Chapter 14
The silence across the threshold stretched for five, ten, fifteen agonizing seconds.
The morning breeze blew gently, rustling the heavy hem of the mage’s dark travel cloak. He kept his chin raised, his posture immaculate, and his eyes locked onto Fiona with that icy severity that historically made the ministers of the High Council break into a cold sweat. It was the suffocating presence of one of the most feared and influential figures in the Five Kingdoms.
Fiona, on the other hand, remained frozen in the doorway.
She looked at the dark cloak. Then at the meticulously trimmed goatee. Then at the purple dark gem crowning the staff. And, finally, into the man's deep, calculating eyes.
The gears in Fiona’s head were spinning at terrifying speed, yet not a single piece seemed to fit together.
‘Who on earth is this elderly man standing on my porch at seven in the morning speaking in such a dramatic tone?’ She thought, keeping her strained smile perfectly plastered across her face. ‘Is he the village tax collector? A distant relative of old Augusto? Or some traveling apothecary trying to peddle counterfeit lotus root?’
The man continued to stare at her, clearly awaiting the customary bow, the sudden panic, or the trembling stammer that any ordinary citizen of Katolis would exhibit before the King's High Mage.
None of that came.
Only Fiona, blinking with an expression of pure, unadulterated mental bewilderment.
The mage’s brow twitched by a fraction of a millimeter. The polished, paternal smile began to crack around the edges. He drew a deep breath through his nose, closing his eyes for a split second to preserve his temper, and let out an audible, heavy sigh.
“...It is I, Fiona. Lord Viren.”
An invisible lightning bolt struck the girl’s brain.
Fiona’s multicolored eyes widened to cosmic proportions. Her breath seized in her throat, and the realization didn't just hit her… IT PLUMMETED OFF A CLIFF WITH THE FORCE OF AN ANVIL!
LORD VIREN. The High Mage. King Harrow’s supreme advisor. The man who had drugged her less forty-eight hours ago!
“A-AH!” Fiona let out a sharp, awkward squeak, stumbling a step backward as her hands flew to her mouth. “L-Lord Viren! Of course! Lord Viren in the flesh! On my... on my humble porch!”
Her cheeks flared a fiery scarlet of sheer humiliation as she bent her spine into a bow so frantic and clumsy her forehead nearly slammed against the doorframe.
“Forgive me, My Lord! It’s just… you look different… I know! Did you get a haircut?”
Viren stood entirely motionless, his jaw tightening as he processed her deduction.
“...No.” He pronounced the word with razor-sharp slowness, resting the full weight of both hands upon his staff.
“Ah.” Fiona fell silent for a beat. “Pardon me, My Lord. It’s just... it has been quite a long time since we last spoke in person. Ever since I was discharged from the Navy and became a civilian, I only ever run into Soren on patrols or Claudia when she needs rare herbs... You I only ever saw from afar, up on the palace balconies!”
Viren did not blink. His silence was heavy, dense enough to crush any fragile attempt at small talk.
His dark eyes slowly tracked down Fiona’s flushed face, past her unruly blue bangs, and settled on the narrow opening of the half-ajar door behind her.
The steam from the cave-scorpion broth still rose from the kitchen, carrying a peculiar aroma that caused the High Mage’s nostrils to flare faintly.
“Indeed. Our duties to the Crown rarely afford us time for pleasantries.” Viren replied in that velvety cadence, his polished tone concealing sharp edges beneath the fabric. He took half a step forward, closing the distance between them. “However, the events of last night demanded my personal presence beyond the castle walls.”
Fiona swallowed hard, bracing her frame firmly against the doorframe to keep his line of sight from penetrating an inch further into the room.
“L-last night...?” She repeated, striving to steady her voice while her stomach churned in sheer panic.
“Yes.” Viren’s gaze locked squarely onto hers, cold as morning frost. “The Moonshadow elf assault. The regicide. And... the inexplicable disappearance of certain artifacts and individuals under the castle’s protection.”
“Re… Regicide?” Fiona whispered.
He tilted his head slightly, resting one hand against the exterior doorframe, directly beside Fiona’s head.
“Soren informed me that you returned home early... and that you declined the escort to the Banther Lodge. Furthermore, you failed to attend our king’s funeral rites... I would like to understand why.”
