Sorath woke with a throbbing twinge in his chest. The rest of his body, however, was refreshed on this queen size bed crafted with what felt like high-quality springs and cotton. These flawless silk sheets and pillow coverings were fit for the King himself as well as the pallidly glowing crystal chandelier and polished marble walls. A lavish bedroom wasn’t what he had in mind for the gates of Heaven or Hell.

He was alive.

Sitting up against the padded headrest, he gingerly touched his bare chest, found no wound or scar. The ache was in his mind alone, fading in realization that they had healed him… and taken his equipment down to his linen underclothing. He wore baggy silk shorts, which were worth more than any linen item. Instinctively, his right hand dropped to his waist, but his pouch was gone. His mana flitted in annoyance.

Unveil soul inventory, he thought in the divine language, and an indigo rectangle with twenty squares was drawn, four rows of five empty slots. They had looted everything down to his spicy fermented cabbages, his journal, Mother’s washing brush, and a family photo.

Yet he was alive and unbound inside this room more luxurious than the nicest dwellings at Greenwood Town. This must be another lucid dream. Eyes squeezed close, he tried to pry himself awake, expecting a slimy, cold prison cell that smelled of piss and old blood. But he didn’t wake no matter how hard his nails dug into his palm, and he would wake for real by now.

“I’m not dreaming,” he sighed.

“No, you’re not,” a light-hearted female voice said, almost sarcastically. On a velvet chair, a slender cloaked figure with a full-body bubble enchantment shimmered into reality. And like the other cloaked woman, her skin was also veiled in darkness, but her voice wasn’t as high-pitched and her cloak was fancier with light-gray trimmings on the hems. She was taller.

She was flipping through his journal.

Telenka. Sorath yanked. The leather notebook flew to his hand.

“Excuse me,” she chided, “I wasn’t finished reading. I just got to the good part.”

He coughed, “About what?”

“Your crush Valia,” she said in a pitying tone. “Did she ever come back to school? Did you ever take her on the hunting trip like you wanted?”

He wisely kept the conversation rolling: “No, I never saw her again after the time at the gate.”

“What happened?”

“Her family moved to Trogarth Town.”

“All because of you?”

“Pretty much.”

“Oh my. That’s a tad extreme, don’t you agree?”

He shrugged. “It’s a standard after they find out. Usually, they just bubble themselves like you’re doing now.”

She stayed quiet.

His pulse intensified as he noticed a sheathed sword leaning against the corner. The grip was for one hand, and its length was equal to an average longsword’s. The blade was thin and curved, as though a rapier and scimitar had a bastard child. Telekinesis was off cooldown, and she knew it was—from journal entries leading up to the small incident at the school gate. She was daring him to snatch it, like a skilled fisher.

He didn’t nibble.

Her hood slightly tilted right. “You want to know what I’m thinking? You don’t even know my name.”

“Scarlett Freya?”

She chuckled. “Yes, I am Scarlett Freya, leader of the Bandit Gang Freya’s Thorns. It is a pleasure to meet you, Sorath.” She didn’t say the other name—because she was being purposefully kind, treating a prisoner as an honored guest.

He carefully said, “Same to you, but you know why I’m here. Your head is worth fifty thousand gold.” The binder of bounty lists wasn’t here.

“Thrice as much alive,” she said playfully. “Did you forget?”

“I didn’t. I simply didn't expect to take you alive.”

“And do you still expect to take me in death?”

“Obviously no.” His nose wrinkled. “So let’s cut the small talk. What do you want from me?”

For eight seconds she was quiet. “You have gotten your revenge against your worst rival and his two henchmen. Why else are you here? Only for gold bounties?”

He was about to mention Madrog’s son but decided to hold on to that card for now. “I need about a quarter of a million gold.”

“For?”

“Does it matter what for?”

Her head tilted left this time. “I suppose it doesn’t, not for such a forgettable amount.” She hummed a breath. “Let’s say I gift you… three-hundred thousand gold in return for a binding vow that you do not return here again or harm my followers. Would you accept?”

The foolish region in his head was tempted; the rest knew better. “And how would I explain that to the King’s court?”

