CHAPTER 92

  THE BRIGHT AMONG THE TAINTED

  The wind howled through the dead of night, as the caravan creaked onward. Its wheels groaned beneath the weight of slaves it carried. This was the third night without pause, the third night of non-stop travel towards the borders of Clandor. The final night.

  Both humans and elven nobles chose this to make a spectacle that they were rescuing the unfortunate. To the watching world, it was a gesture of honour—humans and elves working hand in hand—but it was a performance. Nothing more.

  Hans sat among those unfortunate, his breath slow and his eyes occasionally drifting to the broken figures around him. With every passing hour, the tension took new turns.

  Taking it all in, he exhaled, long and steady, then leaned his head back against the rough wood of the cart. “It’ll be all right,” he whispered to no one. “I’ll make it all right— after all, that will be Theodred—an ideal knight by definition.” He closed his eyes, biding his time to reach Clandor.

  Not making them wait much, the sun rose like a punishment to these elves—like a disc of gold on the horizon. As it began its ascent, the wall separating the human and elven realms came close.

  Hans opened his eyes.

  He had planned this for months—every lie told, every whispered promise, every ounce of preparation— it was all for this day. “Now we either make it or break it.” He mumbled, coming down from one of the carts.

  Standing among the chained, his head bowed beneath the ragged linen, his posture imitating defeat. “I need to be invisible, hide in plain sight, and lie low.” He said to himself and followed the crowd like a sheep.

  A lad donned in slick black armour came forward. An insignia of a snake coiled around an ivory.

  Hans’s eyes narrowed. He could remember those coats of arms anywhere.

  A Sylvetor—so a few survived the massacre.

  The young noble raised his voice, addressing both slave s and those who came to receive them before the gate. “As our pact,” he began, his voice polished and prepared. “We present to you the poor souls who fell prey to the evil of slave traders. As we always say: hate the profession, not the people.” He turned, offering a shallow, ceremonial bow to the waiting elven delegates. “We now return them with dignity to their rightful home. May you accept your kin, and offer them again the roots that were torn from them.”

  From the elven side, a woman emerged—tall, robed in loose silks that clung more than they concealed. She walked with the slow grace of someone used to being watched. With a smile so seductive that could cause a man to go crazy, she replied,“It’s good to see you, our long-time friend, young duke of Sylvetor.” Her gaze swept over the caravan of chained elves and broken spirits. “Please. Come inside. All of you.”

  With a relaxed wave of her hand, the massive ironwood gates opened, groaning wide to reveal a sight that turned Hans’s stomach.

  “A celebration.”

  The only word came close to description. Streamers of velvet and sun-threaded banners flew from high towers. Laughter echoed down colonnades. Musicians played in the distance, and perfume sweetened.

  Hans blinked. The sheer harmony staggered him. Confused, he scanned the surroundings and found many house sigils he was familiar with— Galenhall, Ikrani, even the Knight household—Reverand.

  “Crows.” He hissed under his breath. “Everyone is involved in this shit.”

  The slaves were ushered to an open ground, away from the gazes of commoners who were celebrating their brethren’s return— at least it appeared as so.

  Then, beneath the cold scrutiny of assembled nobles, the selection began. One by one, individuals were evaluated. The strong, the young, the gifted were pulled from the group like prized livestock. Hans remained untouched—just as he had planned. Thin, hunched, dull-eyed. He cloaked himself in mediocrity, his aura muted to nothing.

  “Let them pass over. Let my intentions not be discovered.” He prayed.

  Of the hundreds who arrived, only half remained. Some, whom he suspected to be humans disguised as elves, were taken by the highborn mages to fates unknown.

  “I can’t do anything about them.” He told himself, “The shakedown… not yet.”

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  The woman in silks—the one who had welcomed them—led the remainder onward. “This will be your temporary stay for now,” she said, in an almost singsong tone. “Tomorrow, we’ll begin searching for your families.”

  But even as she spoke, her hand drifted from her cheek to the chest of a young man walking near Hans. Without pause or shame, she let her fingers trace the lines of his body—from his collarbone to the hard ridges of his stomach, down towards his belt. The boy flinched but said nothing. Her voice turned a breath lower.

  “You’ll be… interesting in this dreary place.” Smiling, she seized him by the collar and dragged him behind her, disappearing into one of the halls.

  Hans kept his expression neutral, but inside, his stomach churned. “These people are rat-shit crazy.”

  He felt a flicker of relief that his disguise held. He had spent time preparing for this—rubbing his skin with ash and herbs to stink of filth, matting his hair, staining his teeth. He looked like the least desirable creature alive.

  “Good thinking,” he muttered to himself with a half-smirk. “That stench might’ve just saved me from hell.”

