Suraia and Vasha started walking towards the tavern, the low light of evening stretching their shadows across the uneven cobbles. The market’s clamour faded behind them, replaced by the hush of narrow streets where every footstep echoed in the cooling air. The day’s warmth had given way to a sharp edge, and Suraia drew her new cloak tighter, conscious of every sound.
As they turned into a narrow alley, footsteps echoed behind them—a quick, shuffling tread that set Suraia’s nerves on edge. Vasha shot her a wary look, ears flicking, but they had barely a moment to react before figures spilled into the passageway.
The half-elf young man and his servant had returned, but they were not alone. This time, a wood elf adolescent boy trailed behind, quick eyes darting about, and a burly human guard loomed at the rear, his boots thudding heavily on the stones.
“Thought you could hide, did you?” The half elf sneered, blocking their way with a theatrical sweep of his arm. “Hand over the gold, girl. Now.”
The alley felt suddenly smaller, the sky above it cut off by crooked eaves and a lattice of washing lines. Vasha protectively stepped in front of Suraia, her posture wary but defiant. Her blue-tipped ears pinned back, and her tail bristled with agitation.
“Why can’t you just leave her alone!” she snapped, her voice taut.
The wood elf boy hovered near the half-elf, glancing at both Suraia and his companion. “Is this the beggar you were talking about Aelric?” he asked, his gaze flicking from Suraia’s wild curls to the bag at her side. The half elf, Aelric, nodded with a smirk. The boy’s expression brightened with excitement, as if he’d been hoping for trouble.
The guard stepped forward with a show of authority, drawing his sword with a rasp of metal against leather. “You heard Lord Harren, hand it over!” he barked, flexing his shoulders.
Vasha remained where she was, standing squarely in front of Suraia. Both her arms stretched out slightly, her palms open and fingers flexing. She shook her head and fixed the guard with a stare, her eyes unblinking and wild. For a heartbeat, no one moved. The only sound was the distant clatter of a cart on the main road.
Then, without warning, the alley exploded into chaos. The guard lunged at Vasha, his blade flashing in the half-light. She rolled aside in a fluid motion, but the human man was quick—he twisted and followed her movement, bringing his arm down hard. The sword slashed a shallow line across Vasha’s upper arm. Blood bloomed, vivid against her dark skin.
Vasha screamed in pain, her teeth bared, but she did not back down. She kept her focus locked on the guard, shifting to keep herself between Suraia and danger.
Suraia’s mind whirled. Instinct took over and she tried to dart to Vasha’s side, but before she could, Aelric’s command rang out: “Stop her, Jory!” The nervous servant, pale and trembling, stepped into Suraia’s path, blocking her with both arms outstretched.
Desperation clawed at Suraia’s throat. She could see Vasha staggering, the sleeve of her tunic growing damp. But Jory’s frightened presence loomed, and she didn’t want to hurt him—he seemed just as trapped by the moment as she was.
Aelric, seizing the opportunity, grabbed Suraia by the shoulder, spinning her roughly and slamming her back against the cold stone wall. Pain shot through her, stealing her breath. The half-elf’s grip was iron-strong as he tore the sack of gold from her grasp, throwing it on the ground behind her.
“You thief!” he spat, his face inches from hers, breath sour. He drove his fist into her stomach. Suraia doubled over, gasping, her vision swimming with pain and shock.
The half-elf raised his hand to strike her again—but his expression shifted, eyes darkening with something uglier than anger. He pressed closer, one knee forcing her legs apart, his free hand pinning her wrist against the wall. His body ground against hers, deliberate and invasive, his breath hot against her ear. “Maybe I’ll take more than the gold,” he whispered, low and venomous. “You’re all alone now, aren’t you? No one to hear you scream.”
Suraia froze, terror locking her limbs, her mind screaming what her voice couldn’t. His hand slid lower, fingers digging into her hip through the fabric of her dress, making his intent unmistakable.
But then, a sound neither of them could have predicted shattered the moment. A savage, rumbling growl rolled down the alley, deep and impossibly loud. It vibrated through the stones beneath their feet, a note of primal fury that froze everyone in place.
All eyes turned as a massive, green-furred dire wolf burst from the darkness at the end of the alley. Its form filled the narrow space, fur bristling, eyes glowing like lanterns in the night. The animal's lips curled back, revealing teeth as long as a man’s finger.
Aelric stumbled back, real fear twisting his features. “What—? Lareth! Rostan! Do something!” he shouted, but the command wavered, no longer sure.
