“You’re too tense, relax your grip. The arrow is already nocked, so the bow is the one holding it right now, you’re just guiding it. Keep the fletching at the corner of your mouth, too. Good, that’s a proper draw distance, keep it steady. Are your eyes on the target?”

  “Yes. Uh,” Smith stutters.

  Nadeden paces on the grass behind them, carefully watching their every move.

  “What now?” They ask, holding back the urge to turn their head.

  “Now, you let go. Remember, you aren’t throwing it. All the momentum is coming from the string, so don’t jerk it or pluck it, just slip your fingers off.” Nadeden plants herself in the dirt, watching over Smith’s shoulder as their thin left hand bites into the wood of the bow and their right desperately wants to cling to the arrow. Sweat drips from their forehead.

  “Carefully,” Nadeden kindly adds before Smith releases the arrow.

  It speeds toward the paper target, ripping it at the center.

  “Nice! I told you that you’d get it eventually!” Nadeden enthusiastically booms, hopping over to high-five Smith. They bow their head and shyly return the gesture before wiping the sweat from their brow. “Well, it certainly did take a while.”

  Nadeden laughs at Smith’s comment, shooting them a smile as she fetches the arrow and torn target. “Hey, you still did pretty well for only a day’s worth of practice, don’t sell yourself short.” Smith takes a sip of water from a plastic jug, which they return to the satchel that Nadeden then tosses the arrow and paper into.

  “Sorry. I just don’t think that I’m any good at this stuff.” And I still don’t think I want to be. Smith keeps the thought to themself along with all the other thoughts that have remained locked in the mind of this body that isn’t theirs.

  “I wouldn’t say that. You’ve done good at learning the basics of self-defense.” Nadeden says, taking the bow from Smith while they take the satchel.

  The two begin to make their way up the hill back toward the village. The sun sets on the horizon, a fleet of traveling ships flies past its orange hue like insects darting across a fire. Smith’s eyes hold on the sight as the wind blows on their skin.

  Everything feels so peaceful right now.

  “She’s in that village,” Davon aggressively states to Sinmartin, tossing an officer aside as he marches toward the holding cell.

  “Do you have proof?”

  “She’s on this planet.” Davon huffs, opening the cell.

  He turns back before entering, “That’s proof enough.”

  He slams the door, locking Sinmartin out of the room.

  The prisoner huffs at the sight of him. “You’re the Division messenger?”

  Davon holds back a smirk at the instant recognition of his status. “I didn’t realize that I had become so infamous among Republic citizens.” He sits in the chair across from the prisoner, clasping his hands as he leans forward to look her in the eye.

  “I recognized the uniform.” She passively sighs, almost in a joking manner, before asking something Davon didn’t expect to hear: “You were also part of the Warbound, right? I remember seeing the posters as a kid.”

  “As a kid? Are you trying to make me feel old, Dr. Redlum?”

  She smirks at Davon’s chuckle, lowering her head with a wink. “You caught me. I was hoping to get on your good side before you roughed me up.”

  “Now, why would I do that?” Davon smiles, keeping his hands clasped while he tilts his head like a curious dog.

  Redlum shrugs, “Don’t know. I expected this to be an interrogation, but I guess it’s true what they say about you Division boys, you’re all big softies, aren’t ya?”

  Davon unfolds his hands, laying them out on the oak. “Well, some of us are. However, I can assure you that I’m not interested in forcefully beating information out of you. I’m only interested in asking you a few questions regarding a recent patient of yours.”

  Redlum yawns, clearly bored by the ordeal, “The Scorched Archer?”

  Davon nods, “Yes. I’m sure you’re aware that quite a few people are wondering where she has gone.”

  Redlum rolls her eyes around the cell that she was brought to immediately after assisting Sinmartin. The officer was less than happy when he learned that his squadron had failed to capture Nadeden. He was more than willing to pin that frustration on Redlum and Alexi.

  “Really? I had no idea.” She sarcastically states, leaning back in her chair. The tight restraints locked to the armrests have begun to bite into her wrists.

  Davon narrows his eyes in annoyance. Redlum’s attitude leads him to jump to the hard questions: “Why’d you help her?”

  Redlum shrugs again. “Some kid was with her, couldn’t have been a day over eighteen. He locked the room. Seemed jumpy. Alexi and I figured he was some elixir addict or protester that the officers failed to nab during the incident in the square.”

  “So you didn’t want to risk provoking them?”

  Redlum points a finger out of the wooden restraint with a sly grin. “Exactly.”

  Davon crosses his arms. “What did the kid look like?”

