The false elf plunged into the troll camp, his eyes scanning every shadow, every corner, for any trace of value.
His movements were calculated, each step quiet as a whisper, but his search proved fruitless. The trolls were poor, wretched beings, immersed in filth and surrounded by trifles that didn't warrant more than a cursory glance.
To prove his feat, Colin, with the precision of an experienced executioner, severed the heads of the defeated trolls.
He tossed them into a tattered sack he found near the camp, the coarse fabric already stained with blood and grime. With the sack strapped to his back, he prepared for the trek back to the village.
Elara watched him, a whirlwind of emotions churning within her. She admired his skill—undeniable, almost otherworldly—but a gnawing frustration took root in her chest.
During the battle, she had felt powerless, her own staff insignificant against the monstrous strength of the trolls. Her thoughts spiraled, questioning her relevance beside him.
What she feared most was already happening.
Last night had been a mistake. She knew it now. They had spent too much time together, and the boundaries had blurred. Insecurity settled in her heart, a cold, unyielding weight. Was she a true partner or merely a burden?
They walked in silence along the winding road to the village. She had no words, and Colin seemed perfectly content, basking in his achievement.
The sack on his back rattled with every step, dark blood seeping through the worn fabric, leaving a trail of putrid drops on the dirt path.
When they reached the village, the crowd parted for them. Curious eyes followed the sack, whispers threading through the air like spider silk.
Colin moved with purpose, straight to the tavern, pushing through the door without hesitation.
He dropped the sack to the floor, its wet thud silencing the room. Drunks, mercenaries, and harlots turned to him, their faces a canvas of curiosity and caution.
"Here it is!" he announced, his voice cutting through the murmur. "I killed the trolls that were attacking the caravans. And here's the evidence."
He yanked the sack open, and severed heads rolled out—eyes glassy, teeth sharp, matted hair tangled with dirt and dried blood. The room fell silent, save for the drip of blood pooling on the wooden floor.
Some were impressed, others visibly unsettled. Those who had doubted him now turned away, faces flushed with shame or twisted in anger.
The tavern keeper approached, a grin spreading across his weathered face.
"Heh! I knew you'd make it, lad. I'll fetch your reward."
He disappeared into the back, leaving the room steeped in uneasy quiet. When he returned, he held a leather pouch heavy with the clink of coins.
"Here are the thousand coins I promised!"
Colin took the pouch, slinging it over his shoulder. Without another word, he pushed through the crowd, envious glances trailing behind him.
Outside, he turned to Elara, a rare smile breaking his usual Stoic demeanor.
"We did it… come on, Elara, let's rest."
[…]
The days unfolded like the pages of a dark tome for Elara, each chapter steeped in a creeping sense of disorientation. Moving to a larger inn with Colin did nothing to bridge the chasm that had grown between them since their encounter at the lake.
They no longer shared a bed, and Colin treated her as nothing more than a traveling companion. His deepest feelings for her seemed to have withered, if they had ever truly existed, while hers swelled like a tide threatening to drown her.
Colin's mornings began with the first light of dawn, his silhouette cutting through the mist as he trained in the same clearing where the late Kaldor had once shaped his skills. His movements were precise, his focus impenetrable—a fortress from which she was forever barred.
Elara, for her part, watched him leave through the frost-clouded window, her fingers brushing the cold glass. She resisted the urge to follow him, to close the distance between them, but every step he took away from her felt like a stone added to the growing weight in her chest.
Inside the inn, she sought distractions—anything to dull the ache. She scrubbed floors, helped with the washing, listened to the endless gossip of the tavern maids. But these tasks were fleeting comforts, like thin blankets against a winter storm.
Safira, with her nimble hands and innate talent in the kitchen, quickly won Colin's praise.
Her dishes were a symphony of flavors, each meal a testament to her creativity. Even Elara, begrudgingly, found herself savoring the young girl's cooking.
But Safira's skill extended beyond the culinary. She approached every challenge with a fervor, experimenting with new recipes, blending unlikely ingredients.
The satisfaction and joy that radiated from Safira were a balm to all around her—except for Elara, in whom they kindled an unsettling fear.
Safira's bright, youthful eyes held a spark of life that Elara had lost. At just fifteen, the girl was a whirlwind of talent, a prodigy. Elara couldn't help but wonder how Safira managed to excel in every endeavor while she, despite all her efforts, felt trapped in mediocrity.
The two of them—Colin and Safira—seemed to inhabit a world of their own, a realm where brilliance and potential intertwined effortlessly. And there Elara stood, a shadow at the edge of their light, her own inner glow dimmed by doubt and envy.
Determined to catch up, Elara sought solace in the village library. She ran her fingers over the spines of ancient tomes, inhaling the musty scent of old paper, hoping to find some forgotten spell, some arcane knowledge that would elevate her beyond her current state.
But the yellowed pages held nothing but dusty tales and brittle myths. They whispered of theories long disproven, of magic so disconnected from practice that frustration coiled tight in her chest.
Unwilling to surrender to this sense of inadequacy, she threw herself into healing. She roamed the village, tending to the sick and wounded.
Charms fell from her lips, and magic glowed beneath her palms, knitting wounds, dulling pain. She pushed herself, yearning to break the ceiling of her abilities, to reach beyond the ordinary.
Yet, the sensation of stagnation clawed at her. Each spell cast felt like a drop in a bottomless well, never enough to fill the void within her.
Doubts gnawed at her, each bite more vicious than the last. Was she nothing but a mediocre mage, destined to linger in the shadows of others' greatness? Did she hold any real value, or had she merely become a convenient fixture in Colin's world—a worn, familiar object he kept out of habit rather than affection?