The air felt as though it were being vacuumed right off the porch in a single instant.
Fiona blinked slowly, her mind stalling out on that single word. Her defensive posture and surging adrenaline collapsed into a sudden, staggering emptiness in her chest.
“King... King Harrow...?” She stammered, her blue eyes widening in raw, unvarnished shock. “The King is... dead?”
Viren narrowed his dark eyes, analyzing every involuntary micro-expression across the girl's face. Decades of dealing with traitors, diplomats, and court manipulators had granted him the ability to sniff out deceit with effortless ease. Here, however, he found only the genuine, devastating blow of someone who had just received catastrophic news.
“A tragedy that has shaken Katolis to its very foundation.” Viren answered in a solemn, meticulously rehearsed tone, refusing to break eye contact. “The Moonshadow assassins breached the highest towers under cover of night. Our monarch fell defending his own crown, exactly as the warrior he always was.”
He paused with calculated precision, letting the weight of manufactured grief settle over the silence.
“The funeral rites and the pyre took place at first light. Every noble, retainer, and loyal citizen paid their final respects at the citadel gates. Except you.”
The High Mage’s grip on the wooden frame tightened slightly, the timber groaning under the subtle pressure.
“Soren reported that he came here in person last night to verify your safety. And you dismissed him on your doorstep with evasive excuses regarding... nocturnal insects.” Viren’s gaze dipped an inch, probing the dim interior behind her. “While your sovereign drew his final breath and the realm plunged into mourning, you remained shuttered inside your home, brewing medicinal tonics and ignoring royal summons.”
Fiona felt a suffocating knot tighten around her throat.
King Harrow’s death was a crushing blow she had no space to process, but Viren’s trap was closing around her with every second. Telling the truth, that she had spent the entire night saving the life of the very assassin who had breached the palace, meant the gallows for her and an immediate manhunt for Callisto and the egg.
“I... I did not know, Lord Viren.” Fiona’s voice emerged low and trembling, yet laced with desperate resolve as she met the mage's gaze. “Had I known of His Majesty’s passing, I would have rushed to the castle at once. I simply... suffered a sudden turn of illness on the road to the lodge. I was forced to return home to administer my medicines before I collapsed in the street…”
Viren remained motionless for three long seconds, his face an unreadable mask carved from granite.
“A remarkably convenient illness.” He murmured coldly, his velvety tone dripping with veiled venom. “And I presume this same 'illness' also prevented you from noting the disappearance of the young princes, Callum and Ezran, who ought to have been under the safety of that very same carriage.”
So that was it…
Viren was attempting to corner her.
He likely expected her to panic upon learning Callum and Ezran were gone. Perhaps he aimed to make her believe she had failed her duty, hoping that, in her distress, she would let something slip.
But Fiona had not lost the princes. She knew precisely where they were.
Fiona drew a measured breath, pitching her voice to sound impeccably respectful, yet firm enough to dismantle the rhetorical trap.
“With due respect, My Lord, the princes were never left defenseless. The moment I realized my physical condition would compromise the convoy’s security, I transferred immediate custody and the travel route directly to Guard Charlotte.” Fiona raised her chin slightly, keeping her composure intact. “She possesses an exemplary record with naval convoys and was thoroughly briefed on the evasion routes to the lodge. If Callum and Ezran are not where they ought to be, I assure you Charlotte was the first to act to keep them out of harm's way against any threat.”
Viren did not withdraw his hand from the frame. His severe expression did not budge, yet the mention of a standard infantry soldier with a naval background narrowed his lips into a thinner line.
“A common infantry guard entrusted with the safety of the heirs to the crown during an elven siege.” Viren’s tone cut like frozen steel. “A rather reckless exercise in judgment for someone of your background.”
“A practical judgment, Lord Viren.” Fiona countered with calculated calm, refusing to yield an inch of ground at the threshold. “In times of crisis, low-ranking soldiers draw far less attention along the roads than full detachments of the Crown Guard.”
The silence descended heavily once more across the porch. Viren’s dark eyes pulled away from the girl’s face, gliding slowly into the dim interior of the cottage, searching for any detail out of place.
Fiona felt her stomach clench.
Don't look inside.