  “Pale,” Redlum twists her jaw, pretending to think, “Thin, really thin, probably hadn’t eaten for a week or so. Had bags around the eyes too, but it could have been face paint. Also bald, which is weird for someone so young, but it really did tie the corpse look together if I do say so myself.”

  “I can understand why you’d think the kid was an addict, then,” Davon says, exchanging a friendly look with Redlum before switching back to more pressing questions.

  “So what type of injuries did the Scorched Archer have?”

  Davon watches closely as Redlum’s face contorts into a sympathetic expression that’s hard to hide.

  She decides to forgo concealing her true thoughts, “That’s what concerned me,” Redlum starts, “She was nearly dead by the time she got to the hospital. Her stomach was torn open, but it had been frozen and thawed out like she had received the wound in space and then been immediately exposed to oxygen. That sort of thing just doesn’t happen normally. On top of that, she had shards of glass in her face, and, wait, where are you going?”

  Davon knocks on the cell’s door, a guard outside leaps up to unlock it. “Thank you, Doctor, you’ve been very helpful.”

  The door opens.

  Redlum squirms in her chair, fighting the restraints as Davon exits the cell with a malevolent grin.

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  He had done more damage to Nadeden than he thought, and she had only recently received treatment for such severe wounds.

  This might actually be easy after all.

  “Satisfied?” Sinmartin asks, gritting his teeth at the edge of the dungeon with all the kindness of a stone wall.

  “Very.” Davon sneers, stepping up the long, winding stairs as Sinmartin follows him.

  “I have a source in the village, he’s provided good tribute for my men. Made us weapons. I trust him. He told me to my face that the Scorched Archer isn’t in the village.”

  Davon nods along with Sinmartin’s voice, hoping that he eventually shuts up. “I’m sure he did.”

  The two reach the exit and walk out onto the roof of the Officer Command Building.

  Sinmartin stops to stomp his boot down in frustration. “What exactly did that woman tell you?”

  Davon halts at the balcony overlooking the city below. It’s nothing compared to Rome and is filled with far too many shops and non-humans crowding the streets, but it is still quite charming.

  He takes a moment to admire it before turning back to Sinmartin. “What she told me is a personal matter.” He states, tossing his hand over the balcony and snapping his fingers, “Thank you for your help, Officer Sinmartin. I’ll be sure to put in a good word for you after our people are unified.”

  Sinmartin's jaw drops, his skin goes white as Davon walks through the glowing blue portal that fades into the wind in the blink of an eye.

  Night falls over the village with an icy chill as Julius sleeps soundly just one room across from his surrogate parents.

  Panam is fast asleep, bundled tightly into the corner of the bed, withholding Shanna’s blanket, who has been stirred awake by the cold and the creaking of wooden floorboards in the hall.

  In a tired daze, Shanna leaves her bedside and grabs her sword, walking out into the hallway.

  A faint sound comes from the kitchen, resembling the clattering of fine china.

  Shanna presses herself against a wall, holding her wooden blade at the ready before quickly turning to strike.

  The point lands before the nose of a Ratroach.

  The creature sniffs the wood with its mandibles before turning back to nibble the crumbs that have been left on the counter.

  Shanna breathes a sigh of relief, unaware of the man lighting a candle behind her.

  “It’s been a long time, Shanna.”

  Her heart drops as she spins the blade toward “Davon.”

  He grasps the wood with a finger and lowers it to the floor. “So, you ran off all those years ago only to return to the scene of the crime. Interesting.”

  Davon maintains the composure that Shanna lacks as he moves to pick up the Ratroach.

  “Are you-”

  “No.” Davon shakes his head, gently grasping the small rodent as he reassures Shanna, “Legally, you should be among our most wanted, but you served the Division well, haven’t harmed anyone since you deserted, and were a good friend to me and Gelmidas. You can live your life how you wish.”

  Shanna gives a shy smile as relief takes her again, although not as completely as it did before.

  Davon strokes the Ratroach’s head, its claws and mandibles click at him. “You know who I am here for, though.”

  “Nadeden?” Shanna asks, masking the hesitation in her voice.

  “I know she’s here, Shanna. I thought that the reports might have been wrong, but an eyewitness confirmed that she has the wounds I gave her.”

  Shanna almost didn’t believe what Nadeden had told her about nearly being killed by Davon, but now here he is saying to her face that the whole thing is true.

  He really has harnessed his powers in these twelve years.

  If Davon was willing to track Nadeden to the ends of space and even back here, of all places, what else is he willing to do?

