​Chapter 3. Retribution.

Chapter 3. Retribution.

Johan not Wan spat out his latest sip of ale, coughing as he tried to compose himself. “Let me get this straight,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You stabbed a dwarven child in the face when you were five years old?”

Avery didn’t even glance his way, her focus on the wall in front of her. The multi-headed dragon she was carving into the stone cell wall was taking shape, its jagged edges precise and deliberate. Her clawed hand moved with practiced ease, scraping clean lines into the stone as tiny shards fell to the floor. “Yep,” she replied casually, blowing away a bit of dust from her work. “Yeah, I did that.”

Johan blinked, staring at her like she’d grown a second head. “Five years old? What the hell?”

“To be fair,” Avery continued, turning to him now with a smirk, “I gave that little son of a bitch multiple chances to walk away. I told him to stop. I even begged him not to push it.” Her voice darkened slightly as her green eyes narrowed. “But he chose violence. So, when he rushed me, all bigger and meaner than me? I drove that piece of stone right into his eye socket.”

Johan leaned back against the cell bars, shaking his head in disbelief. “And you’re just… what? Fine with that?”

Avery shrugged, the smirk on her lips softening into something more thoughtful. “I’m not proud of it,” she admitted, her claw tapping idly against the wall. “But I’m not ashamed, either. He left me no choice.”

Johan pointed his flask at her. “You literally told that kid his mother screwed a cave troll and made him.”

Avery paused her carving, turning to him with a Cheshire cat grin. “Yeah. Yeah, I did do that.”

Johan let out a low whistle, tipping his flask toward her in mock salute. “Remind me never to get on your bad side, kid.”

Avery chuckled, her claws making the final stroke of the dragon’s tail. “Trust me, Johan not Wan you couldn’t afford it.”

Johan raised his flask to take another sip, only to frown when it came up empty. “Damn,” he muttered, shaking it as if it might refill itself. “I’m out of ale. Hold that thought, friend. Can’t keep talking without proper hydration.”

With an amused look on his face, he stood and, much to Avery’s astonishment, squeezed himself through the bars with surprising ease. “Don’t go anywhere!” he called over his shoulder as he disappeared down the corridor.

When he returned a few minutes later, clutching a fresh bottle of ale, Avery nearly doubled over laughing. “You mean to tell me you can fit between the bars but you’re just hanging out here? Why?”

“Well, you see,” Johan said, popping the cork and taking a long swig, “I couldn’t afford a room at the inn, and apparently public drunkenness isn’t highly regarded around here. So, here I am. Nice warm cot, three mediocre meals or at least one. It’s a sweet deal.”

“Unbelievable,” Avery said, shaking her head with a grin.

Johan settled back onto his cot, taking another sip before continuing. “But seriously, what happened with that kid’s father? I mean, I get why he’d be pissed you stabbed his ‘little angel’ in the face but he seemed particularly bloodthirsty about it.”

Avery’s smirk faded slightly, her clawed hand resting against the stone. The sharp edges of her carving glinted faintly in the dim light, but her focus had shifted entirely. “It wasn’t pretty,” she said, her tone more subdued. “The father… he was not happy. Furious doesn’t even begin to describe it. And honestly? I wasn’t happy with how it ended, either.”

Johan raised an eyebrow, his flask hovering midair. “Oh?”

Avery exhaled, her shoulders tensing as the memory surfaced. “I may have taken that kid’s eye,” she admitted, her voice steady but heavy with unspoken emotion. “But here’s the thing the kid? He probably would’ve been happy to leave it at that. If he’d known what was about to happen next, because of his father’s temper…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “Hopefully, the kid learned something from that sacrifice, because…”

Johan leaned forward, setting his flask aside as his curiosity deepened. “Because what?”

Avery’s lips pressed into a thin line. For a moment, she didn’t speak, her green eyes distant, as if she were seeing something far away and far darker. Finally, she glanced back at Johan, the weight of the memory clear in her gaze.

“It’s a long story,” she said softly, the edge in her voice unmistakable. “You’d better get comfortable…………….”

Avery woke up in her comfortable bed, the softness of the blankets doing little to ease the tension coiled in her chest. Her slumber had been restless, plagued by fragments of the previous night. The screams, the blood, the anger, the anguish it all played on repeat in her mind, refusing to let her find peace.

