Rohendor

Derya traversed the crowded marketplace with the ease of someone used to the bustle and noise of this port city. Slipping in and out of the continuous flow of people like a shadow that no one noticed as she pulled the dark gray cowl lower over her brow, avoiding eye contact with any of the denizens of this multicultural melting pot.

She paid no attention to the mixed scents of spices, cooking meat, raw fish, manure, unwashed bodies, perfumes, sea, or sewage.

This was a dangerous place for one of her kind to be, and it would only take one of the "sensitives" to notice her or grow suspicious, and her life would be in danger.

Centuries passed since the accords locked Arandon beyond the "veil" where fae kind could be saved from humans, and time turned the history of their species into fairy tales manbloods told their young. Myths and legends that secretly thrilled these hateful creatures, but nothing changed about their attitude toward any thing or creature different from them.

Unfortunately, just as race, class, and financial status divided manbloods, so did species, class, and resources divide the fae, and just like it did here, it caused wars, which was why she was here.

If her father knew, he would have her hide. Her presence beyond the veil threatened the safety of her people and the secret of their home.

The crisp morning air already carried the first traces of heat, and she didn't have much time. Hyran, her brother, would search for her if she did not return by tomorrow, and she couldn't afford him discovering where she had been or why she had come.

Even for a pureblood lycan princess, crossing the veil would have consequences, but she had to learn if the prophecy was true. If it meant what she thought it did, it endangered both their world and the human realm.

The terrible cost of creating the veil would have been in vain if Merlath had lied to the elves, fairies, and druids who sacrificed their magic and lives just to buy time.

Although the wizard had disappeared that day, and despite no one implicitly trusting him, he always did the right thing in the end.

The veil had saved them from being hunted into extinction by the manbloods, but theirs was a world divided. Not even this threat to their survival might be enough to bring everyone together.

The ancients called this city, Carthagan, the center of the known world. Those milling about came from hundreds of different cultures and places and backgrounds, but they had one thing in common: they were a danger to her and her sworn enemies.

Whether they wore the bright reds and burgundies of the desert realms, the grays, blacks, and browns of the mountain kingdoms, the rich blues and midnight tones of the great lake areas, the tan, silver, and dark browns of the plains and fields, the golds, copper, and white of the city folk, or the blacks and purples of the traveling folk, perhaps even the golds, reds, vibrant blues, and tan of the royals, their hearts beat the same.

Manbloods were not to be trusted. Their word carried no weight, and the intentions of their heart never matched their deeds.

According to Nineveh, the seer's house should be right past the docks in the second back street; she lowered her head and hastened her tread.

Trepidation ate at her insides. What would she say to the human woman who could reputedly see all? Would she betray Derya's fae nature?

She entered the shade of the first building, and the streets here were less crowded yet very narrow. The double and triple-storied houses made her uneasy. People packed into cities like this like rats, living eight deep in a set of rooms meant to house two.

The werewolf narrowly avoided getting doused by dirty dishwater from an upper story and frowned as the pedestrian traffic trickled down to almost none in the next street over. Even before she reached the end of the road, the scent reached her on the wind, and she stared at the gutted house with a sense of forbidding and doom.

Nothing remained of the humble house. The salt circling the remains, the red cloth marking the four corners, and the mark on the single remaining pillar called this destruction the work of human hands, which meant the oracle was most likely dead.

She glanced at the bright red marking, the human symbol for the fae, and the hair on the back of her neck stood on end.

A sharp sound attracted her attention, and she blended into the shadows.

"What have we got here?" A man asked from just around the corner.

A short scuffle followed, and she could tell three manbloods had cornered a female around the corner, but the human scent of it had some other quality to it.

"Bloody hell, if it isn't Prince Andor's little halfling sister. What are you doing so far away from the palace and protection? Did your brother not warn you that your kind isn't welcome in these here parts."

Another scuffle ensued, and the girl almost escaped them, the cowl falling from her bright blond, nearly white hair as she glanced back, the tips of her short elven ears clearly visible as she stumbled over a piece of masonry. The men instantly surrounded her.

She looked about seventeen, but with elves, that was deceptive, although Derya had never seen a halfling.