For a terrifying second, she was certain he had caught onto something.
Callisto’s bowl still rested on the tabletop. The second bench remained slightly pushed back. And, worst of all, the scent of cave-scorpion broth continued to hang thick in the air.
Viren tilted his head ever so slightly.
“Curious.”
Fiona froze.
“Pardon?”
“You stated that you fell ill during the journey.” His eyes snapped back to hers. “And yet, you appear to have prepared a remarkably elaborate meal this morning.”
Fiona blinked. Then offered a small, disarming smile.
“I recover quickly.”
“So I see.” The response landed so flatly her smile nearly withered.
Viren’s gaze drifted back inside.
“And for someone who supposedly spent the night in solitude, there is a considerable amount of food prepared.”
A cold shiver raced up Fiona’s spine.
“I... had company.”
Viren kept his gaze fixed upon her, one brow arching by a fraction of a millimeter. The admission, delivered without hesitation, broke his previous line of attack, but opened a far more dangerous avenue.
“Company?” His voice slid low, heavy as molten lead. “And who might this remarkably attentive company be?”
“A friend.” Fiona answered firmly, keeping her chin up and her posture polite. “Someone who assisted me with my illness and helped gather the herbs I needed to brew. He departed shortly before Your Lordship knocked.”
Viren did not budge. His silence was an iron vise, calculating every variable. The confirmation that another person had been present matched Soren’s report of men’s boots in the living room, but Fiona’s unshakable poise was beginning to grate on the High Mage’s patience.
“A friend of exceptionally discreet habits.” Viren murmured, his gaze tracing the floorboards before locking back onto her multicolored eyes. “And one who lacked the courtesy to take the main road when departing, as I observed no such traveler upon my arrival.”
“He knows the hill paths, My Lord. Hunters rarely take the public roads.” Fiona countered without missing a beat, using the local terrain as her shield.
Viren’s long fingers tightened over the head of his staff. He knew there were far too many loose threads in this tale, but Fiona’s unyielding composure offered no legal pretext to force an entry without causing an unwelcome scene in the village.
“And what is the name of this exceptionally helpful hunter?” Viren pressed half a step forward, his voice silky yet razor-sharp. “The Crown requires the registry of any traveler operating outside regular patrol routes during these dark times.”
Fiona did not bat an eye. Her mind worked at lightning speed, pulling from the truth and reshaping it to sound entirely human.
“Callisto.” She answered readily, her posture immaculate.
“Callisto…” Viren rolled the name across his tongue, as though searching his mental archives for any noble, mercenary, or registered huntsman by that title. “An unusual name... What does he look like?”
Fiona folded her arms naturally, painting an exact portrait of the elf, surgically omitting the horns, the bluish skin, and the pointed ears.
“Tall. Broad-shouldered. Very pale hair, nearly white, and striking amber-brown eyes.” She offered a slight, dismissive shrug. “Wears simple linen garments and a plain travel cloak. Always armed with a long-handled blade, standard for tracking large beasts in the peaks.”
Viren narrowed his dark eyes, cataloging the visual description.
“And his demeanor?”
“A man of few words, My Lord. Terribly serious, bordering on arrogant because of how focused he is.” Fiona let out a soft, exasperated chuckle, as though gossiping about a tedious neighbor. “Has irritating habits, thinks he knows better than everyone else. Always correcting the way others handle tasks, and has the dreadful habit of appearing and vanishing without making a sound. If you want my honest opinion, he's a grumpy nuisance, but an exceptional field medic.”
Viren held the silence for a moment, testing for inconsistencies. The description was vivid, peppered with spontaneous details and mundane grievances that a fabricated lie rarely contained.
“I believe I have taken up enough of your morning.” Viren apologized with a measured nod, adjusting his cloak over his shoulders. “Thank you for the information, Fiona. I expect to see you at the castle shortly, fully recovered.”
He turned on his heel with composed strides and began walking along the wooden porch toward the dirt path.
Fiona exhaled the breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Her shoulders dropped several inches, and she leaned a trembling hand against the doorframe, feeling a tidal wave of relief wash through her chest.
‘It worked. He bought it.’
She began easing the door shut, eager to drop the iron latch, head down the hatch with Callisto, and vanish from the kingdom before another patrol could arrive.