She sat up slowly, her gray hair disheveled and sticking to her damp forehead. Her sharp green eyes were distant, unfocused, as if still trapped in the events that haunted her. She tried to shake it off, rubbing her hands over her face, but the memories clung to her like shadows.

A soft knock at the door broke through her thoughts. “Avery?” Harrowmont’s voice called gently, a note of concern in his tone. Without waiting for her reply, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

“Morning, sweetling,” he said, his gruff voice softening as he approached her bed. He studied her for a moment, his sharp dwarven eyes catching the faint traces of exhaustion etched into her face. “You okay?”

“Yes, Pop-Pop,” Avery replied automatically, her voice too even, too rehearsed. She forced a small smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

Harrowmont frowned slightly, but he didn’t press her. He had seen men wear that same look shell shock, they called it after battles and tragedies. He had worn it himself, back in his younger days, when civic duty had demanded more from him than he thought he could bear.

“You know,” he said, his tone casual as he perched on the edge of her bed, “if you’re not, it’s okay to say so.”

Avery hesitated, her fingers twisting in the blanket. “I’m fine,” she insisted, but her gaze drifted away, betraying her words.

Harrowmont let out a long sigh, reaching over to pat her hand. “Alright, lass,” he said gently. “But if that changes, you come to me. You hear? No matter what.”

Avery nodded, though she didn’t meet his eyes. She didn’t know how to explain what she was feeling, the swirling mix of fear, guilt, and defiance that made her stomach churn.

Harrowmont stood, his sturdy frame casting a shadow across the room as he headed for the door. “Breakfast is ready when you are,” he said over his shoulder. “Take your time.”

As the door clicked shut behind him, Avery exhaled slowly, the tension in her shoulders only easing slightly. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stared at the floor, trying to ground herself.

Pop-Pop’s right, she thought. But how do you explain what doesn’t make sense, even to yourself?

Avery paced around her room, her bare feet brushing against the cool wooden floor. The rhythmic motion didn’t soothe her, but it was better than sitting still. After a few restless minutes, she stopped by the small wardrobe and pulled on her day clothes. Even that felt like an effort.

She wasn’t sure why she didn’t want to do anything today. Usually, she had a book to bury her nose in or a project to tinker with, but this morning, the energy for those things just wasn’t there. She had been given permission to stay home from school not that she’d asked for it. Both her teacher and Harrowmont had agreed it would be for the best.

“She’s ahead of the class anyway,” the teacher had said as Avery left the day before, her voice kind but firm. “You might consider private education. I know a few scholars who’d gladly come to tutor her one-on-one.”

The memory of those words lingered, and Avery frowned. She didn’t want to feel different, even if she already was. The thought of being singled out further by private lessons felt stifling. Besides, she didn’t find every lesson at school boring just some. And while she loved learning, the idea of having someone hover over her every day made her want to bolt out of the room.

She let out a sigh and flopped onto her bed, staring up at the ceiling. The gentle light filtering through the window didn’t stir her like it usually did. Instead, her mind drifted, replaying the events of the last few days, as well as the teacher’s suggestion.

“Private lessons,” she muttered to herself. “Great. Just what I need. More people thinking I’m odd.”

Still, as much as she resisted the idea, the notion of having someone who could dive deeper into the topics she loved was… tempting. If only she could pick and choose what she learned, skipping the dull parts and focusing on what mattered to her.

A soft knock on her door broke her thoughts. “Avery?” Harrowmont’s voice came through, warm and familiar. “Breakfast is ready whenever you’re hungry, lass.”

“I’ll be down in a bit,” Avery called back, her voice steady despite the knot in her stomach. She stretched her arms over her head, trying to shake off the heaviness that clung to her like a shadow. Whether she wanted to face the day or not, it wasn’t going to wait for her.

She made her way to the door and opened it slowly. The hallway stretched before her, familiar yet oppressive in the quiet of the morning. As she descended the stairs, her mind began to churn, unbidden memories rising to the surface like smoke from a smoldering fire.

I stabbed a kid in the face. In the eye.

The thought struck her like a blow, and her steps faltered for a moment. She tightened her grip on the banister, steadying herself as the memory unfolded in her mind’s eye: Thargrin’s charge, her desperate thrust, the sickening crunch of the jagged stone meeting its mark. The way he howled in pain. The blood.