“It doesn’t have to be all gold. Would it be unreasonable to say that you slew a Dire Bear and it dropped something?”

The temptation spread like a plague. He beat it back with cold logic: “Although that lie wouldn’t trigger any faction laws, I would most likely have to cover that lie with more lies, and those lies with even more lies. Eventually, one lie would trigger a faction law, bringing down the whole pyramid. And that’s not mentioning pyramids are strenuous to build. I could do without it all.”

She nodded. “All these faction laws… Does it not feel suffocating?”

“Sometimes, but each and every law is needed for some reason. All it takes in one man to cause havoc like I did at your settlement.” Havoc was quite an overstatement, but the point stood. “How did your buddy catch me, by the way?”

“You will have to ask her,” Freya said pointedly.

“Who’s her?”

Freya’s head shook. “Back to the subject matter, Sorath. Let’s say I offer you two million gold for a bounty. For one man’s head.”

He almost snorted. “King Desiric’s, right?”

“No,” she said. “For his, I would offer a hundred million—“

“You have a hundred million gold worth of items stashed here?” Not even a Legendary Loot Gem was worth that much in Cyesten’s economy. But in her gang’s economy? Prices couldn’t be stable. They were using high-quality salt as currency, which meant they hadn’t unlocked Alchemy yet. Given their small population, bartering was smarter anyway.

Subtly she shrugged. “I definitely do have two million gold worth of items. I want General Hyera’s head. In return, I will grant you a high-ranking place in my gang and my personal protection in addition to the payment.”

Sorath tried to not laugh or smile. “By gang, do you mean your future faction? You want to be Queen Freya? And me as your psionic guard dog?”

After a moment, she said, “When I settled this region, it was a corrupted wasteland devoid of wildlife. It isn’t by chance that rare White Oaks are growing. In due time, these plains will be known as the Ashen Forest. Whether I will be its Queen is a trifling matter, but a psionic guard dog does sound appealing. Would you like a treat? A tummy rub?”

“Piss off.”

“You mentioned it, Sora. You could have said general or high lord, but instead you said guard dog. Why is that? Does your soul yearn for a master? Do you see yourself as something lesser when you are undoubtedly not?”

He blew hot air. “Listen. I’m not going to be your general or lord or cook or dog or anything at all. You have a gang full of violent criminals.“

“I have given them second chances, many who would’ve been executed under Cyesten’s laws. By you—that’s what you are, the King’s cruel executioner.” Her words were hardly sharp.

He stabbed her with a glare. “And yet you want me to be your personal executioner? Just what did Hyera do to you? Did he kill one of your family? Your lover? Or does he have a unique ability?”

Suddenly she was tittering. “Oh, he is very unique. Have you ever asked about his family?”

“No, why?”

“Ask him. He will lie to your face. Because his family does not exist.”

Sorath’s eyebrow arched. “Died in raids and dungeons?”

“You misunderstand. Ask about his children, his grandchildren. He will tell you stories of their heroics, that they are emissaries to foreign lands, but you will find that these are all lies, because he has no children. He has no wife. His name is not Dominic Hyera.”

“What is his name? And how do I know you’re not lying? Take off that bubble enchantment.”

She stood gracefully like a dancer, and her sword appeared in her grasp in a wink of light—soulbound. She unsheathed it, the edge glinting in green mana, piercing her bubble. She had the same patterned mana with a loopy, light-headed tinge as her buddy. “You have my word that I have only been honest with you.” Her mana didn’t churn or show the slightest indicators of lying.

“Then why would he lie about his family? And what's with your mana? Did you drink a bad potion?”

“You have much to learn about the truth of your King and his court, Sora. About the true history of this world.” She pulled back her hood, revealing braided hair whiter than snow, elongated ears tapered to points, angular facial features with the youth of a teenager, and gold irises that shone.

She was an Elf.

But the School of Adventuring had taught Sorath that Elves were extinct. They had been killed off in civil wars over a thousand years ago.

“You’re an Elf,” Sorath blurted.

“Oh? I didn’t know.” Subtle sarcasm.

