3. Draknir

Idon't care much for company when I eat. It's nothing personal. It's just the way I've been put together.

The dripir is tough, and I don't quite like the stew that clings to it. Humans lack the skill to understand the finer things in life. And a good stew requires such skills.

The others don't question that I eat alone, and I respect them for that. I try to finish the last of the dripir but end up emptying it into the ground. That'll do.

I walk over to the ragged hut where the rest of the elves eat and toss my bowl into the sink for washing, not by us, of course. That's what we have humans for.

"Joining us later, Draknir?" Killen asks me.

"What's the sport tonight?" I reply.

"There's an old one in the stocks. We're having a bet, ten daler for the first one that throws a dagger through his eye from fifty paces," Killen says.

"Maybe," I reply, but I have no interest. Old men aren't sport to me. Give me an orc, a wild beast, and now you're talking. I'll leave them to it.

I leave them and walk towards my lodgings. This place stinks; the sooner we leave, the better.

But it's the life of a miou. Our caste, the second-highest, is an honor, a privilege. Many dark elves wish to be us, rich, skilled, and smiled upon by the gods. I wouldn't trade it for the world.

"Draknir!" a voice calls out through the fading twilight. I turn to see an elf whose name I can't recall, but out of politeness, try.

"Ah. Trakin, what can I do for you?"

"It's Parkerus, actually," he tells me with a nervous smile.

I couldn't have been further with that one, but he has taken it well.

"Accept my apologies, Parkerus," I tell him.

"Captain wants to see you," he says.

"Thank you. I will go now," I say, "By the way, the boys have a good bet going this evening."

"I heard," he grins as he takes a dagger from his belt and proudly holds it up. "Belonged to my father. Never misses."

Confidence rarely lacks in a dark elf. Even the lowest of our kind are held in higher regard than the humans we use for labor.

"May the Deceiver guide your blade," I tell him, and he hurries off with a pleased look.

I have no idea what the captain wants to see me for, maybe a ticket out here, something more deserving. I've watched many with much lesser talents than me rise quicker due to their connections.

But that has never held me back. Every promotion I have made has been out of merit and not through some rich uncle who is fucking the General's wife. And probably when the occasion arises, the general as well.

The captain's quarters are close to the village chief's house, most likely so he can keep an eye on him and his fat, red-faced wife. I care for neither; they are the worst that humanity has to offer, and that bar is low indeed.

I see the light is on, and the captain is home, so I go to the door, knock, and wait. It's not long before I hear a voice from within that I know as the captain.

"Come in, Draknir," he calls out. He knows it's me because I don't waste time, and orders are to be obeyed. I turn the handle of the wooden door. It creaks as it opens, and I enter.

The lit fireplace in the corner of the captain's study illuminates the room. The table against the wall has several maps, and a desk in the center is crowded with letters and a bottle. The captain takes the last from his glass in his hand as he greets me.

"Always trouble at the top, Draknir, always trouble at the top." He takes another swig from his glass but realizes it's empty. "Drink?"

I nod. It might calm the rage of the stew in my stomach.

The captain lifts the bottle on the desk, realizing he has only one glass, and calls out. "Horus!"

A tiny, portly human appears in the room as quickly as a flash. I note that he looks well-fed for a slave.

"How may I be of service, my captain?" he announces.

"I need a glass, Horus."

"Right away, my captain," Horus says, slipping out of the room with a bow.

"Good chap, a little odd even for a human." The captain laughs.

Obliged, I do as well. It's a matter of seconds before Horus appears back in the room with another glass. He carefully places it on the desk and bows out of the room again. The captain pours me a drink and hands it to me.

"From Milthar, the Minotaur might be a loathsome beast, but they know how to make good wine. I have a contact there. If you ever need a case of two, just let me know. All on the hush-hush, of course."

I take a mouthful of the wine and immediately understand what he is talking about. The flavors of wildflowers and sunbaked oak fill my mouth.

"Excellent choice, Captain, it is quite exquisite," I tell him. He is pleased with that.

"Now, to business, look, I have a letter here. Damn, the post takes forever to get here, so I apologize on behalf of our useless elves at HQ," he says, handing me an open envelope.

The handwriting on the envelope I immediately recognize. Even after all these years, I know that it's his. My father. The man who discarded me as a boy. He left me an orphan. And sent my beautiful mother into servitude.

I'm not even sure I have any wish to read it. I play with the envelope in my hands, crumple the edges, and take a large swig of the wine, emptying the glass.

"May I have another?" I ask the captain.

"Of course, my boy, fill your boots. I've got a cartload of this stuff fresh off the boat," he declares.

He takes my glass, pours the wine, and hands it back to me. "Are you going to read it?"

"I'd rather not." There's not much my father could possibly say that I'd ever want to hear. I'm of half a mind to toss the letter in the fireplace and watch it burn.

The captain opens the letter and scans it right in front of me. His sharp eyebrows rise.

"Your father would like to recognize you as his son formally. He'd like you to return to the fold and take up that position by his side. Put the past behind you and look to the future. In a nutshell, my dear boy," he states matter-of-factly.

I ought to have burned it. The nerve of my so-called father curls my mouth with anger. "That, well, is certainly a turn-up for the books."

"I thought as much, so I am going to speak candidly here, Draknir," his tone has changed, sober and careful.

I swallow my rage and try to look interested. "Thank you, sir."

"I've heard things. Someone in my position is always privy to, well, the freshest whispers in Orthani," he explains.

"I have no doubt your ear is trusted."

"It would appear that your father has suffered a loss recently, of which his sorrow must be acknowledged," the captain says.

I don't give a shit about my father's so-called sorrow. "Jasper."

"Yes, your brother."

"Step."

He shoots me a look. "It seems that Jasper was set to marry a wealthy, noble elf lady who would benefit your father greatly. However, without a son, that house of cards will quickly tumble." The captain raises his eyebrow.

"I understand completely," I say, crumpling the letter with my fist.

"If you choose to go, Draknir, I will make the necessary arrangements for you," he says.

"I understand, sir, but that will not be necessary," I say, standing up. A smile forms on the captain"s face.

"Home is not always where we expect it to be, my boy," the captain says.

I close the door behind me, and immediately, as the thought of my father consumes me, the anger rises within me. I think of the letter my mother left me, of the years that he stole from me, and I run as fast as I can. All I can think of is murder.

A pack of worgs snarl as I approach. They're lean. Hungry and desperate. Saliva drips from their fangs, which are longer than my fingers.

They really picked the wrong fucking day for this. We both snarl at one another, and I raise my sword, bringing it down with savage swings. I relish in my strength at the demise of the stupid beasts foolish enough to get in my way.

Then I hear a scream nearby. I stop and listen.

And I wonder what creature that could be.