Leonie sat on her bed, awkwardly trying to bandage her broken wrist. She had already bathed and, more or less, managed to calm down after her little adventure. At least an hour had passed since then, the sun was already sinking, and no matter how she turned things over in her mind, she kept coming back to the same conclusion: she was in serious trouble.
A broken wrist on its own wouldn't be too hard to explain away. But if those two strangers who had almost caught her in the forest were truly the baron's guests… and if they recognized her at dinner…
Holy heavens. She had actually punched one of them in the face.
If the baron ever heard about that, she could expect a punishment that would leave her bedridden for weeks. And if he decided to leave her "discipline" to his guests, she might not survive at all. They were enormous.
She shuddered as the image of the blond man looming over her rose in her mind, and a cold chill crawled down her spine. She had never seen such terrifying figures in her life, and she had grown up in this castle, with ample opportunity to encounter all of the baron's wretched friends. Yet somehow these two were different.
When they'd chased her through the forest, it had felt as if she were prey fleeing from lions. It was a miracle she had slipped through their fingers at all. She still didn't understand what had happened to them.
"Perhaps it would be better to finish myself off now," she muttered with a sigh as she secured the bandage and carefully flexed her fingers.
Not ideal, but it would do. Tomorrow she would go and find Nathan, the town's only physician—the man who always tried to stitch her back together. Without him, she would likely already be dead.
And besides, her supply of medicine was dwindling. She had been drinking the same bitter tonic for as long as she could remember. Once, she had tried to see what would happen if she skipped it. Within a few days, a vicious headache had sunk its claws into her skull, then spread into full-body convulsions that seemed to tear her apart from the inside. She had been sure she would die.
Luckily, Esthelle had found her in time and run for Nathan, who had saved her again.
The baron always claimed this was because she was a "mongrel"—an abomination born against the order of nature, and that nature was simply trying to correct its mistake.
It was true that Leonie had never seen anyone like herself. She had never seen an elf.
She often stood before the mirror, staring at her own reflection: the pointed ears that betrayed her heritage.
For a thousand years—since human "liberation"—no living elf had been seen by human eyes. Or so the stories went. People had long forgotten them, keeping them alive only in history books and legends, where they were depicted as cruel beings who kept humanity in terror and chains.
According to the tales, humans had eventually risen up, and after years of war, they had triumphed. The elves had vanished without a trace.
Until twenty-one years ago.
The baron's version of the story was always the same: a dying, pregnant woman had come knocking at the castle gate, begging for shelter. She claimed she had been held captive by an elf, and that the child in her belly was the proof.
By the time Nathan was called, there was nothing he could do for the woman. Only the child could be saved.
To their great shock, her words proved true.
The baby—Leonie—had indeed been born an elf.
The baron and his confidants kept the matter a strict secret from the people, and to this day only a handful within the castle knew the truth.
Leonie herself could never be entirely sure what to believe, but the baron swore that if the people learned what she really was, they would tear her apart in their fear.
Her grim thoughts were shattered by loud pounding on the door.
She quickly pulled her hair to cover her ears, smoothed down her simple white dress, and stepped forward. It was time to face the inevitable.
"Move," the soldier barked when she opened the door.
It was the usual routine: before any grand occasion, the baron increased the guard on her, just in case she got any ideas about escaping. Not that she was ever truly unwatched. The man liked to know about every step she took.
And the soldiers were rarely kind. Rumor had it that any guard who dared befriend the girl while on duty soon found himself stationed at the most wretched, thankless posts imaginable.
"In you go."
Once they reached the great hall, the soldier practically shoved her through the door.
"At last you deem us worthy of your presence," crooned a sickly sweet, deep voice.
Instantly, fear and nausea clenched her stomach.
Leonie bowed her head low, letting her loose red curls fall forward to mask her face.
"I apologize if I'm late, my lord," she said quietly.
When she lifted her gaze, she saw the baron sitting at the head of a lavishly decorated table.
Her throat tightened when she realized he had invited several of his "friends" for the evening. They were already eyeing her with wide grins, like vultures sizing up their next meal.
"We shall see, we shall see…" the baron mused. "Now bring wine—and then stay out from underfoot until dinner is over."
Leonie knew exactly what that meant.
The baron liked to show her off. It filled him with pride that such an unusual beauty belonged to him, and he never missed an opportunity to remind his men of it.
He also took great delight in the way his toadies trampled each other in their eagerness to please him, hoping that when the evening's drinking was done, they might be invited to share in his "further entertainments."
During dinner, Leonie's only task was to keep the cups full and somehow avoid drawing too much attention to herself.
So she did what she always did.
Cradling the jug in her uninjured hand, she went around the table refilling their goblets. She was just about to step back from the baron's right-hand guest when the man began to clap slowly and mockingly.
"What a talent," he drawled. "You were right."
The baron grinned as he replied.
"If you only knew what else those hands are capable of…"
Laughter erupted around the table.
Leonie wished she could sink straight through the floor.
Her cheeks burned. She took a hasty step back, lips pressed together, and said nothing. She was used to this. Every grand dinner played out the same way: humiliation after humiliation.
Before the situation could turn any uglier, the great hall doors opened again.
Instantly, the room fell silent.
One of the baron's lackeys entered, followed by two large men—one dressed head to toe in black leather, the other in a simple combination of brown trousers and a white linen shirt. The first moved with rigid, controlled strength; the second strolled in as casually as if he were arriving at a garden party.
Dorian and Marcus let their gazes drift over the assembled company.
Five men already sat around the table; their stout guide took a seat as the sixth, and the baron at the head made seven.