Suspicion tensed his facial muscles. “Aren’t you supposedly extinct?”

“I am, but…” Her head swayed playfully.

“But what?”

“But this is a very long story, and I imagine you are quite hungry.” She stood.

At the mention of hunger, his stomach squeezed in rabid emptiness, rumbling quietly. “Fine. Tell me while I eat.” He followed through the door, down a wide hallway.

While Freya lectured about the world’s true history in excruciating detail, Sorath enjoyed a breakfast of grilled salmon and cherry tomatoes, beautifully seasoned with a mix of exotic peppers and herbs, smothered in a spicy lemon sauce, served with a colorful salad dressed in more spicy sauce. To top it off, he drank hot chocolate so smooth and creamy that he had thought it was legendary-quality—as good as Mother’s. It tasted suspiciously alike with a sprinkle of vanilla and coffee powder.

His own handwriting popped into his mind; he had written the recipe in his journal. No wonder.

But tugging on his sore nostalgia strings wasn’t going to win him over. He honestly did not know what would. They could treat him better than a prince, gift him a thousand loot gems, promise the building of a prosperous faction, and he would still be reluctant to join them, because at this moment they were just a gang standing against Cyesten’s might. How many high-level fighters were here? A thousand? Probably fewer.

“Are you listening to me?” Freya asked, clicking fingers.

He chewed the last cucumber sticks and almost wiped his lips on this silk bathrobe’s sleeve. “What does thousand-year-old Dwarven politics have to do with anything?” They were an isolationist people at the other side of the world, at the South Pole, out of the way and unkind to explorers.

“One,” she said pointedly, “these are important events leading up to the Great Corruption which your people have stricken from history tomes.”

“And two?”

“I’m wondering if you’re going to ask…”

Unsure of what she was hinting at, he sipped chocolate only to find none left in the cup, sadly. A Chef’s residual mana lingered on the porcelain, too diluted to distinguish. And Freya’s leisurely swirling mana gave nothing away. Nor did her ageless beauty.

Ageless.

He asked, “Were you there when it happened?”

“No, but my grandparents were.”

“Do you have eternal life?” Scholars on the subject often dismissed it as myth.

She lifted her mug and slowly drank, keeping eye contact. She licked her lips. Her tongue was pointier than his, thinner, like a snake’s though not forked. “I have met many people in my lifetime. You are the first I need to guard my thoughts against.”

Maybe ignoring questions was a normal Elven behavior. He could grow accustomed; the good food helped. He sipped cacao-scented air from his mug, then repaid her kindness with a truthful morsel: “My Telepathy is intermediate 8. I can only hear your verbalized thoughts and feel what you’re feeling.”

She wasn’t very surprised, but her mana settled in relief. “What am I feeling, Sora?”

“You were very slightly worried just then. You’re calmer than most living things, but you have a lightheaded air that’s always there. It’s hard to ignore. Like a drunk mellow elephant in the room, I suppose.”

She chortled as she drank. Drops of chocolate landed on the marble round table. “I assure you I am not feeling light-headed or drunk. As for like an elephant, I must say my physique is better than most human women.”

He held in laughter. “I meant as in age. Do you have eternal life?”

Her amusement receded in the wake of unfounded nervousness. “Why does it matter if I do?”

The question was more or less answered at this point, and truth be told, he was only interested slightly. “You brought it up.”

“Can you deduce a reason?”

He shrugged. “Good sauce, by the way. Are you the Chef?”

She smiled. “No, I’m not, although I know it was a popular recipe during a famine that afflicted your people roughly three-hundred years prior when your king mishandled rampant spider infestations at Oakwood Forest. It is rumored that tens of thousands died from poisonous bites alone.”

He nodded in disinterest, then his gaze snapped to her. “My king? King Desiric the Seventh?”

Freya was about to answer as a familiar Elven mind walked down the hallway, the same mind who had attacked him. She walked in with a passion fruit cheesecake on a silver platter. She was shorter and skinnier than Freya. Her hood was up, but her mana was fizzing in loopy excitement. “Hello, Sora,” she chirped, “I’m so sorry about last night. I hope my cooking makes up for it. I made my favorite cake for you.”