Why am I…? she thought, her jaw clenching. Why am I questioning this?

Her pace quickened as she continued downward, her mind racing. I knew I’d have to fight him. I knew he was going to turn to violence. And I knew the only way to bring him down was to go for overwhelming force.

Her fingers brushed against the railing, the cold stone grounding her thoughts as they spiraled. I had to do it. There was no way I could’ve beaten him in a quote-unquote ‘fair fight.’ I’m not that kind of fighter I’ll never be.

Avery’s eyes narrowed, her green gaze fixed ahead as she reached the bottom of the stairs. Fair isn’t in my cards. I don’t have the strength to go toe-to-toe with someone like Thargrin. I have to use wit. I have to use skill. I have to outthink and outmaneuver.

Her heart beat faster, and her steps slowed as she entered the hall. I can’t afford to fight fair. And if I hadn’t done what I did, if I’d hesitated for even a second, he would’ve beaten me to a pulp. Or worse.

She paused, her hand resting lightly on the edge of the dining room doorframe, the faint clatter of Harrowmont’s morning routine drifting from the kitchen. She exhaled sharply, trying to quiet the argument raging in her head.

Why am I debating with myself? she thought, frustration bubbling up. I did the right thing. I know I did. I had no choice.

But even as she stepped into the room, the weight of her actions lingered. Logic told her she had made the right decision, but her heart, heavy and unsettled, refused to let the matter rest.

Avery stepped into the dining room, her movements hesitant. Harrowmont was already seated at the sturdy wooden table, sipping a steaming mug of tea as he skimmed a parchment. The soft glow of rune lanterns cast a warm light over the room, but Avery felt none of its comfort.

She stood in the doorway, her green eyes fixed on him as the storm in her chest threatened to spill over. Finally, she broke the silence. “Pop-Pop,” she said, her voice trembling. “Why do I keep questioning myself?”

Harrowmont lowered the parchment immediately, his sharp eyes snapping to her. He set the tea aside and gave her his full attention, his expression patient but concerned.

Avery took a shaky step forward, twisting her fingers together. “I know what I did was…” She faltered, searching for the right word. “I don’t even know the word. A reasonable person wouldn’t stab someone’s eye out. But my gut ” She tapped her chest lightly with her hand. “It tells me if I didn’t do it, he would’ve really hurt me.”

Her voice cracked, and she lowered her gaze. “But I feel guilty that I did it.”

Harrowmont didn’t hesitate for a moment. He stood and crossed the room in a few quick strides, wrapping his strong, calloused hands around her shoulders. “Come here, lass,” he murmured, pulling her into a tight hug.

Avery didn’t resist. The moment his arms closed around her, the dam broke again. She buried her face against his chest, her small frame trembling as fresh tears spilled down her cheeks.

“I don’t want to feel this way,” she sobbed, her words muffled against his tunic. “I didn’t want to hurt him, but… I didn’t know what else to do.”

Harrowmont rested his chin lightly on the top of her head, his grip firm but gentle. “Avery,” he said softly, his voice steady and reassuring. “Feeling guilty doesn’t mean you did the wrong thing. It means you’re a good person who wishes there was another way.”

She sniffled, her fingers clutching at his tunic. “But what if there was another way? What if I just didn’t see it?”

Harrowmont sighed deeply, his breath ruffling her hair. “That’s a question we all ask ourselves, lass. Every time we’re forced to make a choice in the heat of the moment. But you can’t change the past, and from what you’ve told me, you made the best decision you could to protect yourself.”

Avery pulled back slightly, looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes. “So… it’s okay to feel like this?”

“It’s more than okay,” Harrowmont said firmly, his warm eyes meeting hers. “It means you have a heart. And it means you’re strong enough to carry the weight of your actions even when they’re hard to bear.”

Avery nodded slowly, her tears beginning to ebb. Harrowmont gave her shoulders a reassuring squeeze before guiding her to the table. “Now,” he said, his tone softening. “Sit down, have something to eat, and let yourself breathe. You’re not in this alone, lass.”

She let out a shaky breath, the tension in her chest easing slightly as she slid into the chair. For the first time that morning, the storm within her began to quiet, the steady presence of her surrogate father grounding her.

