The room fell into an immediate hush. Conversations died mid-sentence as all eyes turned toward the entrance. Joran, however, kept his gaze firmly on his plate, forcing himself to breathe steadily as he pulled his hood up, hoping the movement seemed natural.

  A low, guttural snarl broke through the silence, barely more than a growl beneath the breath—Lorsan had caught a scent. Meanwhile, Dain’s fingers drummed idly against his staff, his hollow gaze sweeping the room like a predator considering its prey.

  The air buzzed with uneasy murmurs.

  "What are the Royal Guard doing this far from the capital?"

  "I don’t like this…"

  "Probably here to harass newcomers entering Lothara."

  "Who do you think that druid is?"

  "Not dressed like the other two."

  "Gives me the creeps."

  Vaelin’s scowl deepened, and in one smooth motion, he drew his blade. The sword hummed with energy, the faint vibration making the air crackle with power. Absolute silence followed.

  "I don’t believe I asked for any of you mongrels to speak."

  Everyone knew what the Royal Guard were—Lothara’s elite, the strongest warriors beneath the Dragon King himself. Their presence alone demanded submission, and their tempers were not to be tested.

  Vaelin took his time, letting the weight of his authority settle upon the room before continuing. "We are looking for a man. Barely a man, you might say. Around twenty-five years of age, shy, timid… a little shit."

  Joran risked a glance toward the front desk, searching for the elf who had taken his payment—she was gone. His pulse quickened. Had she slipped away to warn him or to sell him out?

  A sharp sniffing sound pulled his attention. Lorsan’s predatory gaze locked onto his table. Joran immediately dropped his gaze and resumed eating, willing himself to appear unbothered, insignificant.

  Vaelin continued, pacing slowly.

  "Our tracker here followed his scent to this town, to this very inn. But then, the trail vanished."He curled his lip in disdain. "Perhaps due to the unique—yet horrendous—stench coming from the lot of you."

  His disgusted sneer landed on a table of dwarves, who, despite their grumbling, refused to meet his gaze. A human seated nearby cleared his throat hesitantly before speaking.

  "Excuse me, sir. Might I ask what makes this person you're after so important?"

  Vaelin turned his attention to the speaker, an unimpressed smirk curling his lips. He stepped onto the table itself, his light magic gently nudging plates, tankards, and trays aside, spilling food and drink onto the laps of those seated nearby. A drunken dwarf at the far edge of the table, now drenched in mead and gravy, shot to his feet.

  "Just who the fuck do you think you are?!" he bellowed. "I don’t give a damn if you’re a Royal Guard! You have no right—" Vaelin’s blade flashed upward.

  A heartbeat later, the dwarf’s right arm hit the ground with a heavy thump.

  A moment of horrified silence, then an ear-piercing scream tore through the room. Blood spurted across the floor, the severed limb twitching grotesquely. Three other dwarves scrambled toward their injured friend, while the rest of the inn’s patrons reacted in shock, fury, or preparation for battle.

  Joran, despite everything, kept his eyes on his meal. The pain, the panic, the metallic scent of fresh blood filling the air—it was all distant, numbed by sheer survival instinct.

  Then came the shift.

  A pulse of dark, powerful nature magic rippled through the room.

  Dain barely lifted his staff, tapping it against the ground. From the floor, shadowed vines erupted, winding around chairs and limbs, binding every patron in place except for the dwarves who stood there in shock for a moment before returning to bandaging their friend who had grown weak from the blood loss. Some screamed, others struggled, but the magic held firm.

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  All except for Joran.

  His Elven-Arachne Cloak kept him unnoticed, his presence slipping beneath their perception. It was as if he were merely a shadow against the wall.

  Dain chuckled, a slow, rasping sound.

  "I apologize… for the aggressiveness of my compatriot." His voice was oily, condescending. "But I must correct a mistake—your dwarf friend was wrong." His eyes gleamed with amusement. "These two are Royal Guards, and I am just a humble druid trying to help. And yet, we are all on a level beyond you fleas. That gives us the right to treat you however we please."

