Fallen

And So It Begins.

The city of Pexi sprawled beneath him, its lights flickering like dying embers against the darkening sky. Perched on the edge of an abandoned building, Elijah crouched, his gaze fixed on a ramshackle pub nestled deep in the city's underbelly. He was closer to the wild side of Pexi than he preferred, but he'd agreed to this contract—however distasteful the man's sins—and now he had to follow it through.

Below, the streets bustled with the usual mix of vagrants and low-tier magic wielders, hawking charms as if they held real power. Cheap trinkets, baubles with barely enough magic to light a candle, and all these people flocked to them, oblivious to the dangers that lurked close by. He scanned the pub's crowd from his perch, narrowing his gaze at a figure who'd stumbled out, laughing at some joke no one else seemed to find funny. Elijah's lip curled; there was no mistaking his target. The man looked even more pathetic than the woman had described.

In the city's lowest quarters, only fools came here to drink; the smart ones knew better than to stay long, for the werewolves ruled these parts. Their alpha's reach extended into every dark corner, and to trespass uninvited was to court death. Elijah had navigated these territories enough times to be cautious—always skirting the boundaries without drawing attention. Still, even he could feel the weight of the place tonight, the prickling awareness that he was in someone else's territory.

He moved quickly, sliding down the side of the building and landing silently in the shadows, making his way toward the pub's back entrance. His hand drifted to his side, fingers brushing the hilt of one of his twin daggers. They were not weapons made to be seen, but rather instruments of precision, and tonight, they'd find their mark. Elijah's thoughts settled back to his instructions: a human woman, betrayed, had hired him. She'd spoken of the years she had watched her husband go through countless "meetings" in dark alleys and private rooms. His punishment, she had determined, would be his last visit to his favoured drinking hole.

He slipped inside the building, the press of noise and the stench of cheap alcohol hitting him immediately. At a corner table sat 3 weres, surrounded by a few disreputable types. Magic was all around them, faint but pungent, charms from half-trained mages giving off the telltale sparks that distinguished the lowly from the true. Elijah's mouth twisted in distaste. He was far from their ilk, and they would soon know it.

He was barely ten steps in through the door when one of them—a burly figure with the unmistakable broad shoulders and clawed hands of a werewolf—stumbled into his path.

The werewolf grinned, his face half-lit by the flickering streetlamp above, and squinted drunkenly at Elijah. "Well, well. What have we here?" He squinted harder, his eyes catching the gleam of Elijah's red gaze. "Wait... those eyes." The grin twisted into something bitter, and he took a step back, raising his voice loud enough to draw attention. "You're one of them. A fallen one."

The murmur spread like a wildfire. A few patrons turned, curiosity mingling with fear as they caught sight of Elijah's red-eyed stare. He felt the charge in the air, saw the tense posture of the werewolf as he recoiled, his nose wrinkling in disgust.

But Elijah had no time for this.

Before the werewolf could react, Elijah's hand shot forward, gripping the man's collar and pulling him close. "Fallen one, is it?" Elijah's voice was calm, almost cold. But just as he released his hold, two other werewolves—a pair as ragged and intoxicated as their friend—stepped up with low growls, and Elijah, with a resigned sigh, allowed himself a rare, sharp grin.

They lunged. But Elijah moved faster. He slid between them, ducking under a clawed swipe and driving his fist into the ribs of one attacker. The other lunged in time to catch a boot to the face, stumbling back with a yelp. A swift spin, a flash of his dagger, and Elijah's first attacker crumpled to the floor, groaning. A second strike, perfectly aimed, sent the third tumbling back with a howl.