Part 2

On the other side of the city, in a modest one-story home, Thargrin’s father paced the length of his living room, his steps heavy and deliberate. His mind was a storm, each thought sharpening his anger to a razor’s edge. He was a man on a metaphorical warpath, and in his mind, there were only two ways this could end: war or humiliation and he refused to accept the latter.

The day before, the city guards had returned with news that left him fuming. The council had decided not to pursue the incident any further. “Kids having a spat that went too far,” they’d called it. They determined that Avery had been defending herself, that Thargrin had ambushed and chased her down, instigating the situation that led to his injury.

To Thargrin’s father, this was a second insult on top of the first. His son’s eye was gone permanently. A knife-eared brat had done this to him, and now the council was letting her walk away without so much as a slap on the wrist? It was unacceptable. It was unforgivable.

And then, the final humiliation: Harrowmont.

He hadn’t even known about it until earlier that morning, when he visited the healer to settle the bill for his son’s treatment. “It’s already been taken care of,” the healer had said, her tone calm but wary.

“What do you mean, taken care of?” he had snapped.

She hesitated, clearly reluctant to answer. “The funds were provided by someone else,” she said carefully.

“And who the hell else would be paying for my son’s care?” he demanded, his voice rising.

The healer held her ground at first, refusing to say more. But he pressed her, his anger spilling over into threats until, finally, she relented. “It was Lord Harrowmont,” she admitted, her voice tight. “He didn’t want you or your family to face financial hardship because of this incident.”

Thargrin’s father stood frozen for a moment, his face darkening as the words sank in. Harrowmont. The adoptive father of the girl who had maimed his son. The same man who now thought he could buy his way out of the situation, as if offering charity was some noble act.

His pride felt as though it had been crushed underfoot. Not only had his son lost an eye to a knife-eared brat, but now a lord had stepped in, as if implying he couldn’t take care of his own family. The humiliation was too much to bear.

“No,” he muttered to himself, his fists clenching at his sides. “This won’t go unpunished.”

Thargrin’s family wasn’t poor. They lived comfortably, if modestly, but they weren’t anywhere near the stature of Lord Harrowmont. That disparity burned brighter now, fueling his resolve. Gathering the funds for his plan wasn’t difficult. He dipped lightly into his savings nothing his family would miss and sold one of his more valuable possessions, an ornate dagger passed down through the family. It had been a treasured keepsake, but in his mind, the cost was justified. A small price to pay to right this perceived wrong.

By the time night fell, he was prepared. He walked through the darker corners of the city, his boots clicking softly on the cobblestones as he approached a nondescript tavern known for housing men willing to do unsavory work. Inside, the air was thick with smoke and the low murmur of whispered deals.

He found the right men quickly enough a small group of mercenaries, their leader a scarred dwarf with a thick black beard and an air of practiced ruthlessness. The father placed the bag of coins on the table, sliding it forward with a determined glare.

The scarred dwarf, leader of the mercenaries, leaned forward, his gravelly voice cutting through the smoky air. “You want us to handle the girl?”

Thargrin’s father shook his head, his expression twisted with rage. “No,” he growled, his tone dripping with venom. “Just the hired dogs that defend the estate and any other worthless slag-mucker who gets in the way.”

The mercenary raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening slightly at the sheer spite in the man’s voice. “And the girl?”

Thargrin’s father’s eyes burned with fury as he leaned in, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “I will deal with that little knife-eared brat myself. She deserves to know exactly who’s coming for her and why. And when I’m done, she’ll regret ever crossing my son.”

The scarred dwarf shrugged, clearly unconcerned with the personal vendettas of his employer. “As long as the coin’s good,” he said, tapping the bag on the table. “Your business is your own.”

Thargrin’s father leaned back, his fists clenching and unclenching as if imagining the confrontation already. He didn’t care about the guards, the hired mercenaries, or even Lord Harrowmont ’s reputation. They were obstacles nothing more. His true target was clear, and his need for vengeance burned brighter than any caution or doubt.

Tonight, the estate’s defenses would fall, and nothing would stand between him and the girl who had taken so much from him.

On the other side of the coin, Thargrin’s mother paced the modest home, her hands wringing the edge of her apron. She had tried to soothe her husband’s rage, to temper the storm that had consumed him, but her words had only stoked the fires further. His fury was an inferno, unrelenting, and she could do little to extinguish it.

