Chapter 55

  We were greeted with cold respect in the Wolve Howler.

  Leander let us through without a word, just a brief nod, nothing more, leading us down the hall toward Rurik. I walked ahead, Maira close behind me, Arik a little too quickly trailing us. The hallway smelled of cold ash, beer, and old wood. I knew the way by now—the room was at the end of the corridor, behind the heavy velvet curtains. By this point, I was sure Vin wouldn’t be there, but Arik had been insistent. He wanted to apologize. Because Vin had paid for our lodgings. A debt he clearly took very seriously. Whether it was pride, conscience, or sheer dishonor—it was hard to say with Arik.

  “Frostak is handling Ice Mountain,” he had murmured on the way. “He’s reliable.”

  Maira hadn’t responded, just shook her head slightly. So had I. We had long since accepted that Arik handled things his own way.

  When I pushed the curtains aside, I stepped in without hesitation. The room welcomed us with a familiar scent of leather, smoke, and something heavier I couldn’t quite name. The furniture was unchanged: two broad armchairs, rugs, a low table, and a crackling fire in the hearth along the far wall. But what struck me immediately—there was only one woman at his side.

  The dark elf sat beside Rurik on the bed, with the half-giant reclining in the middle, half propped up. His bare arms rested loosely over the blanket, his shirt half unbuttoned. He looked relaxed, maybe a bit tired, but not surprised. The elf was much more alert—her red eyes calmly studied us, showing no visible emotion.

  Maira stepped up next to me, her gaze scanning the room—toward the door, the corners, the shadows on the ceiling. Nothing suggested danger, yet she remained tense.

  Arik, however, had eyes only for Rurik—and for his guilt. He stepped forward as if about to speak, but then stopped.

  I said nothing.

  Only one thought crossed my mind: why just the dark elf?

  Somehow… I had expected more people.

  I took a step closer, locking eyes with Rurik. The darkness of the room, lit only by candles, settled over me like a second skin. The glow of the fireplace cast warped shadows across the furniture. But I didn’t hesitate. No games. No delay. Only clarity.

  “Where is Vin?” I asked, calm but cutting. “She’s vanished. After sleeping with someone at the Ice Mountain.”

  I let the accusation hang in the air—heavy as lead. I knew what kind of establishment this was. When a young elf woman disappeared, the owner at least knew more than he let on. This wasn’t some village tavern where you got drunk and vomited into straw come morning. This was the Wolve Howler. And Rurik wasn’t just the owner—he was power.

  Rurik stared at me. No shock, no surprise, just a flicker of amusement in his piercing, bright eyes. Then he leaned back, raising a hand in greeting as if welcoming me to some imaginary card game.

  “Paladin,” he began, his tone exaggeratedly casual, “my humble establishment might stand out in this city, but I’m not responsible for everyone who gets laid under my roof.”

  Then that grin. Wide, oily, smug. The kind of grin you wanted to wipe off someone’s face with the butt of your sword.

  “Besides—if your friend willingly flirted with the elf,” he continued, “then the blame lies more with her.”

  My breath caught for a split second. Not from pain—anger. I didn’t flinch outwardly, but inside everything tensed like a drawn bow. I caught a glimpse of Maira. She didn’t move, but her arms were crossed and her eyes narrowed just slightly. She was as alert as I was.

  I raised my chin—just a touch—and spoke with quiet steel.

  “First: just because she flirted doesn’t mean she willingly had sex.”

  I stepped forward. Close enough that his grin began to waver, just slightly. Then I smiled—not mockingly, but like someone who’d just taken control of the conversation.

  “Second: how do you even know she flirted?” I asked sharply. “And how are you so sure it was an elf?”

  Rurik blinked. Briefly. Barely noticeable. But it was there. A tiny crack in that massive wall of confidence.

  I smiled inwardly. That was the fracture.

  Then he laughed—loudly, exaggeratedly, like he was making fun of himself or my questions.

  “First,” he began, regaining his composure, “things like that spread like wildfire in this city. Especially when it’s about pretty elven girls suddenly taking interest in someone.”

  He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. The fireplace threw flickering light across his features—he no longer looked relaxed. More like a player calculating his next move.

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  “And second,” he continued, “she’s an elf herself. So it’s hardly a surprise if it was an elf, too, is it?”

  He smiled again. This time not oily—deliberate. He had caught himself. But he had already given something away.

  I said nothing. Not yet. I let the silence sit. Sometimes silence was a better blade than words. And I wanted to see what he would do next.

  But in the next moment Arik stepped forward before anyone else could react, his hands clasped behind his back like he had planned this moment carefully. Then he spoke—with a mix of genuine pride and a complete lack of awareness for the weight of his words:

  “May I casually mention that the elf in question looked exactly like the muscle-bound guy who brought us here?”

  Silence. For a heartbeat, the entire room seemed to freeze. Even the soft crackling of the fireplace sounded distant, muffled—as if the world had been wrapped in cotton. Maira tensed immediately. I caught the instinctive flinch in the corner of my eye. My hand was already moving toward the hilt—but it was too late.

  The dark elf reacted faster than anyone could have predicted. No warning, no twitch in her face—just motion. A sleek, sinewy bow formed in her hands, forged of black wood veined with glowing violet strands. In the same breath, she drew it. The arrow, shaped from pure shadow, left a glowing trail in the air as it flew straight at Arik.

  I couldn’t stop it. It was too fast. But I didn’t need to.