  Shaking his right and left, he followed the others into the heart of Clandor—not as a mage, not as a prince, but as a shadow hidden in the ruin of these people.

  Their lodging was bearable, and that crazy woman didn’t come to claim any more. A night in anticipation— it passed without him knowing. But the scenery he awoke to was not the one he had closed his eyes to.

  “The heck is with my senses? I got transported and I didn’t feel a squat.” Hans looked at his body, scanning every part. Maybe this body is different. Maybe it accepts transference, unlike my original. He looked around, everything unfamiliar yet a feeling known to him struck his senses.

  “Mana stones…a lot of it.” His greedy usual self stirred, but he held it in and let the mature Theodred take the reins. “I’m the legendary elven knight. I can’t just lust over some crystals.”

  “Till we find your families, you’ll work here to earn your keep.” A mage in deep robes, a Libra sigil over her blue cloak—the symbol of the Highborns—addressed them in a mana-enhanced voice. “It’s simple work. Go to the veins, mine some mana stones, and put them in the transfer circle. The one who puts in more effort will gain more, as with everything in life.”

  “Hmm. Putting us against ourselves,” Hans acknowledged. “Good tactic—prevents rebellion or collective resistance.”

  But it wasn’t the time to admire enemy strategy. Hans needed to appear the hardworking elf—to both his fellow slaves and the ever-watching supervisors. A name. He needed to reach the ears of high authorities or at least plant a seed of doubt.

  “A month at most. That’s all I’ll bear this,” he resolved, the vow etched deep into his psyche. And then he began—hard labour he’d never imagined himself being capable of. Eating. Sleeping. Mining. This became his new usual.

  And just as he had predicted, a few slaves—those whose families had supposedly been found—began to disappear. He thought that’s how they sold back these elves to slave traders set for human territories. When they finally came for him, claiming they had located his own, the prediction turned to fact, carved in stone.

  I guess I don’t even have to wait the full month, he thought. Only three weeks past, and here I am—facing the top dog of this mine.

  He checked in front. A dramatic joy spread across his face. “You’ve found them.” He expressed, grateful. “Thank the Clandorians. Please, send me to them—”

  “You don’t seem that much of an idiot. Or do we?” said the old-looking mage, nearly as ancient as Rudolf, seated before him and flipping through page after page.

  “I don’t understand, my lord?” Hans asked, genuinely confused.

  “Hmm… stop this charade. Who are you? A slave with aura control so precise our mages can’t detect it? Who sent you?” The mage ceased his turning of pages. “Well, I don’t fucking care. You’re a dead man anyway—”

  “Well…” Hans drew in a breath. Mumbling. “I’m new to this espionage business, but it’s disappointing that I got caught this early. Guess I’ll have to change my story a bit. How about we go with this concept—a young aspiring knight who wanders, rescuing his kind.”

  “What are you blabbering—”

  “My whole backstory got ruined. Thanks to you. But also—thanks to you—I’ve found another. I was told I wasn’t great in the planning department.” As Hans spoke, he began channeling his aura—a bright white light enveloped him, drawing gasps and confusion. The onlookers hesitated, their shock growing.

  “A male elf with the royal light aura?” The mage hissed, his eyes shaky from what he was seeing.

  Hans, on the other hand, was ready to pounce. Taking up an agile sword stance—though without a sword—he met their shaky eyes.

  “But you know what I am great at?” he said, a grin forming. “Just winging it.”

  A sword formed of aura—an unknown technique in this time—took shape in his hand. His slashes, quick and precise, carved through the guards of the mine manager with terrifying grace.

  “Wait! Wait! Did the royals send you? You can’t do this! This is a Highborn facility!” the old mage, although of fifth circle, pleaded in the fear of royal retaliation—even more when their current queen was being called queen of commoners.

  Hans turned cold, “A worm like you must be squashed—and before many eyes.” By the hood of the cloak, Hans, now Theodred, dragged him out.

  The slaves turned miners—new and old—looked on in stunned silence at the man who had once ruled them through terror, their tormentor. The same man who, in the name of "finding families," had driven them to endless labour without rest. Picked any woman and man for them to never return. Now he was nothing but a feeble figure being pulled by a young elf, whose sword shone with a brilliance that mirrored liberation itself.

  Hans threw the mage forward. “I don’t attack the unarmed,” he said, levelling the glowing sword at his enemy. “I’ll give you a chance to defend yourself. Raise your circles, you waste of breath.”

  The mine manager stood frozen, confused—and so were the slaves. They looked at Hans as though he had gone mad. Why give a mage time to stabilise? Why offer him the opportunity to prepare?

  But Hans’s next words shattered their disbelief.

  “The name is Theodred,” he declared, eyes locked onto the old mage’s. “Get ready to live your worst nightmares.”