Nestled in the shadow of a forgotten alley, an entrance remained hidden from prying eyes. To the untrained observer, it appeared as a crumbling, disused cellar door overgrown with moss and creeping ivy. A faint, almost imperceptible rune, etched into the wood, glowed softly when the moonlight hit just right, or, if the proper words were spoken. The ancient mark, known only to the city’s horde, was the key.

  Pushing open the door, a narrow staircase descended into the bowels of the earth, the air growing warmer and damp. As one stepped down, torches flickered to life, casting eerie shadows on the walls. The passageway twisted and turned, a labyrinth only those in the know could navigate without finding themselves quickly lost in the city’s sewage pipes.

  At the heart of the network of tunnels lay the bar, the alehouse, sanctuary to demons, elves, and goblins.

  Many were present.

  Though Larimer had labored in silence to exile Vilk, the shadows of anxiety crept in, infecting the ranks with unease. Vilk, a stalwart of the horde, had vanished, leaving a void that screamed of impending doom. His unassuming presence had been a pillar; now, his absence was a gaping chasm of uncertainty.

  The ale house, once a glittering sanctuary of stolen opulence, now stood as a hollow reminder of better days. The treasures that once gleamed, whispering tales of daring escapades, were gone. The halls echoed with loss, stripped of their former glory. Leaders had been captured, treasures squandered, and opportunities dwindled into the ether.

  All was amiss, a fact not lost on Larimer. He, however, bore no burden to mollify the rising tide of dread. His position held power, but only if he reached for it. Instead, the barman crept away from responsibility and let the full mantle of leadership lay with Creek, the demon leader of the horde. Creek, with his crimson skin and fiery eyes, had addressed the restless masses time and again, but his words lacked the magic to quell their fears. His speeches, though eloquent, failed to soothe the frayed nerves of his followers.

  One by one, disillusioned elves slipped away, abandoning the horde to the relentless march of time. Desperation lingered in the air, the once-mighty horde now teetering on the brink, their unity unraveling with each passing moment. And Larimer made little effort to hold strands together. He had begun to question his place like everyone else.

  “You’re leaving with lady Sheridan?” Larimer asked.

  “I am,” Kurt answered.

  In the depths of the horde’s convoluted network of tunnels, the troll had accompanied Ellenore’s newly appointed guard to add new defenses. The arrival of the craftsman was a surprise to the troll, and he nearly threw him out when Kurt explained how Vilk had prepaid for his service. Just the sound of Vilk's name was enough to make the barman uneasy. He hadn’t yet settled on his emotions toward the green shadow. It would have been easy to work his complex thoughts out on Kurt, but instead, he allowed the boy to work.

  However, someone had to be with the craftsman at all times, otherwise he may have been met with aggression, or worse, by someone else. How he managed to enter the ale house on his own that evening was a miracle more grand than any, but had Larimer not seen him when he did, there may well have been tragedy instead. Though Kurt had made the horde its fortress of an alehouse, most of its members knew not who he was.

  “She came to me. Offered me a place beside her,” the blue one admitted while he watched Kurt work.

  “What did you say?” the boy asked while swatting insects away.

  The tunnels had many humid and wet spots. Finding a place to stand without feeling grime was near impossible. Kurt wondered how elms could walk barefoot through such environments. Glancing over, he noticed Larimer was completely unbothered despite the sweat also on his brow.

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  “Can’t go, won’t. One with skin like mine would be too much. One who does work like mine,” Larimer answered until he seemingly didn’t care enough to finish his thought.

  “You care for your people,” Kurt argued.

  “My people? Thieves and liars.”

  “Elves and goblins. We all do what we must when decisions are few.”

  Like Ellenore, Kurt knew magic in a shallow way. His understanding couldn’t compare to hers, but he had to know enough to fortify his traps with minor spells. Ell knew enough to use the arts with casual effort, but the boy had to rely on crude methods. After placing a final stretch of wire, he took from his pocket a knife and held the blade to his palm.

  Larimer watched, knowing there was a better way, but assumed the boy wouldn’t care to learn it. Kurt cut himself, in a slow steady motion that tore his skin open with unavoidable pain,. Blood dripped from the boy’s hand into the water at their feet, and after a moment of inaudible chanting, the stretch of wire began to glow.

  It was radiant. His blood seemed to trace the path of wires he had laid, and when the red light faded, the enchantment was complete.

  Kurt put away his blade before wrapping his hand with cloth and nodding to the troll, signaling they could move on to the next defense. “I know your code. No killing, no stealing from the poor. No hurting the weak,” he said and followed behind Larimer.

  “How do you know our code?”

  “Vilk taught me. Had he not, had I never known your code, my door would have been a wall too high to climb.”

  “We could make you help us.”

  Whether Larimer was willing to overlook Kurt’s bond with Vilk, their mutual connection to Ellenore did nothing to soothe the tension. It was a nag, an annoyance. The troll had perhaps tasted more of Ellenore’s company than Kurt would ever know, but it wasn’t enough. Knowing that another man would be by her side for many long hours in the coming days rather than Larimer himself was a trying thing. Knowing the exact man, the exact boy, was worse. Though he believed his heart held no malice, there was an unconscious agitation drawing his tone into more threatening hues.

  Thankfully, Kurt was too distracted to notice the subtle ways his escort's mood flared or diminished. His mind was far more occupied with how little time he had left to tell his family, especially his father, that he had to leave. All he could do was work to distract from the lies he’d have to sell or truths that would surely bring nothing but pain.

  “You wouldn’t do that. You’re a good man,” Kurt said before Larimer corrected him, “Good troll.”

  The craftsman questioned, “Why make the distinction?”

  The pair grew nearer to the alehouse. As voices in the distance became clearer, so too did discussion over the future of the horde. The blue skin, in an attempt to avoid returning to his post behind the bar, led Kurt down another path that would take them further from the ruckus. In truth, Larimer had avoided the bar at an increasing rate. His allegiance wavered by the day, especially with knowledge that his brother had turned traitor.

  Whether he wanted to follow vilk or simply avoid going down with a sinking ship, the barman knew he couldn’t stay much longer. Loyalty alone kept him hooked.

  “It don’t matter. I’ve never been educated no way. Or do I speak like a book thumper?" he joked but anticipated Kurt’s answer.

  “What you do, in my opinion, matters more than what you say.”

  After several hours in the tunnels, the pair had finished their work. Larimer escorted the craftsman up to the surface where the air was cooler under the night sky, and Kurt realized how drenched in sweat he had become.

  “It’s done. I’m sure with the new defenses, you’ll be safe. The wire should warn you if someone without elm blood approaches an entrance to your ale house. If you cut the wires, they’ll set the tunnels a blaze. I hope you never need to,” Kurt explained his efforts, but Larimer could only focus on how red the cloth around the boy’s hand was.

  Larimer pondered, realizing that if Ellenore had enchanted those traps, she wouldn’t have shed a drop of her blood. There were less barbaric methods to fuel enchantments than using red essence. However, whether Kurt was naive to magic or not, he had revealed his heart.

  Perhaps the craftsman had deliberately acted more agreeable to endear himself to Ellenore’s friend. Or maybe he was genuinely good-hearted. Either way, the barman could see why Lady Sheridan had chosen the boy. Yet, something gnawed at Larimer’s mood.

  Truthfully, jealousy was to blame. Jealousy and humble embarrassment.

  Regardless, the troll held out his hand to shake Kurt’s, saying, “Thank you. Use elder root powder on that hand. It’ll heal in a day, itch for a week.”