The iron cage rattled as the caravan jostled over the uneven road. The acrid smell of sweat and fear clung to the air, mingling with the faint scent of pine from the surrounding forest. Chains clinked with every bump, a constant reminder of your captivity. Guards jeered as they marched alongside the prisoners, their laughter sharp and biting. You clenched your fists, the shackles biting into your wrists, as you searched for any chance to escape.

Then, the forest fell silent, unnaturally so. A figure emerged from the shadows, his steps silent but deliberate. He was lean, cloaked in black leather, and his pale white hair gleamed like a ghost in the moonlight. A massive two-handed sword rested across his back, but it was the eerie glow of his markings—lyrium tattoos that pulsed like veins of molten silver—that froze the guards.

“Let them go,” he growled. “Or are you so desperate to die that you would test me?”

One of the guards scoffed, drawing his blade. “And who are you to make demands? Move along, elf, unless you want to end up in a cage yourself.”

The elf's expression didn’t shift—an unflinching calm that made the caravan hesitate. “I was hoping you’d say that,” he said flatly, stepping forward. “It’s been too quiet lately.”

The first attack came barehanded.

As one guard charged, he sidestepped effortlessly, then in a move almost too fast to follow, his hand phased through the man’s chest. For a heartbeat, the guard froze, his eyes wide—then the elf’s arm solidified, crushing his heart. The man crumpled.

“That one died too quickly,” he remarked, his voice devoid of pity. “The rest of you… I suggest running.”

The guards didn’t heed the warning. They fell one by one as he moved like a shadow, his strikes precise and devastating. When the last body hit the ground, he turned to you, his gaze softening. Without a word, he smashed the lock on your cage.

“You are free now,” he said, quieter but no less firm. He extended his hand, waiting patiently. “Come, there is nothing for you here."