Elves rarely mated outside their species, and children of such unions were almost unheard of. Werewolves were not picky about lovers but never married a mate not of their species or acknowledged children born loose liaisons.

"It could almost pass for human if not for those ears and eyes," the first man said, a broad-shouldered oaf with ham fists and feet the size of saucers.

The girl scurried to her feet. The pheromones she secreted betrayed that she was aware of the danger she faced, despite apparently having this Prince Andor's protection.

"Stand back," she warned, raising her hand ever so slightly and a blue marking like a circle within a circle with blue elven letters appeared on her hand, glowing, and they hesitated.

Only the fae could see magic and runes, and this one was a potent inhibitor that didn't stop the girl's fingers from glowing blue.

What in the name of all things fae?

"Harm one of us, and not even your brother could protect you. If he chooses you over one of his subjects, they will rise against him and unseat him as they did his great-grandfather. If memory serves, and it does, also because of his fondness for a demon such as yourself."

"I am no demon, but when your miserable life ends, I bet you'll get to know a few down in hell where you're headed," she hissed, and Derya almost smirked.

The girl had spunk, but this was not a moment for such resistance. If this were a manblood, she would have gone by now, but this was a fae. Halfling or not.

"Maybe we should take her around the corner and teach her a lesson?" The quiet one suggested, his gaze raking over the dark grey cloth and leather outfit hidden by that gray cloak.

"You want to violate Prince Andor's kin?" The reasonable one asked.

"She won't tell, and he won't do anything about it," the swarthy man asked, his gaze caressing the girl's slim, tall, but curvy frame.

"What stops me from killing all three of you and running away?" the elf challenged.

"Elves cannot use their magic to kill, and fighting us will draw attention to you," the slimy one tittered. "Besides, we hear you have been collared, and what chance does one elven girl stand against three grown men who served in the King's guard?"

"And even if you can fight us, people will come, and we will tell them that you went crazy and attacked us."

The magic fizzled and disappeared, and the elf glanced desperately toward the alley, but she could not outrun these men, and screaming for help would only bring more humans.

What was she doing here?

Why risk it?

The vocal manblood brazenly walked right up behind the elf and grabbed her, constraining her hands.

"You shouldn't have left the safety of your castle, half-blood," he said, licking her ear and the side of her face.

Derya's hand tensed around the haft of the Katarian dagger strapped behind her back, out of sight.

The slimy one unbuttoned her britches and angled his hand downward as something built in the air.

The humans were unaware, and the oppression lasted only a heartbeat, almost bringing Derya to her knees as she fought against the invisible force.

Something knocked her right off her feet and against the wall behind her. Instinct brought her upright, half crouching, as she stared at the elven girl with incomprehension.

The humans were gone as if they had never existed, and only their clothes and weapons remained. That inhibitor on the woman's right hand burned deep into the skin as if lava had touched her.

Her skin, formerly pale as all elves were, looked translucent, those eyes glowing blue and glittering.

What the actual fae just happened?

What was that?

Not elven magic.

Definitely not fae magic.

She touched her ringing right ear, and her fingers came away bloody.

Humans would soon come; she had to get the halfblood away from here, but what if it did that again?

Even as she thought this, the girl's legs folded, and she fell, but the wolf acted on instinct.

"You're safe, halfblood," she said, picking the woman up as if she were a child but couldn't hear her own voice.

Not that it did either, its eyes drifted shut, and blood flowed from its right nostril as they sped into the shadows.

Derya stopped just long enough to cover her up and check that no one saw. Nothing moved, but that didn't mean there was no one there.

The smartest course of action would be to take the creature to Arandon, but then she'd have to reveal where she had been.

No.

To Andor's castle then, but first, they would have to escape the city, and there would be no coming back. So much for finding the oracle or at least finding out if she had escaped.

Although that fae marking painted on the pillar looked like blood, which usually meant someone had died.

Damn those beastly manbloods to hell for attacking the halfling.

Well.

They were already there.

She adjusted her hold on her cargo and forged on, every sound freezing her in her steps until she could determine its origin as she moved from shadow to shadow until she spotted the broken door of an old root cellar.

Perhaps they could hide there until nightfall.