Elara set off at first light. The main road curved left, wide and bustling even at this early hour, but Elara nudged the pony right, onto the narrower, shaded path that plunged into the Murkwoods. The transition was immediate: the open sky vanished under a canopy of twisted oaks and pines, their branches interlocking like gnarled fingers. Sunlight filtered through in dappled patches, turning the air green and cool, heavy with the scent of damp moss, rotting leaves, and something sharper—wild herbs crushed underhoof. The path itself was little more than a game trail, rutted by countless travelers foolhardy enough to risk the shortcut. Roots snaked across it like tripwires, and the undergrowth pressed close, whispering with the rustle of unseen things.
Elara rode easy, reins loose in one hand, the other trailing along her thigh where the threadbare wool of her dress bunched slightly. The pony's hooves crunched softly on fallen twigs, a steady rhythm that matched her breathing. No armor clanking, no sword at her hip—just the faint jingle of the stirrups and the pony's occasional snort. Freedom tasted like this: the wind tangling her black hair, the chill seeping through her thin cloak, the knowledge that she could vanish into the woods and no one would come looking.
She let her perception skill unfurl lazily, a mental web stretching outward. Birds called in sharp trills high above; a deer paused fifty yards off the path, ears twitching before bounding away; somewhere deeper, a larger shape lumbered through brush—maybe a bear, level 20 at most, nothing worth the effort. The woods weren't empty, but they weren't swarming either. Perfect for her purposes.
The first half-hour passed in quiet contentment. She savored the small aches: the slight bounce in the saddle chafing her inner thighs, the cool air raising faint goosebumps on her exposed neck. Back in the Citadel, everything was cushioned—silk saddles on warhorses, enchanted cloaks that repelled weather. Here, it was raw. Real. She even let a low branch snag her cloak on purpose, feeling the tug before it ripped free with a soft tear. Minor damage, but hers to ignore.
Thoughts drifted to the tavern chatter from the night before. The sheep vanishings—probably nothing exciting, but a loose end worth sniffing out later. The tournament buzz, that intriguing S-rank rumor from the guardsmen. And the merchants' grim talk of Niflheim's push north. Wars were distant thunder, but they shaped roads like this one: empty of fat caravans, ripe for ambushes. She smiled faintly. Let them try.
The path dipped into a shallow hollow, the trees thickening until the sky was a distant memory. Ferns brushed the pony's legs, leaving damp streaks on its coat. Elara reined in briefly at a fork—left toward deeper woods, right looping back toward the main road—and chose left without hesitation. Deeper was better. The thrill wasn't in the destination; it was in the waiting.
Then she felt it.
A prickle at the back of her neck, not danger—never danger—but attention. Her perception skill sharpened without conscious effort. A faint rustle, too deliberate to be wind. A breath held too long. She kept her eyes forward, her posture relaxed, but her senses locked on the source: a bush thirty paces ahead, right at the path's edge.
A small green face peered out from the leaves—wide yellow eyes, pointed ears, a crooked mouth frozen in a mix of greed and terror. A goblin scout, level eight or nine at most, clad in rags and clutching a rusty dagger. It thought it was hidden. It was wrong.
Elara's lips curved in a tiny, private smile. She could have ended it in a heartbeat—snapped its neck from horseback without breaking stride. Instead, she let her gaze slide past the bush as if she hadn't noticed, let the pony continue its slow plod. The goblin held its breath until she was well past, then she heard the soft patter of bare feet retreating into the undergrowth. Fast. Scared. Excited.
Good.
She rode another ten minutes until the path dipped toward a narrow river that cut through the woods like a silver thread. The water was clear, shallow enough to see smooth stones on the bottom, deep enough in the center to swim. Sunlight dappled the surface in shifting gold coins. Perfect.
Elara reined in, swung down, and tied the pony to a low branch near the bank. The animal snorted and immediately began cropping grass. She patted its flank once, then turned to the river.
She waited a moment, listening. The scout would be running, babbling to its kin in their guttural tongue. Reinforcements would come—five, maybe ten goblins at most. They would think her easy prey: a lone woman, no armor, no sword. They would circle, creep, then rush.
She could still ride away. She could wait with clothes on, dagger in hand, and dispatch them in seconds.
But where was the fun in that?
Elara's fingers found the laces at her throat. She tugged them loose slowly, deliberately. The pale blue dress slipped from her shoulders with a soft whisper of wool, pooling at her feet. She stepped out of it, barefoot on the cool moss. Underneath she wore only thin linen smallclothes and a simple breastband—practical, unadorned, nothing like the silk and lace of court life.
She reached behind her back, unhooked the breastband, and let it fall. The cool air kissed her bare skin, raising faint gooseflesh across her toned stomach and the gentle swell of her breasts. Her nipples tightened in the morning chill. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of the smallclothes and slid them down her legs, stepping free with a small, almost shy movement. Completely naked now, she straightened, letting the forest see her.
Her body was a study in controlled strength: slim but muscled, shoulders defined from years of swordwork, waist narrow, hips gently flared. Scars—faint silver lines from battles long past—marred her skin here and there, but they were few and far between. Her level 94 regeneration had erased most of them, leaving only the faintest memories. Between her thighs, dark curls framed the soft folds of her sex, already flushed with anticipation. She felt the familiar heat coil low in her belly, the pulse of something darker than fear.
She bent, gathered the discarded dress and smallclothes, and hung them carefully over a low branch to dry—or to signal her vulnerability. The saddlebags she left on the pony's back, untouched. No weapons, no supplies within reach. Just her, bare and exposed, the river waiting.
Elara waded in. The water was cold enough to steal her breath for a second. She let it climb her calves, her thighs, until it lapped at her hips. She sank deeper, until the surface rippled around her breasts. She cupped water in her hands and poured it over her shoulders, letting it stream down her back, between her breasts, over the flat plane of her stomach. Her skin prickled with the chill, but the heat inside her only grew.
She turned her face to the sky, eyes half-closed, and listened.
They were coming. Soft footfalls, whispered snarls, the occasional clink of crude metal. A dozen at least. Closer now. She could smell their stink—unwashed hides, sour breath, excitement.
Elara smiled, small and secret, and sank lower until the water kissed her chin. She let her legs part slightly beneath the surface, feeling the current tease between her thighs.