He held no grudges. He had attacked her, and she had retaliated—a fair duel. “Are you Carena?”

“Yep, I’m Lady Gwyneth Carena. Just call me Gwyn, and who else would I be?”

He asked in a casual tone, “How did you know you had to bubble yourself?”

“Oh, you ran by one of my scouting enchantments. I recognized you.”

“People know me even here?”

“Theo often rambled about you.” She sighed. “Just forget it.” She cut him a slice of cheesecake. “Eat up while its cold.”

He spooned a mouthful. The airy cream cheese, chilled to just above freezing, well complemented the sweet crumb base and sour jelly topping. Cheesecakes weren’t his favorite dessert, especially for breakfast, but this was an exception. “It’s good.” He ate another spoonful, covered a soft burp.

“See,” Gwyn giggled. “Cheesecakes are delicious. The one you had must’ve been abysmal-quality.” She was referring to his journal, an entry from when he was eight years old. “Oh, I forgot my table manners. How rude of me.” She flipped back her hood, the shroud lifting. Her features were similarly youthful, sharp, and angular with the same braided white hair. She had a look of cute innocence. Silver flecked her gold irises. Like Freya, it was impossible to guess her age.

He asked, “There are only two of you Elves here?”

“Hopefully we find another,” Freya said.

“Yep,” Gwyn affirmed, “it’s been us two for the past three decades since she rescued me.”

“From King Desiric’s bounty hunters?” He couldn’t recall a specific bounty for her.

“No, from Desiric himself. Just in time too.” Distant relief chilled her mana in a bad memory.

“In time for what?”

Her ear twitched as she blinked curiously. “She didn’t tell you yet? Desiric and his High Lords tortures us Elves and grinds our bodies into bloody pastes for Youth Potions. My mother and father went into their cauldron a hundred years ago.”

A spoon dropped onto the table. Sorath violently choked. He hacked up crumbs from his lungs.

Eyes rolling, Freya said, “I was trying to ease him into it.”

“Ooohh.” Gwyn’s carefree attitude did not fit the subject matter. “Now you know, Sora. Your king is an evil, evil man. He is really Sodor Desiric the Second. Each time he regains his youth, he spews a lie about a mystery illness and goes into hiding, and then his mystery son emerges from the shadows to take the crown. It’s been this way for the past half-millenium.” Her mana didn’t whisk with any indications of lies.

But Sorath coughed, “It can’t be true.”

She continued, “The potion made him infertile, but before his first dose, he had a son, who also drank the potion and name-changed to Novius Hyera, the same Dominic Hyera at Greenwood. Together with his court, they have hunted down the last of our kind. This is how they have been able to rule a kingdom so vast, the secret of their power.”

“That is…” Sorath had no words.

Gwyn laid a hand on his shoulder. “Look into my mind when I say it’s the truth.” Like Freya, her mana was calm like a winter pond. No lies.

A chilly heat rolled up and down Sorath’s body. To consume a divinely blessed race in a potion was an offense against the gods. It may mean impending catastrophe for Cyesten. Plagues, infestations, or worse. And only the dark gods knew what was worse. At the very minimum, hidden Unlucky debuffs were already weighing the faction down.

A hard lump slithered down his throat.

Freya sighed. “Do you now understand why we wear these shrouded cloaks?”

“Yeah.” He picked up the spoon and shoveled cheesecake into his mouth. The sweetness made this revelation easier to swallow. “This is why you’re worth more alive… which means Veric is also an Elf.”

“He’s human, and Desiric doesn’t know for sure that I am.”

“Your followers don’t know?”

“Of course not.”

Curiosity urged him to ask, “Why don’t you spread rumors of the truth?”

Her chin lifted. “We don’t want to cause mass instability for your people, so don’t yell this from the top of Greenwood Keep.”

“How many know?”

“My trusted leaders have sworn secrecy. In Cyesten? Likely only the king and his high lords in his court.”

“Did that include Theo?”

“Nope,” Gwyn quipped. “And sadly he’s gone—no thanks to a certain boy here.” She gently patted his back. “But I forgive you. I understand why you did it.” The journal again.