  Any relief or sense of safety Shanna had vanishes as Davon speaks, “So where is she? Lying down and recuperating in a bathhouse? Eating in the village hall? Perhaps she’s running around with that pale young friend of hers? Or maybe…”

  Davon trails off, placing the Ratroach back on the counter, “Just maybe…”

  Shanna’s heart sinks into her stomach. Her hand tightens on the hilt of her sword as Davon’s eyes drift into the hallway leading to the bedrooms.

  “She’s staying with you?”

  In a flash of candlelight, the wooden blade is thrust upward and then swung down by Shanna.

  It cuts the cold air and lands on Davon’s daggers.

  He’s faster than she remembered.

  Shanna’s eyes widen in shock as the stone daggers twist and break the wood apart.

  A splinter flies into the Ratroach.

  Shanna rushes forward to strike with the fractured bark, but Davon speeds out of the way, snapping his fingers as the candle’s flame is extinguished.

  “Blood has been shed,” Triminiv whispers the words thoughtlessly in her sleep.

  The echo of them shatters her cottage, awakening her.

  She straightens her yellow nightgown, the rubble bounces off her as she stands.

  “What a shame.” Her voice drifts in the cold wind, slicing everything around it.

  “That was my favorite home yet. Oh well.” Her tone turns stale, ripping the dirt from the ground.

  “Take me to the battle.” And with those harsh words, her body vanishes into the wind.

  “What was that?” Smith asks at the odd sounds in the distance.

  “Triminiv,” Nadeden whispers to herself, running to grab the satchel from Smith.

  “Is it the Republic officers?” Concern and fear fall over Smith as Nadeden swings the satchel over her shoulder and runs into the village. “No. It’s worse.”

  Smith holds Granix’s pebble tightly against their chest as they watch Nadeden rush off into the distance.

  Maybe now is the time, Smith thinks.

  Should I call Granix?

  Davon had read about the Elf of Death many times during his schooling.

  He had even read the books written by Triminiv herself.

  She had been a rarity in history.

  Despite the long lifespan of Elves, very little of their history had been documented; some even speculated that they had faded into obscurity and reclusiveness, or had long gone extinct like the Dwarves, that was, until Triminiv decided to research Elf history herself.

  Why?

  She wished to discover the nature behind her abilities.

  Upon her birth, Triminiv’s cries destroyed her entire village.

  It was a miracle that she had lived long enough on her own to learn how to harness her mysterious power.

  Or was it destiny?

  Did her voice alone protect her from harm?

  She pondered these questions as she spent centuries digging into what little scraps of Elven history she was able to uncover.

  But no matter how far and how wide she searched, the answers always seemed to elude her.

  Frustrated by her search, Triminiv chose to humor herself by aiding the Elven species in their legendary war with the Humans and Martians.

  She wrote many times about decimating entire battlefields with nothing more than a well-spoken whisper. Some even say that her presence alone was what turned the tides of war and drove the Humans and Martians to surrender entirely.

  Davon personally didn’t believe it when he read Trimininv’s account on how the first Humans and Martians to colonize the stars stood before her to plead their case and explain why they felt the war was necessary before bowing down and granting her the title “Grim Reaper” or as she would later be known “The Elf of Death”.

  After her brief stint in warfare, Triminiv’s books not only became vital to understanding the history of Elves but also ancient history as a whole.

  Having spent so many years as a reclusive researcher, her newfound importance and legendary status weren’t something that Triminiv was particularly enthusiastic about. Her further explorations into Elf history had all proven futile as the numbers of their species naturally dwindled, succumbing to disease and lowering birth rates.

  As a last resort, she briefly turned her gaze towards uncovering Dwarven history.

  She yet again found very little, save for brief mentions of mystical artifacts resembling skulls that granted some power, others grief, and all extinction.

  It was with that final endeavor that Triminiv at last decided to turn her eyes away from the past and toward the future, vowing never to use her destructive vocal abilities again and instead build a home for herself and all those others lost in the eternal march of time.

  But even as that march went on, the legend of the Elf of Death never faded.

  Davon didn’t recognize her that night, twelve years ago. Thus, he made the fatal error of coming to this village without knowing of its all-powerful guardian.

  He may never have bought into the legend, but he certainly feels the weight of it as the Elf of Death stands before Shanna, who screams in pain as she grips the bloody, gaping wound where her arm once was.

  “I remember you.” Triminiv’s voice rings in the cold air, lingering in it as Davon stands helplessly in the dark. One word enters his mind.

  A word that perfectly embodies everything he’s feeling right now.

  Fuck.