From behind, Malick could hear footsteps drawing nearer, causing his body to stiffen with anticipation as he prepared to defend himself if need be. A hand tapped his shoulder, setting off a swift, reflexive response, and without a second thought, the dark elf swung around, delivering a powerful fist into the face of his unseen assailant.

“Bloody Hells!” the man cried, staggering backward.

Malick’s eyes widened in surprise as he recognized his assailant: the young man with the devilish grin he’d noticed earlier at the bar. It was a shame, really, that the man’s handsome face was now marred by a bruise, blood slowly trickling from his nose.

“Relax,” the young man winced, raising a hand to signal Malick to keep his distance. “I just want to talk.”

Malick gradually relaxed his fighting stance, though his muscles remained taut, primed to throw another punch if needed.

“I overheard you asking the barkeep about getting into Savantra,” the young man said, dabbing at his nose with a cloth he'd pulled from his pocket.

“What of it?” Malick responded sharply. Despite the young man’s slender, charming appearance, the dark elf wasn’t about to lower his guard for anyone.

The young man’s gaze flicked to the brand on Malick’s hand. “Dark elves are usually known for their battle prowess,” he said, “but they’re generally peaceful people.”

Malick said nothing, his expression unreadable as he studied the young man carefully.

The young man tilted his head, eyeing Malick with curiosity. “That lilac colored skin of yours—only found among Weavers, if I’m not mistaken,” he said, tapping his chin thoughtfully.

“Get on with it!” Malick snapped, his patience wearing thin.

“That brand, on your hand, too,” the young man remarked, his eyes studying the dark elf closely. “Anyone could see you’re not a typical dark elf. It’s curious to find a Weaver traveling alone.”

“What’s your point?” Malick snarled.

“My point is...” The man began, slowly circling Malick with a playful air, but Malick couldn’t tell if the movement was meant to intimidate or amuse. “I know someone of your kind has a lot of enemies... Having an ally could be quite beneficial, don't you think?”

The young man ran a rough hand through his short ginger curls and leaned against a wooden post that was supporting the tavern’s awning. With a confident smile, he extended his hand,“Let’s be traveling companions.”

Malick ignored the man’s attempt to shake hands, offering nothing more than a disinterested glance in response to his gesture.

Unfazed, the young man pretended not to notice the dark elf’s impudence and continued introducing himself. “The name’s Soren Dagger, though most call me Soren the Swift.”

“The Swift,” Malick snorted, a brief chuckle escaping his lips. “Not swift enough to dodge my throw, though?” Malick chaffed.

Choosing to ignore Malick’s jab, Soren got straight to the point. “I also need something from the Savantra,” he said, his tone steady. “I can help you get in. I have connections”

Malick regarded him with evident skepticism, his gaze narrowing.

“Traveling together would be safer for both of us,” Soren explained. “Especially for a lone Weaver like yourself.”

“What's in it for you?” Malick asked, his tone uncertain.

“I just need you to help with one teensy little thing,” Soren replied, pinching his fingers together to emphasize the word “teensy.”

Malick crossed his arms, “I'm listening.”

“Simply help me retrieve a book from the Scriptum Sanctum. That's it! Easy peasy!” Soren flashed his most charming smile, as if the task were nothing at all.

“Wait... you want me to help you steal a book from the Scriptum Sanctum?” Malick asked, incredulity edging his voice. “If we're caught, we'll be sent to Vorash! Even a Shadow Weaver knows when to avoid trouble.”

“Come on... Aren't Weavers always looking for trouble?” Soren provoked, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Not that kind,” Malick replied sharply, his tone leaving little room for debate.

Vorash was a barren, desolate expanse, stretching like a vast, unyielding desert. Its harsh terrain was home to malevolent beings known as Infernaliths—creatures that embodied pure evil. With dark skin, obsidian eyes, and twisted red horns jutting from their skulls, they were a terrifying sight. Their mouths, lined with sharp, yellowed fangs, only added to their sinister appearance. The Infernaliths cast a looming shadow over the forsaken land, their presence as ominous as the wasteland they inhabited.

For this reason, Vorash had become a place of exile for the criminals. Those cast into its depths faced not only the brutal, unforgiving environment but also the sadistic torment of the Infernaliths. These malevolent beings reveled in inflicting grotesque acts of punishment and suffering, their twisted enjoyment making Vorash a nightmare from which there was no escape.

By comparison, the Shadow Weavers seemed merciful. Though they engaged in deeds that could be deemed dark, the Weavers fought for what they believed was the greater good. They considered themselves God’s chosen, convinced that they were fulfilling a divine purpose by cleansing the lands of the unworthy. Unlike the sadistic Infernaliths, Shadow Weavers did not take pleasure in the atrocities they committed. Their actions were driven by a rigid sense of honor, rooted in the belief that, at times, contributing to the greater good required undertaking unsavory tasks.

Malick’s tribe held a firm conviction that if Shadow Weavers rose to power, the world would ultimately be a better place, even if the immediate benefits were not clear to others. This belief was rooted in the idea that the ends justified the means.

But for those unfortunate enough to be sentenced to Vorash, the relentless torment and suffering that awaited them in that cruel realm were far worse than the release of death—a mercy forever out of reach. Being exiled to Vorash was like being thrown directly into the Hells themselves!

Malick carefully weighed the young man’s request. A traveling companion could indeed prove beneficial, but the risk of getting caught in any form of criminal activity within the city of scholar’s walls was too great to ignore. Savantra was known for having strict laws and punishments and even the smallest infraction could result in death.

Shadow Weavers, despite their fearlessness, were not fools.

“I understand your hesitation,” Soren said. “If we get there and the situation seems too risky, I’ll back off. Honestly, I’m not all that eager to visit Vorash myself.”

Soren had noticed Malick glancing, earlier, at the inn  next door and saw an opportunity to build some rapport. “It’s getting late, and I see you’re not exactly prepared,” he said. “I was planning to stay at the inn tonight. Let’s grab a room—my treat. Tomorrow, we can gather what we need for the trip. Take tonight to mull it over.”

Though not entirely comfortable with the idea of spending the night with a stranger of uncertain trustworthiness, Malick knew he had little choice. Truth be told, he wanted to conserve what little coin he had. With a resigned sigh, he agreed to Soren’s proposal. The two young men proceeded to the inn, where Soren, as promised, paid for the room.

They agreed to share a single room—it was more cost-effective, after all. There was only one bed, and Soren had insisted that Malick take it. He didn’t argue. He removed his hide armor and carefully laid it in a neat pile on a decorative ottoman at the foot of his bed. The idea of sleeping in the same room as a stranger wasn’t ideal. Malick was suspicious that the young man might harbor ill intentions and was reluctant to sleep without his blade nearby—so he kept it close.

As he lay in bed, he thought about his village and wondered what had become of his mother and father. He wasn’t particularly close with his parents, but they were his family. In moments like this, where Malick felt adrift, he normally would have sought their guidance. Now, he had to rely on his own judgment, though a sense of wariness crept in. He had never been allowed to venture beyond the safety of their enclave. Lacking "worldliness," he feared his inexperience would lead to trouble—trouble he might not be able to handle.

He glanced down at the floor and saw Soren already fast asleep. He wondered if he could really trust him. He tightened his grip on his blade, keeping it close as he shut his eyes. He knew he wouldn’t be getting a good night’s rest—had too many things on his mind. But he closed his eyes anyways, allowing the darkness to settle in.

As one hour passed after another, he eventually slipped into a light and restless sleep.