Page 89 of House of Crimson Cloak and Silver Teeth
In the center, five elves in Valorian armor sit around a small fire. The flames look pitiful inside a chamber this massive, barely strong enough to push back the dark pressing in from every direction.
I can smell the fear on them. They know they’re being hunted.
The missing soldiers look haggard, worn down by weeks of hiding. Their armor is dirty and their faces unshaven.
I survey the chamber quickly and notice a natural shelf about fifteen feet above the main floor, hidden in shadow where the firelight doesn’t quite reach. It’s perfect for observing without being seen.
I tap Garrett’s shoulder twice, then point up. He can’t see it in the darkness. But it doesn’t matter. He trusts my lead and follows as I find the wall and begin the ascent. The stone is rough, with plenty of handholds. We climb in silence, moving slowly to avoid dislodging loose rocks. By the time we reach the shelf, my fingers are scraped raw, but we’re in position.
The ledge is deep enough for both of us to lie flat on our stomachs, looking down into the chamber below. From here, we can see and hear everything without being spotted.
Garrett settles beside me, his body pressed against mine in the confined space. His breathing is quiet but I can feel his chest rising and falling. Tension thrums through him like a wire pulled taut.
Below us, the Valorians continue their conversation, oblivious to our presence.
“—three weeks now,” one of them is saying. “Three weeks since anyone’s heard from the others. They’re all dead. They have to be.”
“We don’t know that,” another responds. He’s older, graying at the temples. Probably a veteran. “Could be they just went to ground like we did and hiding.”
“Marcian is dead.” This from a third elf, heavyset with a scar across his cheek. “I know it. I can feel it. If Marcian is dead, the others are too.”
“Then we’re next.” The young one’s voice breaks. “We’re fucking next and there’s nothing we can do about it.”
“Calm down—”
“Don’t tell me to calm down!” The young knight’s voice rises, echoing off the stone walls. “Someone is picking us off one by one and the Aeonians aren’t doing shit to protect us!”
Beside me, Garrett goes very still. I can feel the tension radiating off him like heat.
“The protocols should have been activated,” the older elf says. “We performed the rituals correctly. We fed the sacrifices. The Aeonians promised protection for all units that served faithfully.”
All units?
“Maybe they don’t consider what happened in Feywildra faithful service,” another mutters. The speaker is thin and can’t seem to hold still. “Maybe they’ve decided we’re a liability.”
“That’s insane. We did exactly what we were told. The village was designated, the children were selected according to the specifications—”
“Eighteen children weren’t enough, maybe.” The scarred one spits into the fire. “The Falcon Unit delivered twenty-three from their village. Maybe we should have found more—”
“There weren’t more!” The older knight’s voice cracks. “We took every child in Feywildra that matched the criteria!”
My blood goes cold. Beside me, Garrett has stopped breathing entirely.
“The Falcon Unit,” the scarred elf says slowly. “Have they gone silent too?”
“No. Last I heard, they were still operational. Posted in the southern territories,” the older knight answers.
“And the Serpent Unit?” the young one follows up.
“Still active. It’s just our unit being hunted,” comes the answer.
“How many villages were there in total?” the young one asks quietly.
“I don’t know. Our unit did Feywildra. The Falcon Unit did Rivermere. The Serpent Unit had... what was it? Ashdune?” The thin nervous knight counts on his fingers. “Dozens, maybe more. I was part of the unit stationed in dwarven territories before this. That was much better. At least we didn’t have to see our own kind die.”
Multiple villages. Hundreds or thousands of people and dead children.
I look at Garrett. Even in the dim light, I can see his face has gone white. His hands are clenched so tight his knuckles are bloodless.