The wood elf boy hesitated, his bravado faltering. He stood frozen, eyes huge, as if unsure whether to run or hide. Rostan, the burly guard, tried to lift his sword, but his hands shook. The dire wolf moved with swift, economical violence—its jaws snapped at Rostan’s hand, sending the blade clattering to the stones and out of reach.
Jory, the servant, wide-eyed with terror, snatched up the sack of gold from where it had landed and bolted, feet slapping the stones as he vanished into the dark.
The wolf rounded on Suraia and Vasha, who had ceased the opportunity to move away from the guard, its massive head swinging low. The red headed woman, still gasping, felt the animal's breath on her face as it nudged her gently, as if encouraging her to stand. The wolves' eyes flicked to Vasha, then back to Suraia, and it jerked its muzzle towards the shadows beyond the alley.
He positioned himself right next to Suraia and glanced at her.
“Do… do you want me to climb on?” Suraia stammered, clutching her side and trying to find her footing.
“Apparently,” Vasha said, her own voice shaky with awe. She had taken advantage of the chaos to move closer to Suraia, her hand pressed against her wounded arm.
Suraia clambered onto the dire wolf’s broad back, her arms tightening around its thick, shaggy neck. Vasha, quick despite her pain, followed close behind, steadying herself with a determined grip.
The wolf ran—powerful muscles bunching under Suraia’s legs, great paws pounding the alley stones. They shot out of the alley, past a tangle of barrels and crates, bursting onto the main street. People gasped and scattered; children shrieked and mothers pulled them close, faces pale in the moonlight. Suraia heard a cry go up—“Monster! Gods, what is that?”—but the wolf gave no pause, bounding between startled townsfolk and out past the edge of the market.
Soon they left the village’s torchlit windows behind and plunged into the woods. The cool, green shadows swallowed them, muffling the sound of pursuit. The dire wolf barely seemed to notice the uneven ground or the tangled roots beneath its paws.
Branches whipped past; Suraia ducked instinctively, her heart racing, cloak flapping behind her. She dared a look back—no one was following. Only the wind and the dark shapes of ancient trees kept them company.
When they reached a small clearing, the dire wolf slowed and stopped. Suraia slid off first, her legs shaking. Vasha followed, breath coming in short bursts, clutching her wounded arm as she gazed after the wolf, which slipped into the underbrush and vanished, silent as a dream.
The clearing was peaceful, ringed by ferns and tall grasses that shimmered silver in Denday’s soft blue light. Suraia felt the night air cool against her skin, sweat and fear finally ebbing. She hesitated, then approached Vasha.
“You… you’re hurt… I… I can… heal you…” she said softly, her hands trembling a little.
“That wolf, it saved us,” Vasha breathed, awe in her voice. “Is it—was it…? Ooh… healing… yes please!” She blinked as if startled out of a trance, then offered Suraia her arm.
The human woman blushed but nodded. She raised her hand, gently pressing her palm to the wound on Vasha’s arm. Closing her eyes, Suraia let the magic rise within her—light blooming beneath her skin, white with a soft blue hue. Warmth surged through her fingers. The cut closed and the blood dried, leaving only a faint mark behind.
Vasha’s mouth fell open, pale blue eyes wide with wonder. “By the gods, Suraia. That is amazing! Thank you!” she exclaimed, flexing her arm as if to make sure it was real.
A rustle in the bushes made both women turn. Thorn emerged, half-dressed, his hair wild, muttering as he shrugged into his shirt. “Silverbell, you really do have a knack for trouble.”
Suraia managed a little smile, exhaustion pulling at her. “Thank you—again.” She hesitated, voice small: “I… I thought you’d have left by now.”
Thorn shrugged, glancing back towards the direction of the trading post, his brow furrowed. “Felt something off in the woods. I went to check but circled back to the edge of the woods. Then I got a bad feeling about the settlement. So, I checked.”
Vasha looked from Suraia to the towering Ee’dornil and back, her awe clear. “That was incredible. How did you—?”
Thorn ignored the question, surveying the clearing. “It is getting late. We will camp here tonight.”
“Right…” Vasha said: “I can gather firewood!” She moved off, pausing to flex her arm as if still marvelling at its newfound strength.
Thorn nodded. He took a long moment to scan the shadows at the tree line, every muscle tense, before finally relaxing just enough to kneel beside Suraia.
