Chapter 41: Blood on the Ridge

The evening after the exhibition match, the grand study of Master Aldous’s estate was illuminated by the warm, flickering glow of hearth fire. The stout merchant practically vibrated with triumphant energy as he slid a heavy, leather-bound pouch across the polished mahogany desk, followed immediately by a second, equally hefty sack of clinking gold.

"Your cut of the ticket sales, Master Zevryn, and then some," Aldous beamed, his eyes crinkling with sheer delight. "Between the high-society admission fees and the private betting pool on whether you'd even survive Mateo's dual cutlasses, we made a small fortune. The rival houses are beside themselves!"

Zevryn accepted the heavy pouches with cold indifference, slipping them into his cloak. "A profitable evening for your ledgers, Master Aldous. Spend it well."

"Oh, I intend to," Aldous laughed heartily. "And your door remains open if you ever wish to host another spectacle!"

Zevryn merely offered a subtle nod before departing into the night.

The following morning, well before the high-society merchants stirred from their beds, Zevryn mounted his sleek, powerful black steed and left the city walls behind. Operating under the guise of an independent adventurer to maintain his cover, he had accepted a high-tier guild contract: scouting troubling rumors of a newly awakened lich haunting a cluster of forgotten, sea-battered ruins along the republic's desolate western shores. Clad in his fitted dark traveling gear and newly reinforced armor, his black mithril sabers buckled securely at his hips, he urged his mount westward along the coastal cliffs.

By midday, the salty sea breeze carried more than just the scent of brine. Zevryn’s preternatural drow senses, honed in the lightless abysses of the Underdark, prickled sharply.

The rhythmic, muffled thud of distant hooves against dirt confirmed it: someone was tracking him, and they were also mounted.

He didn't quicken his pace or betray any sign of awareness. Instead, as he reached a high, wind-swept vantage point, he pulled his steed to a halt and casually unrolled a parchment trail-map. His pale eyes scanned the topography ahead until they locked onto a sharp, blind bend hugging a steep stone ridge, a spot where riders would inevitably have to slow their pace.

Stolen story; please report.

Perfect, he thought.

Zevryn led his steed off the main trail, securing the animal in a sheltered rocky alcove before melting back into the shadows of an overhanging rock shelf to wait.

Minutes later, the crunch of gravel and the heavy snorting of horses echoed against the shale.

Four riders rounded the bend at a steady trot, weapons drawn and eyes scanning the trail. Three of them were hardened human mercenaries, clad in practical leather armor and carrying broadswords at their saddles. But lagging half a horse-length behind them, shrouded in a dark, cowled cloak, was the fourth rider, a dark elf.

Zevryn’s eyes narrowed. The dark elf wasn't one of the three primary targets he had sworn to hunt down, but an operative nonetheless, a scout sent to test the waters of the surface world's newest legend.

The three human mercenaries pulled back their reins as they realized the trail ahead was empty. Before their leader could shout a warning, Zevryn dropped from the rocky ledge like a falling shadow right into their midst.

The battle was short, brutal, and entirely one-sided.

Zevryn didn't waste a single breath on words. His black mithril blade erupted from its scabbard in a flashing arc of lethal geometry. In less time than it took to draw a breath, he slipped past the lead mercenary's guard, severing his windpipe with surgical neatness and unseating him from his saddle.

The second mercenary swung wildly from his horse, but Zevryn parried the blow downward, pivoting instantly to drive his short saber straight through the man's chest armor.

The third mercenary panicked, leaping off his horse to run, but a swift, devastating kick shattered his knee before a clean sweep of Zevryn's blade ended his panic permanently.

Three bodies collapsed into the crimson-stained dust, their frightened mounts wheeling away in terror.

Throughout the entire slaughter, the dark elf remained seated atop his horse, not lifting a single finger to help his human pawns. He simply watched the lethal execution with cold, analytical detachment, his hands resting loosely on his reins.

As the echoes of the brief skirmish faded into the crash of the western waves below, the dark elf slowly lowered his hood, revealing sharp, obsidian features and crimson eyes that mirrored Zevryn's deadly heritage.

He looked down at the dead mercenaries, then raised his gaze to meet the pale, luminous eyes of the drow master. A slow, mocking smile touched the dark elf's lips.

"My lord," the dark elf murmured smoothly, his voice carrying over the wind. "You have ventured out under the sun to die?"