The assassins.

Mordeu was shocked. He wanted to see what was going on. Why wasn’t anyone helping? Still, there was no time to waste asking questions. He pushed through the crowd until he reached the front row, where he could see everything without much effort.

But he wasn’t just there to watch—he wanted to help.

When he saw the scene, he understood why no one had stepped in. In the center stood the son of Alvitir—the white-haired boy. He held a sword, and his attacker stood opposite him, also armed.

It didn’t make sense. Why was a wolf fighting with a sword? And where was his family or the guards?

The son of Alvitir wore white robes—the same ones he had on earlier that day—but now they were stained with blood. The crowd had circled around him. His eyes were filled with cold, murderous intent.

On the ground lay two dead bodies, both assassins dressed in black, their faces hidden just like the one still standing. Mordeu looked back at the white-haired boy. His chest rose and fell heavily. He seemed exhausted—or maybe that was just how he always looked.

His sword was slim and blue, his slender fingers wrapped around it steadily.

The assassin attacked, swinging his sword. The boy dodged skillfully, moving it out of his path. The crowd was impressed, but the assassin wasn’t. He threw his sword away and prepared to fight with his fists.

The boy tightened his grip on his sword. Mordeu noticed a change in his gaze but couldn’t tell what it meant.

Before either of them moved, someone else in white leapt into the scene. A woman. She came from behind the assassin, drove her hand into him, and pulled it out the other side—though it didn’t look the same coming out.

Her hand was drenched in blood.

She held something red and dripping in her fingers. The night was clear enough for everyone to see what it was. Silence fell. The only sounds were the boy’s heavy breathing and the assassin’s body thudding to the ground after she removed her hand.

Mordeu felt pleased, disgusted, and impressed.

After pulling her hand out, the woman looked up from the heart she held and turned her gaze to someone behind her brother. Her movements were like a predator—slow and deliberate, led by the urge to kill.

Mordeu looked ahead to see who she was approaching.

It was the daughter of Alvitir. Blood dripped from her hand onto the gray gravel as she strode forward like a maniac, uncaring who was watching.

She stopped in front of someone—the elven princess.

The daughter of Alvitir raised her bloody hand, still holding the heart, and dropped it in front of the princess. A sickening splat followed as blood splashed from the impact.

The princess swallowed hard. She looked the woman in the eyes, clearly forcing herself not to glance at the heart.

Mordeu listened closely. The princess’s heartbeat and breathing were unsteady. It wasn’t quite fear—but it was close.

“A gift,” the daughter of Alvitir said. Her voice sounded unnecessarily loud to Mordeu, so he adjusted his hearing to normal and listened more carefully, questions swirling in his mind.

“To your parents. I hope they choke on it,” she added, teeth clenched.

Mordeu looked around. Everyone except the white-haired boy looked confused. He figured they were all asking the same thing:

What did the crown have to do with the attempt on Alvitir’s son?

“Ayra!”

All eyes turned toward the voice. It was Alvitir. He looked both worried and furious—his white clothes were dirty, and his hair was a mess.

Ayra, his daughter, turned and glared at the princess before walking away to meet her father.

But she didn’t stop at him. She walked right past him, alongside her brother.

Alvitir stood there alone, hands at his sides, shoulders slumped as if they wanted to sink to the ground. His eyes swept over the bodies, and he sighed in relief—but it didn’t last. His face quickly twisted back into a look of worry and rage.

He looked at the princess for a long moment, glaring silently. Then he turned and left.

With the main players gone, the crowd began to disperse. But Mordeu stayed frozen in place—until a hand landed on his shoulder.

“That was intense,” Fjall said.

Mordeu nodded in agreement. As the crowd moved, he spotted the elven princess. Her followers walked with her, silent. Her fists were clenched, and her shoulders trembled. Maybe it was fear. But Mordeu couldn’t tell if it was directed at Ayra—or someone else.

“The Alvitirs are hiding something from the world,” Alana said, joining them.

Mordeu shrugged. “I think it’s a family issue.” He glanced in the direction the Alvitirs had gone.

Alana laughed. “That’s not a fucking family issue when she accuses the elves of sending assassins to kill her brother.”

“Okay, maybe not just a family issue,” Mordeu admitted. “But whatever it is, it’s not our business.” He didn’t want to get involved. Something about it intrigued him—but not in the same way it intrigued Alana.

Alana put her hands on her hips and stared at him. “What if the assassins had attacked us? Would it still not be your business?”

Mordeu looked exhausted by the argument. It was obvious she wanted to pull him into something he wasn’t interested in.

Sure, the Alvitirs fascinated him—but not like they fascinated Alana.

“The assassins weren’t after us. Attacking us would’ve been suicide—they’d have been outnumbered, no matter how skilled they were. And they clearly weren’t good enough—Alvitir’s boy took them all down with a sword,” Mordeu said.

Fjall cleared his throat, squeezing Mordeu’s shoulder gently to get his attention. “It’s not that they weren’t skilled, Mordeu. It’s that Alvitir’s boy was unbelievably skilled—especially with a sword.”