Her search for purpose turned into a solitary journey, the path shrouded in mist and uncertainty. And as the days bled into one another, Elara felt the darkness within her deepen, threatening to smother the last embers of the light she had once believed shone in her soul.
[…]
In the cozy kitchen, Colin, Safira, and Elara gathered around a sturdy wooden table, bathed in the soft glow of candlelight. The room was warm, the air alive with the tantalizing aroma of spices and herbs. Safira had outdone herself, presenting a magnificent meal that promised comfort and solace.
At the center of the table sat a steaming stew, brimming with succulent pieces of meat, fresh vegetables, and melt-in-your-mouth potatoes. The rich broth, infused with exotic herbs, wrapped all the ingredients in a perfect symphony of flavors.
Beside the stew, a basket of fresh bread rested, the golden crust cracking to reveal a soft, airy interior. Butter and fine herbs were arranged alongside, offering an extra layer of indulgence to the simple yet exquisite meal.
Safira, a proud smile dancing on her lips, served each dish with the poise of a seasoned chef. Colin and Elara, both famished, relished every bite, their expressions reflecting pure delight.
"This is great!" Colin exclaimed, his voice muffled by a mouthful of bread.
"He's right," Elara added, a genuine warmth in her tone. "When did you get so good?"
Safira said nothing, a faint blush coloring her cheeks as she lowered her gaze.
After the meal, they retreated to their rooms. Colin lay on his bed, his eyes fixed on the dim chandelier overhead. His mind drifted, replaying the battles of recent weeks, marveling at how swiftly his strength had grown. The weight of his accomplishments pressed down on him, heavy and uncomfortable.
As he turned over, seeking the refuge of sleep, a soft knock broke the silence.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
"Colin… it's me, Elara. Are you there?"
He rose from the bed, his movements deliberate, and opened the door carefully.
"What is it?"
"Can I talk to you for a minute?"
He opened the door wider, allowing her inside.
"Did something happen?" he asked, his voice steady.
Elara crossed her arms, her gaze drifting away.
"I've decided… I'm going back to my village." She met his eyes, vulnerability clear in her expression. "We already have enough money, and I need to… talk to my mother and the boys' mother. They deserve to know what happened…"
"I see…" He sat on the edge of the bed, his posture relaxed, yet his expression unreadable. "When are you leaving?"
"Tomorrow, after breakfast… I've already told Safira. She was sad, but she understood."
"I'm sorry about your brother and the others…"
"It's all right…" She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, taking a hesitant step closer. "And you, what's your plan?"
He shrugged. "You told me about Ultan and the university. I think I'll try my luck there, see if I can find a place for myself."
"You're strong. I'm sure you'll do well," she said, a spark of hope lighting her features. "When I've finished delivering the money to my family and the boys, I'll go to the capital too!" Her voice rose with excitement. "Then I'll be able to be useful to you again…"
"Elara, you don't—"
"You don't have to comfort me," she interrupted, a thin smile on her lips. "The way I am now, I'd only be in the way. It's my decision, so…"
Colin nodded, accepting her resolve.
"All right. I'll give you your share of the money tomorrow. You don't have to go if you don't want to…"
She returned his smile, a warmth beneath the melancholy.
"After everything I've seen you do, I don't think you need me. Just promise me you'll look after Safira. She trusts you a lot."
"I'll teach her a few things."
"I know you will," she whispered. "Now I have to go…"
Colin stood, moving to the door and holding it open.
"See you tomorrow."
"See you later…"
He was about to close the door, but Elara held his gaze, her blue eyes glimmering with a fragile light.
"Colin…" She took a hesitant step forward. "These last few weeks… thank you. I think, after everything, I needed something to keep my mind from unraveling. Spending time with you and Safira helped more than I can express."
Her arms slowly uncrossed, a small, vulnerable opening in her posture.
Her bright blue eyes remained fixed on him, a question lingering in the silence between them. He recognized that look—the pull of need, the echo of unspoken words.
"You didn't come here just to say you're leaving, did you?"
Elara swallowed hard, the soft bob of her throat betraying her nerves.
"Actually… that day at the lake… did I do something wrong?" Her voice trembled, a thin thread pulled tight. "We spent so much time there, and after that… we hardly spoke to each other."
I get it… Tsk… I thought I could get away with it…
He exhaled slowly, his fingers brushing through his hair.
"It's not you," he said. "You didn't do anything wrong. It's just… that night at the lake, every time I look at you, I remember it."
Her cheeks flushed, and she turned her face away, shadows catching on the curve of her jaw.
"Me too… every time I look at you, I… Colin… do you have feelings for me?"
The question hung in the air, a fragile crystal that could shatter with a breath.
He didn't answer. His silence was a chasm, and she teetered at its edge.
"You should come to my village with me," she said, desperation curling around her words. "We have money. We could buy land, cattle… have a farm, a quiet life."
"You know I can't do that now." His voice was steady, too steady. "And if they attack us while we're there, how will I protect you if I don't know how to use magic?"
"… You're right…" Her shoulders slumped, the fight draining from her. "If I go first, will you promise to come later? After you get stronger?"
"You know I can't promise that."
Her lips trembled. "… You don't feel anything for me, do you…? We shouldn't be doing this. I have to go, I'm sorry…"
She pulled away, the space between them growing cold and vast. Tears welled at the corners of her eyes, but he remained still, his expression carved from stone.
Elara lingered, her fingers tight around the edge of the door. She wanted him to speak, to reach out, to give her a reason to stay. But the silence was relentless, unyielding.
Her expression shifted—grief hardening into anger. She slammed the door behind her, the sound echoing through the dim corridor.
Alone, Colin sighed. He scratched the back of his head, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on him. The darkness settled in, deeper than before.