Chapter 14
Written by Bayzo Albion
She wasn't like the elves from stories or games — no leaf-clad archer or gentle spirit of the woods.
She was something sharper, dangerous, almost divine.
Silver hair spilled like moonlight over her shoulders, her green eyes cutting through the tavern's dim light and straight into me.
There was no warmth in that gaze, only the cold command of someone born to be obeyed.
"There you are," she said, her voice like wind through an ancient forest.
It was quiet, barely above a murmur, but it cut through the tavern like a drawn blade, slicing away the remnants of merriment and leaving only tense silence in its wake.
"Excuse me… do we know each other?" I asked, forcing my tone into something steady, though inside my chest tightened like a coiled spring, my heart pounding with a mix of intrigue and foreboding. Who was this woman, and why did her presence feel like the prelude to a storm?
A few knights exchanged uneasy glances, their armored forms shifting uncomfortably. One muttered something under his breath, then pushed back his chair with a scrape that echoed too loudly in the hush, hurrying out as if summoned by urgent shadows. Another followed suit, his mug abandoned half-full on the table. Even the drunkest among them seemed to suddenly remember pressing business elsewhere, their laughter forgotten in the face of this enigmatic intruder.
She ignored them all, her focus unyielding, as if the rest of the world were mere backdrop to our encounter. Her gaze never wavered from me, piercing through any facade I might have erected.
"Even dragons need a breath of fresh air sometimes," the elf said as she stepped closer, her voice carrying an airy, almost playful lilt—but beneath it lay an edge of command, as though every word was a leash subtly tightening, and I was meant to follow without resistance.
Before I could react, before my mind could fully process her words, she leaned in with deliberate grace. Her fingers brushed lightly at my belt, at the fastening of my trousers, as if testing how easily the barrier between us might fall away, a gesture that was both intimate and imperious.
For a heartbeat, panic and desire wrestled in my chest, a tumultuous storm of emotions that left me breathless. I felt heat surge through me, my body straining against its confines, desperate for release—like some caged beast that had been waiting too long in the dark, now awakened by her touch. I hadn't even realized how suffocating that tension had become until she gave it the faintest touch of freedom, igniting a fire that threatened to consume my composure.
But she never pushed further. She didn't even need to; her mere proximity was enough to command the response she sought.
Instead, she simply exhaled, a whisper of breath ghosting against me, subtle yet electrifying, carrying with it a hint of her essence. And suddenly a shiver ran through me—not crude, not vulgar, but deep, resonant, like the vibration of a harp string pulled taut and released, echoing through my very core. Every nerve in me sang, and the sound was both music and warning, a symphony of sensation that left me reeling.
"I just needed to be certain," she murmured, her emerald gaze locking into mine with unblinking intensity. The cold beauty of her face never softened, not even in this moment of intimacy, remaining as impassive as a statue forged from ice and starlight. "I needed to see if my daughter was playing with fire. But you… you seem harmless. Perhaps too harmless for your own good."
Her words were a knife in silk, slicing through the air with precision, leaving a sting that lingered long after the cut.
"I… see," I managed, forcing composure into my tone, though my mind reeled at her implication, fragments of understanding piecing together like a puzzle in the fog. *Daughter?* Who could she mean—the elf sorceress who had lent me the coins, binding me with her subtle web of debt? The realization hit like a thunderclap, connecting dots I hadn't even known existed.
She straightened smoothly, her fingers sliding through her silver-white hair in a gesture that was both casual and regal, as if the moment had been nothing more than a fleeting curiosity, a minor diversion in her eternal existence.
"Well then. I should go." Her tone was flat, almost polite, as though we had merely discussed the weather or the quality of the ale, rather than delving into something profoundly personal.
"Wait—" the protest slipped out before I could stop it, my voice laced with a curiosity I couldn't suppress. "You come here, say a few cryptic words, stir the pot, and just leave? That's all? No explanations, no names?" My voice betrayed the hint of disappointment I tried to hide, a yearning for more insight into this mysterious figure who had upended the room with her mere presence.
"I already told you why I came." She paused at the door, glancing back over her shoulder with a grace that made the motion seem deliberate, scripted by fate itself. Her eyes gleamed like polished glass, reflecting things I couldn't yet understand—depths of wisdom, secrets of ages, perhaps even glimpses of futures yet unwritten. "I wanted to know whether my daughter risked falling into the hands of a monster who knew how to bite. You are no monster. At least, not yet. But beware—the seeds of monstrosity lie in every soul, waiting for the right soil to grow."
Her cloak swirled as she moved, the fabric whispering against the floor like a secret shared with the shadows, and with a sound softer than a sigh, the tavern door closed behind her, sealing her departure with finality.
I sat frozen, a residue of energy still humming in my veins, electric and unresolved. The beast inside me—roused, challenged, and denied—slowly settled, curling back into uneasy slumber, though its echoes reverberated through my thoughts. The tavern gradually stirred back to life, murmurs rising like tentative birdsong after a storm, but the air felt changed, charged with the afterimage of her presence.
The storm had passed—but her presence lingered, like frostbite that burns even after the cold has gone, a reminder that in this paradise, beauty often concealed thorns.
I swallowed hard, the taste of the ale turning slightly bitter on my tongue.
Then the pressure came, insidious and mounting.
Not the pleasant sort of fullness from a hearty feast, but an internal force, a tide rising so fast it began to push at the seams of my skin, straining against the confines of flesh. The body felt like a vessel overfilled—tight, hot, straining as if it would split at the seams, the energy demanding an outlet. Not merely relief: it asked for a specific, archaic theatre of undoing—a ritual of release, primal and profound. A joining where energy would flow into another, be balanced, traded, poured out in a dance of reciprocity. It hinted at ceremony more than lust: the passing of flame so both parties could breathe, could share in the blaze without being consumed.
My brain, however, refused the first ugly answer that bubbled up from the depths, rejecting the crude simplicity. I was not going to collapse into the nearest bed and obliterate meaning with a single mindless act, reducing this divine surge to base gratification.
A voice slithered through the crack in my thoughts, familiar and foul, a whisper from the shadows of my subconscious.
—Why hold back? Pick anyone. The serving girl with her angelic wings. The barmaid with her knowing smile. In a pinch, you could take virginity back with a spell, erasing the marks as if they never were. You're practically a god here, aren't you? Take. Consume. Solve your problem in one obscene, blessed motion. The voice purred, its tone a slick mixture of hunger and amusement, tempting me with visions of effortless indulgence.
"Shut up, you miserable little sin," I snapped out loud, more to steady myself than to harm it, my words drawing a few curious glances from nearby patrons. Heat flared within me—part indignation at the suggestion, part the remnant of the elf's breath lingering like an echo—but my words rang with something like principle, a core of resolve forged in the fires of self-reflection. "You seriously expect me to sleep with someone for the sake of empty relief? To treat desire like a commodity, traded without regard for the soul? Even in my filthier dreams there was more honor than that. Even beasts court and contend—there's play, risk, a sort of savage consent in their rituals. You want me to just take? That's not lust. That's degradation, a hollow echo of what could be profound."
The demon-voice chuckled low in the back alleys of my mind, delighted by my outrage, reveling in the friction it created. It loved the argument—the delicious tension of self-restraint pushed to its limits. But I could hear its point beneath the mockery: the energy would not wait forever. It wanted escape, and it wanted it now, pounding against the barriers I'd erected.