Yet, just two steps from the stairs, the sound of Viren’s boots abruptly halted.
“Ah... forgive me.” The High Mage’s velvety voice drifted back, carrying a sudden, unsettling calm. “I nearly overlooked a detail of paramount importance.”
Fiona’s stomach dropped.
He pivoted on his heels and strode back to the entrance, stopping inches from Fiona before she could shut the door. The polite veneer had vanished from his face, replaced by a cold, analytical, piercing stare.
“During the inspection of your belongings back at the castle prior to your hasty departure, Claudia and I discovered something peculiar in your luggage.” Viren began, his voice dropping to a dangerously measured murmur. “A spherical artifact, with a dense shell and a unique structure, emanating an arcane resonance that decidedly does not belong to Katolis. My daughter and I intended to question you regarding the origin of such a relic before your sudden 'illness' carried you away.”
The blood drained from Fiona’s face, but she forced her jaw to hold firm.
“My... belongings?” She attempted to maintain the facade, her throat dry. “Your Lordship must be mistaken. My pack contained only typical supplies. If Claudia saw anything else, she must have mistaken it for petrified field fossils.”
Her grip on the edge of the door tightened, fighting to mask the mounting dread.
“If you will excuse me, My Lord, I truly must prepare to depart for the lodge.”
Fiona moved to shut the door in a swift motion, but the metal tip of Viren’s staff drove forward like a spear, wedging the gap against the frame with a sharp crack of splintering wood.
Before she could step back, the High Mage shoved the door open with deliberate force, breaching the home without the slightest hesitation.
Fiona was forced into an awkward retreat, tripping over her own feet until her back struck the edge of the dining table. The front door slammed shut behind Viren with a dull thud, cutting off the morning sunlight and plunging the room into suffocating shadow.
“Do not insult me with your lies, girl.” Viren advanced in slow, measured steps, cornering her in the center of the cottage. The facade of the patient councilor had shattered entirely, leaving only ruthless, uncompromising authority. “There is no fossil on earth with an active biological pulse. That egg was in your possession. And if it is no longer in the tower laboratory, the only logical conclusion is that you took it.”
Fiona felt the wood of the table pressing hard against her spine. Her palms sweated cold, but she kept her fists clenched at her sides, offering no physical resistance. Viren was still the High Mage and the de facto regent of Katolis.
As a former soldier, she knew striking him meant an irreversible death sentence and absolute condemnation for high treason in the eyes of the entire realm. Not to mention putting Callisto’s life in immediate jeopardy.
“Lord Viren, entering my home without an express Crown mandate violates military protocol, and you risk a direct conflict with the Vice-Admiral-”
“I am the authority of the Crown until a successor is crowned.” Viren cut in with freezing finality, leveling the tip of his staff inches from Fiona’s chest. The dark gem at the crest began to crackle with an unstable, violet mist. “You will surrender the egg of Xadia to me this instant, Fiona. Or I assure you, your naval record will not prevent you from spending the remainder of your days in a subterranean dungeon, condemned for aiding and abetting the assassins of King Harrow.”
Fiona held her breath, her eyes locked onto the gem drinking in the faint ambient light. She had nowhere left to run.
Viren closed the remaining distance, stepping so close Fiona could smell the heavy scent of ash and dark incense rolling off his robes.
The tip of the staff rose, hovering a breath from Fiona’s chin. A chilling purple luminescence flared within the stone.
“Your silence is a confession, girl.” Viren’s voice dropped to a lethal whisper. “Hand over the egg now. If I am forced to search this house with my own hands, I assure you your end will not be upon the gallows... but as ash across the floor of my laboratory.”
Fiona swallowed hard, pinned against the table. She searched his eyes, desperately hunting for an opening, a bluff, anything!
Viren parted his lips to utter the first word of an archaic incantation-
He never got the chance.
There was no warning cry. No rustle of wind.
Only a silent, silver blur plunging from the ceiling rafters like a guillotine blade dropping through a vacuum.
CRACK!
Before the first magical syllable could leave the mage’s throat, Callisto’s boot came down with crushing force across the shaft of the staff, driving the metal and Viren’s arm into the floorboards with a violent snap that nearly sheared the artifact in two.