Unlike her husband, she wasn’t enraged at the girl who had blinded their son. She had felt anger, yes but also relief. Their son was still alive. He had lost an eye, but the wound had been healed, and thanks to Harrowmont’s generosity, they hadn’t borne the financial burden of the healer’s work. With the magical advancements available outside the underground city of Emberward, there was even hope that, one day, Thargrin might receive a replacement eye.

That possibility was enough for her to focus on moving forward. But her husband? No. Blood for blood was the only thing on his mind.

When he sold the family’s ornate dagger the same one she had brought as part of her dowry her frustration simmered, but she kept quiet. It was a treasured heirloom, yes, but she cared more about her son’s well-being than a relic of the past. However, when she overheard her husband’s plan to hire mercenaries and go after the child who had blinded their son, something deep within her stirred.

She was a mother, too, after all.

The girl, Avery, was still a child a child who had been defending herself from her son’s aggression. And while she didn’t condone what had happened, the idea of her husband targeting someone so young churned her stomach. Her husband’s desire for vengeance had blinded him, consumed him, and she couldn’t let him drag their family into the abyss of his hatred.

When he left that evening, muttering about finalizing plans, she made her decision. Without hesitation, she wrapped herself in her thickest shawl and set out for the Harrowmont estate.

The streets of Emberward were dimly lit by faintly glowing runes etched into the stone walls, casting long shadows as she hurried through the quiet corridors. Her steps were quick and purposeful, her heart pounding with a mix of fear and resolve. She didn’t know what kind of reception she’d receive, but she had to try.

When she arrived at the estate, the household guards stepped forward, their expressions wary. “State your business,” one of them said, his hand resting on the hilt of his weapon.

“I need to speak with Lord Harrowmont,” she said firmly, drawing herself up despite her small stature. “It’s urgent.”

The guards exchanged glances before one of them nodded. “Wait here,” he said, disappearing into the estate.

Moments later, the door opened, and Harrowmont himself appeared, his eyes sharp and assessing as he took in the sight of the woman standing on his doorstep. “What brings you here at this hour?” he asked, his tone neutral but laced with curiosity.

Thargrin’s mother hesitated for a moment, then squared her shoulders. “I’ve come to warn you,” she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. “My husband... he plans to come after you, your estate, and your ward. He’s hired mercenaries.”

Harrowmont’s brow furrowed, and the room behind him seemed to grow colder. “Go on,” he said, his tone now edged with urgency.

She nodded, her words spilling out. “He’s blinded by rage he can’t see reason anymore. He’s convinced himself that blood for blood is the only answer. I tried to stop him, but he won’t listen.” She paused, her voice breaking slightly. “I may not agree with everything that’s happened, but I won’t stand by while he targets a child.”

Harrowmont studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded, his tone softening. “You’ve done the right thing by coming here.”

“Protect her,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Please. Protect your ward.”

“I will,” Harrowmont replied firmly. “You have my word.”

As the guards escorted her back the way they had entered, Thargrin’s mother felt the weight of her decision settle heavily over her shoulders. She had done what she believed was right warned Harrowmont and his household of the impending danger. Yet, doubt lingered in her heart, gnawing at her resolve.

The corridor was dimly lit, the flickering glow of rune lanterns casting long, wavering shadows. Her steps were hesitant, her thoughts a whirlwind of fear and hope. The sound of her boots against the stone floor felt unnaturally loud, each step echoing her growing anxiety.

Then, without warning, the heavy silence shattered.

A crash echoed through the hall as one of Harrowmont’s household guards, clad in gleaming plate armor, was shoved forcefully through the doorway ahead. He stumbled and crumpled to the stone floor with a sickening clang, a dagger buried deep in his throat between the protective plates. Crimson pooled quickly beneath him, staining the polished stone and filling the air with the sharp metallic scent of blood.

Thargrin’s mother froze, her breath catching in her throat. Her heart thundered as a figure emerged from the shadows, stepping over the fallen guard. It was a dwarven mercenary, his leather armor speckled with blood and his expression cold, detached. He wiped his blade on a rag with a practiced nonchalance, muttering, “Sorry. It’s just business. Nothing personal.”

