and it would be inappropriate to engage with him. Married to an Alaurian, no less. She might get the wrong impression.”

  She decided that the young man would forever be a pleasant little encounter and that she would likely never see him again. He lived in Abnar’s Watch and this was her first encounter with him? Their paths were clearly not meant to cross often, if ever. Fate had simply intervened so that she would be given the incense for the rites.

  Ilyria sighed and made her way back to the stall to pick up the candles. Leandra asked her if she was alright when seeing her glum expression and the Balmorian assured the stall owner that she was. Upon paying over the kupons needed for the candles, she took her leave and returned to the church.

  She froze upon seeing the closed doors. Closed? The doors to the church were never closed during the daytime. Something was wrong. She rushed up to them and pushed them open, relieved to see that they were not locked. Her relief was immediately torn away upon seeing the state of the hall.

  The pews were smashed to pieces, leaving splintered wood all over the floor. The donation plates were cracked without a single kupon remaining. Even the statue of Myrofyr had been vandalised with the dragon’s left hand snapped off. Lying on the ground by the base of the statue was Brother Tyrus and he appeared to be unconscious.

  Ilyria drew her staff and sprinted over to him, ready to administer any healing spells she could, but she was kicked in the back from out of nowhere and tumbled across the ground, slamming into a pillar. She groaned as she climbed to her feet and saw her attacker standing by, as casual as could be. He was clad in black leather armour and covered in a cloak with the hood pulled up. His face was concealed by a wooden mask carved to look like a demon, complete with a set of iron horns protruding from the top.

  “Clumsy me,” he said, no doubt smirking from behind his mask. His accent. This man was certainly a Feldorian; as if she needed any more reasons to dislike wood elves.

  “What do you want?” asked Ilyria climbing to her feet. She lunged for her staff, but the man was quick and kicked it across the floor, sending it spiralling towards the corner.

  “Oh, nothing much,” he said with a shrug. “I think my work here is done.”

  The man reached into his belt and pulled out a small black pellet. He threw it do the ground and it exploded into a cloud of smoke that filled the hall. Ilyria coughed and spluttered as she crawled over to her staff. By the time it was in her hands and she was back on her feet, the dust had settled on the ground and the man had vanished without a trace. There was not even a footprint in the dust.

  Ilyria ran to Tyrus who was battered and bruised. She placed a hand on his forehead and focused her arcane energy. His bruises faded and he stirred. Although his bruises were gone, his expression was that of a man in pain; no doubt she had missed something, but it was important that he was awake and able to speak before anything else.

  “Brother Tyrus, what happened here?” asked Ilyria, fearfully.

  “I-Ilyria?” grunted the priest. “I am glad you’re safe, Sister. I fear…I fear that Abnar’s Hand has targeted us.”

  “The thieves guild?” gasped Ilyria. “No, that should not be possible. They do not attack places of worship!”

  “That man…he said the agreement was broken. That retribution was necessary.”

  “Retribution for…what?” asked Ilyria, her voice trailing off as she spoke. She closed her eyes and fell to her knees. “Oh no…the blasphemer was a member of Abnar’s Finger.”

  “Do you understand now, Sister?” asked Tyrus. “We turn the other cheek for many reasons in this city, for the smallest of acts of retaliation can anger people that we ought not to anger. We’ve gone beyond guards and now we’ve got no favours we can call to see the church restored. The bastard took all of our kupons from the plate, the chest in the back…everything!”

  Ilyria stood up. “I will see to it that it’s returned, Brother Tyrus,” she said, her entire body trembling with rage.

  “No!” barked Tyrus as Ilyria stormed out of the hall. “We have lost, Ilyria! It’s too late!”

  She did not care. She had decided that there was another reason for her chance encounter with the kind Mercian. He was a mercenary and the Great Dragon Above All had kept her out of the church this afternoon for a reason. The young man with the sword and shield was the one who would help her make her church whole again.