Suraia, for her part, set down her new bag with relief and started to check its contents. She spread her old cloak on the ground and began sorting through the supplies. The bread was mostly crushed, her alchemy kit undamaged apart from fruit that was mashed over its lid. She laid out their bruised provisions, separated what could be saved, and carefully wiped her tools clean, the repetitive task helping her find her breath again.
Vasha returned with logs, twigs, and dried grass, her arms full. She set them down next to Suraia and gave her a small, hopeful smile.
“Ooh uhm I… I can make a fire… if… if you want…” Suraia offered, her shyness returning as the immediate danger faded.
The Oakhai nodded, sinking down beside her. Suraia set about arranging the wood, laying the dried grass and twigs first, then using two firestones from her kit. With a practised flick, she sent sparks into the nest. In moments, a small flame took hold, flickering to life and casting warm light on their faces.
Meanwhile Thorn, hunkered down nearby, digging his fingers into the soft earth. He surveyed the ground, then closed his eyes in concentration. All around them, branches shot up, sprouting from the moss—twisting and thickening, weaving together, leaves unfurling to form a living shelter that soon closed off the wind.
Vasha’s eyes grew wide. She stood, circling the growing shelter with a sense of wonder. Suraia looked around and gasped softly as the ground beneath her feet sprouted a bed of moss, thick and soft, shaping itself into what looked like a natural bench.
“How did you do that?” Vasha asked, blinking and almost speechless. “This looks so amazing!”
Thorn got up and inspected the living hut, brushing a bit of soil from his hands. “Hmm… I am a druid,” he replied, tone offhand.
“You’re a druid?” The Oakhai repeated, as if the answer had been more than she’d hoped for.
He nodded, adjusting a cluster of leaves to block a draught. “That I am.”
The large Ee’dornil finally turned to the fire Suraia had built and the food she’d laid out on the cloak. He sat down on the soft moss and motioned for them to join him. The two women followed, each taking a place around the fire’s gentle warmth. Thorn started to hand out food to them both.
“Thank you,” Vasha said, cheerfully munching on what remained of the bread and fruit. She looked at Suraia, who had taken two small bites of a half-smashed pear before setting it down again.
“You should at least try and eat a bit more than that, Suraia,” Vasha encouraged softly.
Thorn also glanced at the red headed woman and nodded. He noticed her head drooping and patted the patch of moss next to him. “Silverbell, come sit next to me.”
Suraia blushed, glancing at Thorn uncertainly before shyly scooting over. Thorn took the last of the food off of the old cloak and handed it to Vasha, then draped the oversized cloak over Suraia like a blanket. She hesitantly nestled against his side, eyelids fluttering shut.
Vasha handed Suraia a bit of bread and divided the rest of the food between her and Thorn. Thorn slid his arm around Suraia, giving her a bit more support as she struggled to eat the bread and stay awake. The large elf looked down at her, a hint of a grin curving his lips. “Rest, you need your sleep.”
Vasha finished her food and looked at Thorn and Suraia. The human woman had already fallen asleep, her breathing slow and peaceful. Vasha smiled softly before turning her attention to the Ee’dornil. “She looks peaceful, at ease with you. Does she always sleep like that?”
Thorn shrugged. “I have found that having her sleep against me keeps her from having night terrors.”
“Ooh I figured she knew you,” Vasha said, grinning. “I’m Vasha by the way.”
“Vasha…” Thorn repeated, as if expecting more, studying the hybrid for a moment.
“Just Vasha,” she replied, her grin broadening.
“You can call me Thorn, or Master Thornwing,” the Ee’dornil answered, giving her a steady look.
“Maybe—maybe I could help you? With whatever you’re looking for?” Vasha said suddenly. “You’re a druid. I have some… druidic affinity too. But I can’t control it. I’d like to, though! I am a very quick study I’ve been told. You could, maybe… teach me?”
Thorn hesitated, then grunted. “Two pairs of eyes are better than one if you know your way around these woods.”
“I do actually, I can be very helpful in your investigation!” Vasha answered, her enthusiasm bubbling.
“I will also bring Silverbell,” the Ee’dornil added, glancing at Suraia. “We could probably use a healer.”
Vasha smiled, following his gaze. “If you want me to take the first watch, I’m ready. I… I owe you both.”
“You will have second watch,” Thorn said, settling in. “I will wake you later. Silverbell does not do watch, needs her rest more than either of us. Plus, I doubt she will be a good watch.”
As the campfire flickered low, the three settled in beneath the living shelter, the forest hush broken only by the promise of tomorrow—and the unlikely friendship forged in flight and firelight.