Her stomach churned as more figures poured through the breached entryway mercenaries, armed and ready, their movements swift and efficient. Chaos erupted almost immediately. Shouts rang out, steel clashed against steel, and the estate echoed with the sounds of battle as Harrowmont’s remaining guards rushed to meet the assault.

Amid the cacophony, a voice cut through the din like a blade. Sharp, commanding, and all too familiar. “Find the girl!” Thargrin’s husband roared.

Her knees buckled, and she sank to the floor, trembling. Tears streamed down her face as she raised her hands in a desperate plea. “Don’t do this!” she cried, her voice breaking. “Please, I’m begging you don’t do this!”

Heavy boots thudded against the stone as her husband approached, his face contorted with rage. When his eyes met hers, there was no recognition, no love only disdain. “Now, what are you doing here?” he spat, his voice low and venomous. “You betray your family and then have the gall to beg me to stop?”

“I came to protect our family!” she shouted, her voice rising above the chaos. “This isn’t justice this is madness! You’re targeting a child a child! Thargrin wouldn’t want this!”

“Thargrin wouldn’t have lost his eye if it weren’t for that knife-eared brat!” he snarled, his voice a venomous growl. His face twisted with fury as he pointed a trembling finger at her. “And now, because of you, I have to clean up the mess you’ve made.”

“I made no mess!” she countered, her fear giving way to fiery defiance. “You’re the one blinded by your pride! Can’t you see what this will cost us?”

He leaned down, his face inches from hers, his eyes glinting with malice. “What it will cost us?” he hissed, his voice a deadly whisper. “No. What it will cost them.”

Before she could respond, he straightened, his voice booming as he barked orders to the mercenaries. “Find her! And bring me Harrowmont’s head while you’re at it!”

She collapsed further onto the cold floor, her tears falling freely. The cacophony of clashing blades and shouting men filled the air, drowning out her pleas. Everything she had tried to prevent, everything she had hoped to stop, was now spiraling out of control.

The spiral of chaos she had tried so desperately to avert had begun to consume them all.

The distant tolling of a bell echoed through the halls a haunting sound that signaled alarm and impending doom. Thargrin's mother knew she had to act. This madness had to end; it could not be allowed to continue in her son's name.

Determined, she rushed toward her husband through the melee of clashing swords and shouting men. The flickering light of rune lanterns cast eerie shadows across the stone walls, illuminating the desperation etched on her face. She reached him just as he was issuing orders to the mercenaries.

"Stop this!" she cried, grabbing his arm. "Please, I beg you!"

He spun around abruptly, eyes wild with rage. Startled by the sudden contact, and still gripped by his bloodlust, he reacted without thinking. The dagger in his hand slick with the blood of those who stood in his way plunged forward.

Time seemed to slow as the blade found its mark, sinking into her chest. Her eyes widened in shock, a silent gasp escaping her lips. The world around them faded, the sounds of battle muffled as they locked eyes. His face shifted from fury to horror as realization dawned.

"No... no, what have I done?" he whispered, his complexion turning ashen. He released the hilt of the dagger, his hands trembling as she collapsed to her knees. Gently, he cradled her as she sank to the cold stone floor.

She reached up weakly, her fingers brushing against his cheek. "Please," she whispered, tears welling in her eyes. "End this... for Thargrin."

He shook his head frantically, tears streaming down his face. "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry..." His voice broke, the weight of his actions crashing down upon him.

The sounds of battle intensified as Harrowmont's bannermen surged into the estate. Clad in armor emblazoned with his sigil, they moved with coordinated precision, overwhelming the mercenaries. Realizing they were outmatched and unwilling to die for a cause that wasn't theirs, the hired swords began to surrender, dropping their weapons one by one.

Amid the cacophony, young Avery peeked around a corner, her emerald eyes wide with a mixture of fear and confusion. Drawn by the noise, she had ventured from her room, clutching a small carving a dragon with multiple heads that she had been working on earlier. What she saw made her blood run cold.

A woman lay on the ground, a dagger protruding from her chest, while a man who bore a striking resemblance to Thargrin knelt beside her, his face contorted in anguish. The flickering lantern light cast long shadows, making the scene even more surreal. Avery's young mind struggled to process the sight.

Who is she? Avery wondered. And why does that man look like Thargrin?