  The arrow never landed.

  It stopped midair. Just like that. As if the world had frozen around it. Every eye in the room widened. Even Rurik’s smug confidence slipped from him like a poorly fastened cloak. His gaze darted from the suspended arrow to the dark elf, then to me, and finally to Arik—frozen just like the projectile aimed at his chest.

  Then came the thunder.

  A deep, rolling sound—not from the sky, but from within the building itself. The floor trembled. The room darkened—not with shadow, but because something above us seemed to bend both light and sound to its will.

  A crack ripped through the ceiling like a divine spear splitting the building in two. Wood splintered. Dust rained down. And through the new gap in the roof, a figure descended.

  Golden light coiled around him, as if the storm itself bowed in reverence. Black hair slicked back, unmoving despite the descent. His garments—unchanged since our first battle. No sound. No flapping of cloth. Only light. And power.

  Reyn.

  He touched down gently. No impact. No swirl of dust. It wasn’t the landing of a warrior. It was the descent of a thought. And I—my hand drew the sword. Instinctively. The fury at Rurik still burned in me, and with Reyn beside me, everything suddenly felt justified. Righteous.

  But Reyn did nothing of the sort. Instead, he simply raised one hand. A calm, measured gesture. And the arrow obeyed.

  It changed course midair, gently veering right and shattering harmlessly against the wall as if it had never been a threat. The bow in the dark elf’s hands cracked a moment later, splintering like dried wood. She flinched, as if something deep within her had snapped.

  “Poor craftsmanship,” Reyn murmured. Quiet. Almost offhandedly.

  A heartbeat later, Leander appeared. The muscular elf from the front stammered into the room—sweating, legs shaking, as if crushed beneath an invisible weight. He dropped to his knees, gasping, hands over his head like he was holding up a boulder threatening to crush him.

  Reyn still stood motionless. His gaze was steady, his voice calm—like a man settling an argument whose outcome he already knew.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, with the poised authority of a god, “please remain calm. There’s no need for anyone to be harmed in order to resolve this matter.”

  His words fell like rain on hot iron. Hissing. Soothing.

  I felt the tension in my shoulders ease. My sword lowered slightly. The anger—still there. But Reyn was here. And somehow… that changed everything.

  Then Reyn’s gaze dropped to Leander. Without haste. Without rage. Only with that eerie calm that was more terrifying than any scream. The golden glow of his presence pulsed almost imperceptibly.

  “This elf made a mistake,” Reyn said. His voice was calm, almost gentle. “And he will pay for it.”

  Leander’s eyes widened in fear, but he didn’t move. Perhaps he couldn’t. Perhaps he was already trapped—not by chains, but by Reyn’s sheer will.

  Then Reyn looked at me. The tension in my body hadn’t yet faded. My heart beat faster than it should have. I had been ready to kill the half-giant. I had been willing. But Reyn… Reyn was the only one I truly trusted. If he said someone was innocent, then they had to be.

  “You may wonder, Luken…” His voice was clear, cutting through the stale air like a ray of sunlight through fog. “…but in this case, Rurik is, regrettably, truly innocent.”

  I exhaled. Deep. Heavy. Then I sheathed my sword. The disappointment washed over me slowly, like a lingering ache. Not because Rurik was innocent—but because of myself. Because I had judged without knowing.

  But the most important question remained.

  “Where is Vin?” I asked quietly, almost hoarsely. I knew Reyn had the answer. I could feel it.

  He didn’t look at me, but kept his eyes on Leander. As if he was seeing straight through him. Then he spoke—for him.

  “This man seduced your friend,” Reyn said, as if it were a simple statement, not an accusation. “And sent her west. Outside the city.”

  I nodded slowly. And what surprised me most: I didn’t doubt it for a second. Not a single part of me believed Reyn was lying. He was the lord of storm and shadow. He had no reason to deceive me.

  But Leander moved. Blood ran down from his forehead. He looked at me—not Reyn. At me. His lips trembled, his voice barely audible, forced out between clenched teeth:

  “Don’t… trust him…”

  I wanted to react. To say something. Demand something. But Reyn was already there. Or—he wasn’t already there. He just was there. I can’t say how it happened. I just know: Leander groaned, his body jolted once, violently. And then he slumped forward like a sack of wet cloth. Soundless. Blood slowly pooled from his chest—right where his heart had been.

  I stared. Silent. Not shocked—not really. But it still hit me. The only witness. Gone.

  Rurik stepped back, as if he’d seen a ghost. His lips moved, but no sound came out. Arik took a step away, the ash that covered his skin turning white, his face twisted in disgust.

  Then Reyn turned. Slowly. A smile on his lips that didn’t fit the situation—and precisely because of that, it was so disturbing.

  “Feel like a drink?” he asked, as if nothing had happened. “I can tell you more over one.”

  He didn’t wait for my answer. He simply made a gesture with his hand, as if it was a given that I would follow him. And in a way… it was. Reyn was like a storm. If he swept you up, you had no choice.

  I exchanged a glance with Maira. Her face was tense, but she nodded. Just once. Arik said nothing, just followed. Silent. Still pale.

  As we left the room, Rurik’s voice rang after us. Angry. Urgent.

  “You can’t trust him, Paladin! He’ll betray you! He—”

  But his words quickly drowned in the clamor of the Wolve Howler. The noise of guests, of dice and laughter, of alcohol. They swallowed his warning like a maelstrom. Only an echo remained. And even that… faded.