In the exact microsecond the spell was shattered, the elf pivoted on his heel with the fluid speed of liquid shadow.
A biting, metallic chill pressed flush against the skin of Viren’s throat.
The razor-sharp edge of the glaive was glued to the High Mage’s neck, biting just hard enough for a single crimson bead to well under the steel’s pressure. Callisto’s amber eyes burned inches from his face, feral with lethal intent.
The elf pinned the mage’s arm to the floorboards beneath his heel, held the blade locked against his jugular, and anchored the long shaft with an iron grip. A flawless execution stance. Zero room for error.
Viren froze. His eyes flared wide in unadulterated shock and paralysis at finding himself cornered by a Moonshadow elf in less than half a second.
“Speak a single word, mage.” Callisto’s voice vibrated in a low, vicious growl that seemed to freeze the blood in Viren’s veins. “And this blade passes clean through the back of your neck before the breath can leave your lungs.”
“Callisto, wait!” Fiona grabbed his arm.
Callisto did not pull his gaze from Viren for a fraction of a second. His forearm was rigid beneath Fiona’s frantic touch, unyielding as solid rock. The tip of the blade remained anchored against the High Mage’s throat, keeping the drop of blood poised upon the gleam of the steel.
“He is an active threat.” The elf stated, his voice flat, sharp, and stripped of hesitation. “If this man utters a single incantation or reaches for that staff, neither of us walks out of this room alive.”
“We cannot murder the High Mage of Katolis in my living room, Callisto!” Fiona whispered in feverish panic, tugging down on his forearm with both hands, though the warrior scarcely budged under her weight.
Viren, pinned flat against the floorboards under the crushing weight of Callisto’s heel, kept his dark eyes wide. The initial shock of confronting a living, undisguised Moonshadow elf inside the home of an ex-Pentarchy sailor was rapidly hardening into cold fury.
The mage felt the blade burning directly over his carotid artery. He knew the slightest misstep would send the steel slicing clean through his throat.
“An... assassin of Xadia.” Viren’s voice emerged as a hoarse, strangled rasp, carefully keeping his throat from moving against the edge. His eyes slid toward Fiona, dripping with cold disdain. “Treason... of the highest order. Sheltering the enemy... under your own roof. Why am I not surprised, Fiona?”
“Silence!” Callisto pressed his heel down harder onto Viren’s forearm, drawing a muffled crunch from the leather of his glove. “You are in no position to dictate terms, human.”
“Callisto, let him go and grab the pack!” Fiona insisted, her tone rising in sheer practical panic. “You have to leave now!”
“If I release him, he will retaliate.” The elf countered through gritted teeth. “He must be neutralized.”
“Neutralized does not mean executed!” Fiona let go of his arm and darted toward the kitchen counter.
In a desperate blur of motion, she snatched a small frosted glass vial with a cork stopper and a thick linen cloth from the table. She rushed back, tearing the cork free with her teeth and splashing a thick, translucent fluid over the fabric. The heavy, sweet scent of concentrated mandrake extract filled the air between them.
“What is that?” Callisto asked out of the corner of his eye, without loosening his blade.
“Pure nerve sedative.” Fiona answered, dropping to her knees beside Viren. The High Mage’s eyes widened in sheer terror as he recognized the alchemical compound. “Three hours of dreamless sleep and a hellish migraine upon waking.”
Before Viren could attempt any defensive motion with his free arm, Fiona clamped the soaked cloth firmly over the mage’s nose and mouth.
Viren thrashed for two desperate seconds, but the potency of the extract took effect almost immediately upon inhalation. The tension in his muscles dissolved like hot wax, his eyes rolled back beneath heavy lids, and his head slumped limp against the wooden floor.
Silence reclaimed the room, heavy and absolute, broken only by the steady snoring that followed.
Callisto retrieved his glaive in one fluid motion, twirling the blade before locking it back into the scabbard on his back. He stared down at the unconscious ruler of Katolis, then at the empty vial in Fiona’s hand.
“...You used a dangerously high dosage.” He remarked, an eyebrow arched.
Fiona remained entirely still for several seconds.
One. Two. Three.
The silence of the house felt deafening now.
She looked at Callisto. Then at the staff on the floor. Then at Viren. Then back at Callisto.