He ate a bite, the flavor and texture of cheesecake growing on him. “It’s more because I needed the bounty gold to pay off a debt I inherited from my parents. Most was for my own childhood healer and school fees.”

She didn’t take her hand off his shoulder. “I flash-froze their heads for you, but are you still going to…” Her eyes wandered.

“I didn’t say I’m going back.” That debt was bloody invalid.

“Then you will join us?” Freya asked. “You will bring me Hyera’s head?”

“I didn’t say that either.”

Gwyn pouted cutely, mana draining to her feet in disappointment. “So I cooked all that yummy food for naught? You also ate my slice of cake.”

“You did eat her slice,” Freya scolded.

Chuckles warmed his face. “I think you’re wanting a little too much of me. Hyera never leaves faction land. Alarms will go off the second my blade draws blood, assuming I can even harm him. I bet his dragonhide is a full legendary set which he sleeps in.”

Abruptly Gwyn hugged him from behind. “I’ll take that as a yes! Welcome to the family, Sora.” Her warmth flooded him. She smelled of passion fruit and chocolate.

It had been many years since anyone had hugged him this way. Leaning away, he pushed her off even though a part of him didn’t mind at all. He mumbled, “Try to not hug me like that, Okay?”

She pouted. “I thought you wanted hugs.”

“When I did I say that?”

“In your journal. You were going on for paragraphs about how you’d like to hug and kiss Valia.”

His blush was slight. “That was a long time ago.”

“A few years is a long time?”

“In Human terms, yes. I don’t even think of her these days. She’s nothing to me.”

She stared at him for a moment, then giggled. “I think someone is bitter and cold inside because he didn’t get together with the girl he wanted to do certain things with.”

“Go sleep in a ditch.”

“Hmph.” She pouted cutely. Too cute.

Cuter than Valia. And far more powerful.

He mentally slapped himself. This wasn’t the time for a stupid crush. He exhaled and looked at Freya, saying, “You heard me. I’m a dead man if I go.”

Smirking, although not as overt as Gwyn, Freya said, “I don’t expect you to brashly throw away your life for me as your threw it away for Desiric. You are welcome to take shelter here while you prepare, while we wait. It may be years, even decades, but know that divine favor is with our cause. Our opportunity will come.”

Reactively he thought of his dream. An elemental siege on Greenwood was a good chance to lop off Hyera’s head and take the outlying settlement. A victory like that for Ferya could be the tipping point. The location was of great strategic advantage. Maybe she was planning a siege right now—the reason why there hadn’t been bandit raids for over a year.

Gwyn prodded his jaw with her little finger. “What is it?”

“You know my dreams of my mother? I may’ve had a vision the other night. Humanoid Ice Elementals sieged Greenwood. Bizarre, but it predicted one of my skills ranking-up.”

“That is bizarre,” Freya agreed, frowning. Maybe she wasn’t planning anything.

Gwyn said, “I say we sleep on it until you have a second vision. Then we can do some scheming.”

Freya added, “For now, we have an open-world dungeon to clear before winter. Would you like a spot on our party, Sora?”

The sudden change of subject jarred him. He rubbed his neck. “The man I killed at the outpost said it’s tier nine. My gear isn’t the best-suited.”

Then Gwyn hugged him again in a lovely firm embrace. Only for a heartbeat. “Don’t worry. Your job will just be to keep your inner eyes open for danger. You’ll get a fair share of the loot as our precious all-seeing silver-eyed boy.”

“My initial offer,” Freya said, “still stands as well. Two million gold worth of items if you bring me Hyera’s head.”

He had an accurate idea of what those items were. As for dungeon-delving… he was in the mood for violent danger. “Okay, I’ll go with you.”

Freya’s mana bubbled with satisfaction. “An enlightened decision, really.” She sipped from her mug. “Now, I was telling you about the Dwarves’ discovery of mithril ore, which led to…” her lecture restarted, and Gwyn silently excused herself to brew another round of hot chocolate. The world’s true history was less captivating than Sorath had imagined.