She didn't fully understand what was happening, but an overwhelming sense of dread settled over her. The air was thick with sorrow and regret, emotions that seeped into her bones. She gripped her carving tighter, the edges pressing into her palm.

"I don't like this," she whispered to herself.

A gentle hand rested on Avery’s shoulder, causing her to jump. She turned quickly, her sharp green eyes meeting those of a strikingly beautiful elven woman. Her multicolored eyes one a soft lavender, the other a deep emerald gleamed with a strange mixture of kindness and urgency.

“Avery, sweetie, you shouldn’t be here,” the woman said softly, her voice melodic but firm.

“Who are you? What’s going on?” Avery asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

The woman gave her a small, enigmatic smile. “That doesn’t matter, sweetie. Go back to your room. It’s not safe here.”

Before Avery could protest, the woman glanced toward the chaos unfolding nearby, her expression darkening. “Something unfortunate,” she murmured, more to herself than to Avery. Then, with a sudden resolve, she guided Avery gently but firmly away from the scene. “Come, let’s get you somewhere safe.”

As they moved down the corridor, the sounds of the conflict began to fade. The distant clang of swords and shouts of the injured were replaced by the quieter hum of their footsteps. Avery's mind swirled with questions, each one heavier than the last, but she found herself unable to voice most of them.

“Was that Thargrin’s mother?” she finally ventured, her voice small.

The elven woman hesitated for a moment before nodding, her expression unreadable. “Yes, it was.”

“Is she… is she going to be okay?” Avery asked, her fingers tightening around the wooden carving she clutched.

The woman sighed softly, her multicolored eyes flickering with something Avery couldn’t quite place. “I don’t know, Avery. But what matters now is that you’re safe.”

They reached a quieter part of the estate, where the air felt less oppressive, and the elven woman knelt to face Avery directly. Her gaze was piercing but warm. “Listen to me, sweetie. Sometimes adults make mistakes big ones. What’s important is that you don’t blame yourself for things that aren’t your fault.”

Avery frowned, her gaze dropping to the carving in her hands. “But why did this happen?”

The woman hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line before she reached out, cupping Avery’s cheek gently. “Because sometimes, when people are hurt, they let their pain turn into anger. And that anger can make them do things they shouldn’t.”

Avery bit her lip, her fingers tracing the edges of the dragon she’d been working on. “I didn’t mean for any of this,” she whispered.

“I know, sweetie,” the elven woman said, her voice soft but firm. “None of this is your fault.”

Avery opened her mouth to respond, but distant footsteps echoing down the corridor broke the moment. She glanced down at her feet, gripping the carving tighter in her hands. When she looked back up, the elven woman was gone, as if she had never been there at all.

Confused, Avery turned toward the sound of the approaching footsteps. A guard rounded the corner, his expression solemn but steady. His armor bore fresh scrapes from the battle, but he carried himself with a composed resolve.

“Little Avery,” the guard said gently, crouching slightly to meet her gaze. “Get back to your room and lock the door. Lord Harrowmont is fine he’s leading his bannermen and making sure all the mercenaries have been ejected from your home. He’ll be back to see you in just a moment.”

Avery nodded slowly, her eyes flicking toward the direction of the chaos she had just left. “Okay,” she murmured, clutching the carving tightly as she turned to head back to her room.

The guard watched her retreat until she disappeared around the corner, then straightened with a weary sigh before returning to his post.

Avery entered her room and closed the door behind her, the latch clicking softly as she turned the lock. The familiar warmth of the space did little to ease the lingering tension in her chest. She set the wooden carving down on her desk, its half-formed dragon staring back at her as if it, too, had questions.

She climbed into bed, the covers pulling snugly around her small frame. The faint hum of muffled voices and distant movement seeped through the walls, but she forced herself to close her eyes. The events of the night churned in her mind the shouting, the blood, the tragic fall of Thargrin’s mother. And that woman.

Who was she? The elven woman with those multicolored eyes that seemed to see right through her. Avery replayed the brief interaction over and over, searching for a clue, a hint of who the woman might be and why she had appeared.

Her exhaustion finally overcame her restless thoughts, and she drifted into an uneasy sleep. But even as dreams claimed her, the question lingered, unanswered and persistent.

Who was that elf woman?