Every trace of color slowly drained from her face.
Four. Five.
Fiona scrambled to her feet in an awkward leap, stumbling backward as if Viren’s body had just burst into spontaneous flames.
“I JUST DRUGGED THE HIGH MAGE OF KATOLIS!” The scream tore from her throat, rattling the wooden rafters. She seized her blue hair with both hands, yanking at the strands in sheer, unbridled hysteria as she began pacing in frantic circles around the room. “I just committed high treason in my own living room! My life is over! My career is over! The Navy is going to deploy entire strike teams to my front garden!”
She skidded to a halt in front of Callisto, flailing her arms wildly.
“WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO TELL MY MOTHER, CALLISTO?! 'Hi Mom, I won't make it to Sunday dinner because I knocked out the kingdom's regent with monster chloroform and became an international fugitive'?! She’ll kill me before the guards even arrive! WHAT A BRAINLESS IDEA!”
Callisto simply stood in place, arms folded across his chest, observing the human’s total nervous breakdown with clinical detachment. He looked at the unconscious body on the floor, then out the window, and finally back at the girl who looked ready to rip her own hair out.
“If your concern lies with your matriarch’s judgment or the integrity of your civil registry…” Callisto began, his voice calm and smooth as he tilted his head toward the outdoor tool shed, “I can fetch a shovel.”
Fiona froze mid-step, her breath catching in her throat.
“...A shovel?”
“A shovel.” He confirmed with deadpan practicality. “We dig a deep trench beneath the roots of the eastern woods, dispose of the individual, conceal the site with thick undergrowth, and no one will ever know what transpired within this dwelling. No body, no regicide pinned to your name.”
“NO!” Fiona shrieked, throwing her hands into the air in renewed panic. “YOU ARE NOT BURYING LORD VIREN IN MY BACKYARD! WE ARE NOT KILLING HIM!”
“You just stated that your civilian life is ruined. I am merely proposing a definitive field solution.” The elf countered with relentless logic, not shifting an inch of his austere expression.
“Your 'field solution' carries a life sentence of death in five different kingdoms!” Fiona gestured wildly toward the sleeping mage. “You could have handled this entirely differently!”
“In what manner?”
“How else?! Simple! Take advantage of me distracting him, grab the egg, and run!”
Callisto blinked slowly. He looked at Fiona as though she had just suggested treating a hemorrhage with tickling.
“Abandon you defenseless, before a hostile dark magic practitioner, just to flee on my own?”
“YES!” Fiona stomped her foot on the floorboards, her frustration reaching stratospheric heights. “That was your mission! You are an elite assassin, not a fairy-tale knight! You should have grabbed the egg, hopped out the window, dashed for the hills, and let me make up whatever flimsy excuse I wanted for Viren! Now I'm an accomplice to a wanted elf. And a kidnapper of the regent!”
“First of all…” Callisto stepped forward, folding his arms and holding his icy composure directly in front of her face. “Moonshadow warriors do not flee from behind while the person who saved our lives is torn to shreds. That is tactical cowardice and military dishonor.”
“Oh, how lovely! How noble!” She buried her face in her hands, letting out a muffled groan of absolute agony. “I just love knowing we’re going to be hanged because of your immaculate honor code! Wonderful!”
“I am not finished!” He continued, unfazed, ignoring the hysterical sarcasm. “Your capacity for concocting excuses is deplorable. You practically provoked the new regent and described me as a grumpy huntsman with irritating habits. He would have disintegrated you in thirty seconds!”
Fiona opened her mouth to snap back, but no words came out. She merely jabbed a trembling finger toward his chest, completely outraged by the fact that he had caught every single word of the conversation from up in the rafters.
“He wasn't going to disintegrate me…” She muttered, her voice dropping into a defeated pout. “...He would have locked me in the royal dungeon at worst…”
“Which renders my intervention correct.” Callisto concluded with clinical finality. “Now, unless you wish for me to reconsider the shovel, I suggest you cease debating military doctrine and move your feet. I already secured the egg while you were distracting the mage.”
Fiona blinked, staring at him in complete and utter bewilderment.
“Move my feet where?”
Callisto looked at the girl as if she had lost the very last scrap of sense she possessed.
