Ivor walked down the streets of the inner city of Avorth, analyzing every corner, alley, and building. He had successfully blended into the city. Since none of the inhabitants knew him by face, he easily passed as a young boy from a respectable family ,a perfect cover for a commander conducting final reconnaissance.
He strolled through the city, maintaining a carefree facade as he mapped out structural weak points. Prostitutes gestured towards him and he winked back; vendors called out to him and he waved, even buying a few local items with the money he had nicked from a wealthy man earlier to cement his disguise.
He had just walked past a shop when he caught a familiar fragrance: Freesia flowers. He turned and walked over to the shop. Above the door, written in bold letters, read:
TAROT READING
He gave a low chuckle, and with time to kill before his saboteurs moved into position, he entered the rickety, run-down shop.
Burning incense immediately greeted his nostrils before he could even see anything, causing him to sneeze. He rubbed his nose and looked around to find an old woman sitting beside a table, arranging tarot cards. She had an enormous mass of white hair reaching down to her feet and wore clothes similar to that of a gypsy woman. Her eyes still maintained their green color, although they looked as aged as her wrinkled face.
"You've come to have your fortune told, mister?" she asked in a cracking voice.
"Well, yes. I thought I'd take my chances," Ivor responded, slipping smoothly into his persona.
"Well then, have a seat," she smiled, revealing a row of shockingly white teeth.
No sooner had she said that than Ivor found himself sitting in the chair opposite her. He hadn't even consciously taken a step forward.
"How did you do that?" he asked, his strategic mind momentarily derailed by shock.
"That's something which is not for your ears, Ivor Savis," the woman said coldly before laying down the cards before him, beckoning him to pick one.
Ivor masked his sudden alarm at hearing his true name. He scanned the deck and selected the card directly in the middle. She pulled it out, analyzed its contents, and broke into a wide grin.
"You picked the Monarch card. It often symbolizes one with power and strength. Destiny pushes you in the right direction, my son. Pick another."
He did so, wanting to see how much this woman truly knew.
"The Chariot. Symbolizes change, misdirection, and movement. The last card, please."
He picked out a random card, a cold boredom creeping into his mind.
"You picked..."
She gasped suddenly. Ivor cocked an eyebrow, wondering what kind of game she was playing.
"Death!" she exclaimed, throwing her hair back for emphasis.
"Whoa, woman. I don't know what kind of theatrics you're running here, but I've got to go."
He stood up and turned to leave, but she muttered something that stopped him dead in his tracks.
"Doom awaits you, young man. It doesn't seek your downfall, but your company. You will one day stare death in the face and win over his devotion."
Ivor's eyes narrowed, but he didn't utter a word. He took two silver nalis and tossed them on the table. With a hard, silent look at the fortune teller, he left the shop.
He sighed heavily as he walked, her words weighing strangely on him. He didn't understand what she meant, but he sensed a vague, unsettling truth in them. Throwing the thoughts to the back of his mind to focus on the impending siege, he continued his path around the city when he violently bumped into someone. He turned to find himself staring into a pair of crystal-clear blue eyes.
Before Ivor could study the face, the figure quickly pulled up a displaced hood, muttered a quick "sorry," and walked away into the crowd. Ivor immediately became suspicious, but not wanting to draw attention to himself right before the assault, he ignored it and went on his way.
< . . . . >
Arinthal made a quick turn into a dark alleyway, careful to check if he was being followed. The mistake he had just made could cause him to be exposed; the long-haired young man he had bumped into had clearly noticed his elven features when his hood fell back.
When he was convinced that no one had followed him, he entered a quiet pub, sat down in the corner, and ordered some ale. He waited for hours in the heavy solitude, watching the daylight fade, until he finally heard the signal he didn't want to believe would come.
Alarm bells began ringing frantically across the city, accompanied by the distant sound of inner gates being sabotaged from within. People scattered into their houses in a panic. The Sarvski vanguard had breached the outer walls.
Arinthal walked coolly out of the pub and strolled down the road, completely oblivious to the retreating citizens. He saw thousands of masked men pouring through the opened streets, clashing violently with patrolling soldiers. In their chaotic midst, a familiar figure was quietly advancing, directing the vanguard with absolute authority. Arinthal immediately recognized the brown hair in a short braid, the hard eyes, and the handsome face. It was the same guy he had bumped into earlier.
A grim grin climbed onto the elf's face. Utilizing pure elven stealth, Arinthal slipped through the shadows of the burning street, executing a silent flank. He lunged from the darkness behind the commander, striking with his sword.
To his utter dismay, the commander didn't even turn around; he simply raised his hand, caught the razor-sharp blade cleanly between his index and middle finger, and stopped it in its tracks. Before Arinthal could recover, the man followed up with a sharp, brutal kick to Arinthal's ribs.
The impact sent the elf speeding backward, crashing heavily into a brick wall. Arinthal felt a sickening crack as his ribs fractured. Blood started to seep out of his nostrils as he forced himself up. The young commander stood a few meters away, observing him with cold amusement.
"Next time, try hiding your aura before attempting a stealth attack on me," the man sneered, before activating his velori reserves.
Several tentacles of solid sand shot up from the stone ground, thrusting their sharp tips towards Arinthal. Acting on pure, panicked reflex, the elf jumped away, barely evading them. He tried to dash behind the man to cut him down physically, but a massive wave of unexpected sand erupted from the side, slamming into him and carrying him meters away.
"You seem to not know who I am. I am Lord Ivor Savis, the supreme leader of the Sarvski and the master of sand. Killing me is no mean feat," Ivor said proudly, gesturing as the sand violently swarmed Arinthal, binding him tightly in heavy, crushing chains of compacted earth.
Pinned against the wall and suffocating under the weight, Arinthal suddenly broke into a dark, frantic laugh, thoroughly surprising Ivor.
Arinthal couldn't control his magic, but the sheer life-or-death panic pulsing through his veins triggered his internal reserves like a cracked dam. He didn't form a spell; instead, ghost-like wisps of raw, volatile blue velori began to bleed wildly out of his skin. The sheer, unstable atmospheric pressure of his leaking power rippled outward, causing the sand chains binding his hands and feet to violently fracture and explode into dust.
Standing amidst the swirling, shattered remnants of the sand, Arinthal breathed heavily, his eyes glowing with an unstable, dangerous light he didn't comprehend.
"It seems that you don't know me either," Arinthal snarled, struggling to keep his own raging aura from tearing the alley apart. "I am Arinthal Calanthir, the second prince of Eldria, and your worst nightmare."