  Lorsan, still sniffing, snarled. "He’s here. In this room."

  Vaelin’s smirk widened.

  "Perhaps he’s using magic to disguise himself." He glanced toward Dain. "Make him visible."

  Dain tilted his head, considering it, but Lorsan growled impatiently, drool pooling at the corners of his maw. "Or we take advantage of his pathetic heart and draw him out."

  Vaelin turned to a bound waitress, cupping her chin, his grip firm despite her whimpers of fear. "Dain… feeding time."

  Dain’s grin stretched wide as he tapped his staff against the floor. The vines glowed, siphoning life energy from those bound, their screams filling the air.

  Joran tensed.

  He recognized that spell. A ritual that drains life force and transforms it into magic, transferring years, if not entire lifetimes, to the caster as well as enhances their magical might. A forbidden, monstrous act. He had to help them… he couldn’t just let them suffer because they were looking for him but he was terrified of the knights. They had beaten and scarred that fear into him. The screams got louder and finally it was too much for joran to just sit there and do nothing.

  He quickly stood—hood falling back—and looked up only to lock eyes with Lorsan who was now looming over him. Lorsan had moved towards joran’s table without the prince even realizing it.

  The beast-knight grinned. "There you are."

  A clawed hand latched onto his head, digging into his skin, before hurling him through the window. Glass shattered, pain lanced through him, and Joran crashed onto the ground outside, gasping. The cloak protected him from the worst of it so he only had a couple cuts on his face and his arms.

  He forced himself to his feet, stumbling into the square, where onlookers gathered. Behind him, the knights and druid stepped calmly from the inn, their expressions shifting to concerned deception.

  "Healers, now!" Vaelin called, voice thick with fabricated urgency. "A dangerous fugitive cast a powerful drain spell inside—help those affected! Everyone else, stay in your homes!"

  As the last of the healers disappeared into the inn and the gathered onlookers scattered back into their homes, the town square grew eerily silent. Vaelin waited a moment, ensuring that no curious eyes lingered before he turned to Dain, his voice low and sharp.

  “That memory-altering spell will work, right?” His eyes flickered with irritation. “We don’t need any loose ends knowing the truth.”

  Dain merely smirked, the expression one of amused arrogance.

  “You insult me,” he murmured, rolling his staff idly between his fingers. “I have performed that spell countless times. By the time they wake, they will remember only what I wish them to—the fugitive they saw attacking them, draining their life force, before your dear lycan friend so nobly cast him out the window.”

  Vaelin’s expression darkened, his scowl deepening as his gaze snapped toward Lorsan. “Yes… I do believe that was an idiotic move,” he bit out. “He could be anywhere by now.”

  Lorsan, who had been absently licking blood from his claws, paused, then gave a low, amused rumble. He tapped a claw against his nose, his golden eyes glinting in the dim light.

  “Close enough to catch his whole scent,” he murmured, almost purring in satisfaction. “The cloak kept him hidden before, but with the druid’s magic and my nose, he can’t escape.”

  Vaelin studied him for a moment, then gave a single curt nod, trusting in the beastman’s instincts. Just then, a group of soldiers hurried toward them, their armor clanking softly in the still night. The leader, a human woman clad in captain’s armor, strode ahead and offered a formal salute, fist pressed against her heart.

  “Sirs,” she said, her voice steady and disciplined. “We heard there was an attack at the inn. We’ve come to aid you in capturing the culprit.”

  Vaelin barely spared her a glance before sneering in disdain. With a casual shove, he pushed her aside, not even bothering to slow his stride as he followed Lorsan, who was already moving, sniffing the air as he tracked their quarry.

  “As if we need assistance from lowly knights.” His tone was dripping with contempt. “If you want to be useful, then form a perimeter around the town. No one enters. No one leaves.”

  The woman’s expression tensed, but she gave a curt nod before turning to relay orders to her soldiers. Vaelin, meanwhile, focused on the hunt. Joran was out there—exhausted and vulnerable. It was only a matter of time before they caught him.