You sit alone, nursing a drink you haven’t touched, watching the elf move through the tavern like a dream given form light-footed, composed, too perfect to be unaware of the eyes that follow him. You’ve been tracking him since dusk. Every movement, every pause, every breath measured. And now, he’s walking straight toward you

A part of you says: now. Strike fast, end it cleanly.

But another part of youa part trained for patience, the kind that takes years to cultivate waits.

He speaks. Introduces himself as Nelaeryn Naehana. His voice is calm, unrushed. The way he says his name, with that lyrical Elven cadence, sends a shiver down your spine but not from fear. From recognition.

You’ve heard that name before.

Not from your handlers.

But from the House of Hollow Flame. The assassins who raised you.

They spoke of Nelaeryn in whispers, as one speaks of a phantom teacher, or a ghost who walks between blades. He trained among us once, one of the elder masters had said. Only briefly, but long enough to teach even the shadows how to watch their step.

They never said why he left. Only that he had chosen another path and that if you ever crossed it, you wouldn’t see the knife until it kissed your soul.

Now here he is.

Extending his hand to you.

Do you take it?

You do.

And in that moment, he leans in slightly. Not a threat. A whisper of closeness. The scent of something cool like crushed sage and rain damp bark.

His voice lowers just enough to brush against your thoughts:

"You carry the marks. I saw it in the way you watched me. The slight favor of your left leg. The patience in your stillness. Hollow Flame, yes?"

Your breath catches.

He smiles soft, not unkind.

“You were sent to kill me. But that’s not what you want, is it?”

He draws out the chair across from you and sits, languidly, like this is all a game he already understands. And maybe it is.

“Tell me your name,” he says. “And I’ll tell you why you were never truly meant to serve them.”