Part 5

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Thalion rounded a corner at full speed, almost colliding with a group of young elves brandishing makeshift spears. The din of battle swallowed his footsteps. He was no longer just a shadow fleeing from his past. Every leap and dodge through the familiar terrain was a step towards redemption. As he approached the palace, his strides grew more deliberate, his senses heightened by the urgency of the moment. The elegant edifice was now transformed into a bastion of chaos and defence. Its organic architecture, which usually blended seamlessly with the surrounding woods, now served as a grim bulwark against the advancing darkness. Shadows flickered across the stone, distorted by the firelight, as if the very walls were alive with silent screams. He slipped through a side entrance, a passage lesser known but one he'd explored during quieter times.

Inside, the corridors echoed with the clamour of armour and anxious voices. Thalion pressed himself against the cool, moss-draped stones, his breaths shallow as he edged closer to the central hall. Peering from behind a weathered column, Thalion observed a heated altercation unfolding in the centre of the palace's grand hall. Erevan stood face to face with Lord Arendor, whose cheeks were flushed with a mix of fury—and perhaps fear. Erevan's voice, typically calm and measured, now echoed off the stone walls with uncharacteristic sharpness. "You ignored every warning, Arendor!" Erevan's hands were clenched at his sides, his stance rigid with barely contained anger. "You knew the risks of inviting drow outcasts into our midst, yet you allowed your infatuation with Larae to cloud your judgment!"

"Larae's visions—her promises of a new alliance—they offered us a path to peace! How was I to foresee this?"

"Foresee? Are you serious, Arendor!?" Erevan's voice rose, a mixture of incredulity and resentment lacing his words. "You gambled with the safety of Elventree, swayed not by my foresight but by the beauty of a drow priestess! Now, because of your reckless trust in her allure, we are all paying the price."

"And you presume to lecture me?" Arendor shot back, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "As if your cautious foreseen ways have brought us anything but stagnation! Larae showed us a vision of progress, of breaking free from our isolation."

Erevan scoffed, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "No, Arendor, you were seduced by dreams woven by your cock, but instead it led us all into a nightmare!" he gestured broadly at the sounds of conflict echoing from outside.

Near them, Veszar, held captive by two Harpers, watched the exchange with a sinister amusement. His shackles seemed almost ornamental, his posture relaxed but predatory. His eyes, sharp and calculating, flicked from the arguing lords to the Harpers guarding him, gauging each shift in their attention.

Thalion couldn't stay hidden any longer. "And for what, Arendor?" His voice, firm and carrying, sliced through the heated argument. Stepping forward from the shadows, his presence startled the gathered crowd. "Larae has been murdered by Erelda, in her pursuit of the very peace she swayed you with!"

The room held its breath, suspended in a moment of shock. This momentary lull was all Veszar needed. He sprang into action with a beastly ferocity. He lunged, biting deeply into the hand of a Harper, tearing off a finger with a grotesque rip. The Harper's agonized scream cut through the silence. Using the distraction, Veszar's clawed fingers found the other Harper's throat, slashing with brutal efficiency. The spraying blood marked Veszar with the dark, grim evidence of his heritage.

As Arendor staggered back in horror, his face a mask of shock and blood spatter, Thalion's heart raced. Flashing images of Larae's death mingled with the surrounding chaos. He knew he could not falter again. Not this time. Steeling himself, he swiftly drew a throwing knife, sending it spinning toward Veszar with a flick of his wrist. But Veszar, grinning cruelly, caught the knife mid-air. Without pausing, he turned, slitting the bleeding Harper's throat with one swift motion before hurling the knife with deadly precision.

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