At a glance, the baron looked to be somewhere in his fifties, though he had aged surprisingly well. It was obvious that he had once been a hardened soldier. His short hair and beard were beginning to gray, his features were strong and sharply cut.
Dorian noted all this at once—and decided he would do well to be careful around him. There was a calculating glint in the man's eyes.
Keeping his gaze on the baron, Dorian stepped up to the table and, though he disliked the gesture, extended his hand in greeting.
"Thank you for your warm hospitality," he said. "My name is Dorian, prince of the elven kingdom, eldest son of the elven king and heir to the crown—envoy of the king and the elven people. This is Marcus, my advisor."
Marcus gave a brief nod but did not offer his hand. His eyes were already roaming over the faces at the table as the baron introduced each guest in turn.
"The honor is ours," the baron replied smoothly, "that you will spend the next few days in our humble company and share with us your reasons for breaking the centuries of silence between our peoples. Our king eagerly awaits my report on any… developments."
He gave a slight gesture, inviting them to sit, his gaze never straying from Dorian's face. Then he flashed a rehearsed smile.
"Fortunately, we have time enough to discuss everything later. Tonight, let us celebrate the simple fact that our peoples sit at the same table once more. No politics, no plans—let us eat, drink, and get to know one another."
He lifted his goblet and motioned for Leonie to pour for the newcomers.
Leonie, however, stood frozen where she was, the jug trembling faintly in her hands as she stared, pale as chalk, at the two men she had met in the forest.
Elves.
They were elves.
Just like her.
A storm of emotions crashed through her.
She should hate them for what had been done to her mother. For everything the stories claimed their kind had done to humans.
But until this moment, she had believed that perhaps none of them still existed. That she really was the only one.
And now… now it turned out she was not alone.
How was this possible?
Had they lied to her all these years? Was this some twisted joke on the baron's part?
How could she ever have believed that she was the only living elf? How could she have been so naive?
Dizzy, she forced herself to move, stepping up to the table. Forgetting her broken wrist, she shifted the jug into her right hand and raised it toward Dorian's cup.
Pain ripped up her arm like lightning.
Instinctively, she jerked her hand back.
The wine sloshed out in a crimson wave, spilling across the table—and splattering onto the blond elf's clothes.
"What do you think you're doing?" the baron snarled.
His hand shot out and closed around her bandaged wrist, squeezing hard. Bright explosions of pain burst behind Leonie's eyes. She groaned, trying to twist free, but the harder she pulled, the tighter his grip became.
"I told you to apologize and clean up this mess you've made," he said coldly.
Even the men at the table felt the chill in his tone.
Leonie could only whimper, stars dancing in her vision. The baron's fingers were grinding her broken bones together.
She looked up, drained and desperate, straight into Dorian's face. His eyes were calm, almost indifferent, as if none of this concerned him.
Panic surged again when she realized he was going to recognize her. He would reveal who she was, what she was, and her situation would go from bad to catastrophic.
Her breathing grew shallow and frantic, her gaze jerking wildly between the two elves.
For the briefest instant, true surprise flashed across Marcus's face. Then, seeing that his friend clearly had no intention of mentioning their earlier encounter in the forest, he settled his features into polite neutrality once more. His attention drifted instead to the baron's hand crushing the girl's wrist. He opened his mouth—
But Dorian spoke first.
"It's nothing," he said quietly. "The lady may go. I'll take care of it."
With a flick of his fingers, he made the spilled wine vanish. All the while, his eyes remained on Leonie.
For a moment, the baron could only stare at the now spotless table in disbelief. Then he shook himself.
"I told you to beg pardon and—" he began, tense and annoyed.
"It was an accident," Dorian cut in, his voice still calm. "Please. Release the servant."
It sounded far more like a command than a request.
At last he tore his gaze away from the girl, who was swaying on her feet, pale and close to fainting, and looked at the baron instead with a flicker of disgust.
For a few long seconds, the two men locked eyes across the table.
Then the baron leaned back with a thin smile and let go of Leonie's wrist.
"They can be so clumsy…" he said with a shake of his head. "Now—tell us about your journey. You must have come a long way."
He changed the subject as if nothing had happened.
Leonie staggered backward, retreating to a darker corner of the hall where she could lean against the wall. Clutching her throbbing wrist, she tried to steady her breathing and her thoughts.
The elf hadn't exposed her.
Even though she had punched him. Even though he would have had every reason to demand satisfaction from the baron.
He hadn't done it. Why?
And it wasn't just that. He had intervened for her a second time, when he had absolutely no obligation to.
From her hiding place, she watched Dorian more closely. Outwardly, he was engaged in harmless small talk about their journey, answering the men's questions with cool courtesy.
Yet Leonie couldn't shake the strange feeling that he was aware of her every move.
Ridiculous. His gaze never strayed from the table.
Still—this frightening man had helped her twice now, without knowing anything about her, without her having remotely earned such kindness with her behavior.
Maybe he wasn't as terrifying as she had thought.
Was it possible that elves were not as bloodthirsty as the old stories claimed?
Her entire life she had been taught that elves were tyrants, a ruling class that had oppressed humankind for centuries.
Elves.
So that explained the commotion surrounding their arrival. The baron clearly did not want word spreading that living elves had set foot on human soil—just as he had never allowed anyone beyond his inner circle to know the truth about her.
Maybe later… tomorrow… she could find a way to speak with them in secret. To ask at least a few of the countless questions that had followed her all her life.
Maybe tomorrow she would be brave enough.
Marcus, at least, seemed somewhat more approachable.
Perhaps he… perhaps he would answer.