Page 5 of Twisted Fangs

I clench my fists. My eyes, ever vigilant, scan the room, taking in the faces of those who share my doom. We are now bound together by fear and the cruel whims of our dark elf masters.

A girl to my left,her eyes wide and glassy, begins to weep silently. I want to offer her some words of comfort, but what comfort can be found in the face of such terror? Instead, I turn away, my gaze falling upon a young man with fire in his eyes. He catches my look and holds it, a silent conversation passing between us. There is defiance in his stance, a spark of rebellion that ignites something within me.

"We're not dead yet," he says, his voice barely above a whisper, meant only for me.

I nod, a small spark of resolve flickering to life amidst the overwhelming dread. "No," I reply, my voice steady despite the tremor in my heart. "We're not."

The door to the chamber creaks open, and a dark elf guard steps inside. His eyes sweep over us, cold and indifferent. "Prepare yourselves," he commands, his voice a cruel lash that cuts through the silence. "The hunt begins at dawn."

The room erupts into a chorus of whimpers and murmurs, but the guard pays them no mind. He turns on his heel and leaves, the door closing with a finality that chills me to the bone.

I draw in a deep breath, the air heavy with the heaviness of our collective fate. I think of my parents, of the life of freedom they’ve been denied, and a fierce determination takes root in my soul. I may be a slave, I may soon be hunted, but I refuse to be a victim. I will survive this hunt and spit in the face of those who seek to break me.

I rise to my feet, my movements deliberate and measured. The others watch me, their eyes filled with a mixture of hope and fear. "We need to fight, to survive this," I say, my voice carrying across the room.

The young man with the fiery eyes meets my gaze. "I'm with you," he says, his words a lifeline in the midst of the storm.

The others soon join in, their initial shock giving way to a shared resolve. We are tributes, yes, but we are also human, and we will not go gently. We will face the hunt with courage and a fierce determination to survive.

4

VALEN

The morning sun claws its way over the horizon and casts long shadows across the cobblestone streets of the village. I blend into the recesses of an alleyway, my presence all but swallowed by the early dawn gloom. A low, drunken laughter echoes off the stone walls. A few feet ahead of me, a dark elf guard stumbles from the tavern's embrace.

"Couldn't handle your ale, Lyr?" another guard calls out, his voice tinged with mockery.

Lyr, the drunken guard, waves a dismissive hand, his words slurring together, "Bah, it's not the ale that's the problem. It's the boredom, the endless patrolling. If only the excitement would start soon."

My interest piques and I step from the shadows, my boots silent on the cobblestones. The scent of spilled ale and stale bread wafts from the tavern's open door. I make my way inside. When I enter, I pull my cloak tight around my shoulders, hiding the telltale signs of my Vrakken heritage.

The interior is dimly lit. The air is thick with smoke and the stench of unwashed bodies. A crew of dark elves populate the room. Their boisterous conversations are a cacophony againstthe wooden rafters. I settle into a corner, my back to the wall. My eyes soon scan the room.

A group of merchants huddle together in the center of the tavern. Their voices, though hushed, carry the tantalizing hint of information. I lean back, allowing the murmur of their dialogue to wash over me.

"The nobles are growing restless," one merchant says. "They are eagerly awaiting the hunt."

Another merchant, a woman with sharp eyes, interjects, "Aye, yes. The yearly tribute hunt. I've heard they chose a few special humans as their quarry this year."

My fingers twitch.The tribute hunt. I’ve heard rumblings in the past but dismissed them as just tales of foolish dark elves.

"It's to take place deep within the forest," the first merchant continues, his eyes darting around the room, as if the very walls might be listening. "They say the nobles have outfitted the humans with tokens, trinkets that will lead the hunters to them."

The woman merchant leans in, her voice dropping to a whisper, "And when the nobles have had their fill of the chase, they'll gather for a feast. The bodies of the fallen will be strung up as trophies."

A growl rumbles in my throat, the faint glow of my crimson eyes intensifying. The thought of the dark elves reveling in their cruel sport stirs a tempest of fury within me. My mind races with the possibility of turning their celebration into a slaughter.

But doubt gnaws at the edges of my resolve. Is this the right time to strike? The risk is great—not just to myself, but to any humans caught in the crossfire.

I step forward. The merchants fall silent, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and curiosity. I toss a few coins onto the table, the metal clinking softly.

"Keep talking," I command, my voice as cold and sharp as a blade. "I'm interested in these... tribute hunts."

The merchants exchange wary glances before the woman speaks up, "Well, stranger, it's not often we see one of your kind taking an interest in dark elf affairs."

I flash a predatory grin, my eyes gleaming in the dim light, "Perhaps it's time things changed."

The conversation shifts, the merchants eager to share their knowledge for the right price. As they speak, I formulate a plan, the gears of war slowly turning in my mind. The nobles will not expect an attack during their so-called festivities—a perfect opportunity to strike a blow for my fallen clan.

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