“What do you mean 'where'? We are going to Xadia!” He gestured with his chin toward the open hatch in the floor. “And we had best move before this cranky mage wakes up!”
“Who's 'we', you horned menace?!” Fiona stumbled two steps back, waving her hands in frantic denial. “I am not going to Xadia! First of all, you have three hours before this dosage wears off! That's plenty of time for you to gear up, grab rations, pack supplies, and vanish through the tunnel! Second, Xadia is the land of elves and fire-breathing dragons! It's no place for me! And third...” Her shoulders slumped, her gaze dropping to the corner of the room in sudden defeat. “...You saw how I handled Viren. I am not a warrior. I'm a civilian, a monster cook, and a retired sailor. I'd just be dead weight holding your entire mission back. You have to go alone.”
Callisto did not answer.
He simply stood there, jaw set and an expression so cold and irritated that the temperature in the kitchen seemed to drop below freezing. His amber eyes trailed slowly toward the counter beside him.
Without breaking eye contact with her, the elf took two slow steps forward and extended his hand.
With calm, deliberate, terrifying precision, Callisto’s long fingers closed around the frosted glass vial of concentrated mandrake extract.
He picked up the damp linen cloth from the table.
Fiona locked up. Her eyes went impossibly wide as her brain processed the scene unfolding before her.
“...Callisto?” Her voice pitched two octaves higher. “What... what are you doing with that?”
The elf popped the cork with his thumb, tipping the vial to soak another generous dose of the translucent fluid into the fabric. The thick, sweet aroma of the nerve sedative rose into the air once more.
He looked at the cloth. Then raised his amber eyes back to Fiona, with ruthless determination and not a single shred of patience remaining.
“Callisto, no.” Fiona began backing toward the sink, hands raised in absolute panic. “CALLISTO, DON'T YOU DARE! YOU WOULD NOT DARE DO THIS TO ME!”
“You can come willingly through the tunnel...” Callisto took his first step toward her, raising the soaked cloth to chest height, his voice smooth, steady, and chillingly calm: “...Or you can come unconscious, strapped across the top of my pack. The choice is yours.”
“You wouldn't dare!”
“You have no idea what I am capable of, doll-face!” Callisto smirked maliciously.
Fiona cringed, her gaze glued to the cloth in his grip.
“I HATE THAT YOU HAVE AN ANSWER FOR EVERYTHING!”
Fiona spun around on pure, desperate instinct, digging her heels into the floorboards to sprint for the back door.
She didn't even get to finish her second step.
Callisto moved like a blast of midnight wind. Effortlessly, the elf cleared the distance between them in a fraction of a second, rounding the table and cutting off her escape route with supernatural speed.
“Don't even try it!” He murmured, his tone laced with amusement.
Before Fiona could draw enough breath to scream or dodge aside, a strong arm locked securely around her shoulders, pinning her movements, while his other hand pressed the soaked cloth firmly over her nose and mouth.
Fiona’s eyes flared in sheer shock and outrage. She thrashed against him, shoving at the linen across the elf's chest with both hands, but his strength was an unyielding fortress.
The dense, sweet scent of mandrake extract flooded her airways instantly.
One.
The strength in Fiona’s arms began to evaporate like morning mist under the sun.
Two.
Her legs gave out completely, turning to lead. The panic dissolved into a soft, velvety numbness that dragged heavily over her eyelids.
Three.
Fiona’s head slumped back against Callisto’s shoulder, her eyes rolling upward as her consciousness faded into a quiet, peaceful blur.
Silence settled over the room once more, broken only by the steady, rhythmic breathing of the sleeping girl.
Callisto drew the cloth back, securing the vial with the remaining sedative onto his belt with absolute composure. He adjusted Fiona’s limp form effortlessly, scooping her up into his arms as though she weighed no more than a bundle of linen.
Casting a final, frigid glance at Viren’s unconscious body sprawled across the floorboards, the elf strode to the table. He grabbed the reinforced pack with his free hand, ensuring the Dragon Prince's egg was secure within, and stepped toward the open trapdoor in the floor.
“You talk too much, human.” Callisto murmured to the sleeping girl in his arms, dropping with practiced grace down into the subterranean darkness of the dungeon and sealing the hatch shut behind them, leaving the Kingdom of Katolis in their wake.
