The Battle for Evov

By Laurie Bowler

According to ancient laws, mythical beings and humans can't be together. Still, Ezekiel, a human, meets Jenilia, a mythical being, and their fate becomes tied together by many unfortunate events.

Farah, the second child of the sovereign of Evov, has slowly been implementing her evil plans. She has succeeded in killing her mother, the monarch of Evov, and has taken the throne. It's up to her sister, Jenilia, and her partner, Ezekiel, to put an end to Queen Farah's tyrannical and sadistic reign.

Together, Jenilia and Ezekiel lead their army through the lands of Evov to Farah's lair to defeat her and her Dark Army. This is their only chance for peace.

Farah, weakened from the battle, still refuses to relent and sends her Dark Army to kill all those who oppose her, including Jenilia and Ezekiel, the leaders of the uprising.

The breathtaking sequel to Mythical.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 13, 2024
• ISBN: 9781445786476

Laurie Bowler

Laurie Bowler is a bestselling fantasy author residing in Hampshire, a county in the United Kingdom, where she started writing fantasy fiction in late November 2009.    After reading hundreds of fantasy novels, Laurie knew she wanted to write within that genre. She set her mind to writing her first novel, 'Vanquished', which was then quickly followed by the award-winning Moon Rising series.  Laurie attended college and has gained qualifications in Creative Writing, Music and Health and Social Care. She is still undertaking as many academic courses as possible to improve her knowledge.  Laurie lives with her daughter, fiance and a houseful of pets, including eight cats and three dogs, to name just a few. Her new novel Mythical and its sequel, The Battle of Evov, have both been an immense adventure and creativity of her mind. 

Book preview

The Battle for Evov

Laurie Bowler

Contents

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

About The Author

Copyright © 2023 by Laurie Bowler

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact [e-mail]

The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.

Book Cover by Laurie Bowler

First edition 2023

ISBN: 978-1-4457-8647-6

Chapter One

The plan could have been better. Ezekiel fidgeted with his hood to distract himself from the tumultuous cocktail of fear, anger, and turmoil swirling within him. The streets of Evov were suffocatingly packed, elves crammed together so tightly there was scarcely room to take a breath. The idea of drawing a weapon crossed his mind. Still, the dense crowd made it impossible, not to mention an unwelcome escalation.

Yet, resorting to arms was not an option for Ezekiel, especially now, when blending into the background was imperative. His hood offered scant protection in the sea of elves, a flimsy barrier that felt increasingly inadequate. It would only take one curious glance or a moment of scrutiny for his cover to be blown. The discovery of a human in their midst would spark immediate conflict, and Ezekiel, the human in question, would be in the eye of the storm. Drawing his gun would become an unavoidable last resort.

It won't do you much good; he thought grimly, the reality of his precarious situation settling in like a heavy cloak.

Once upon a time, Ezekiel might have navigated his escape from Evov with his life intact; after all, he had managed such a feat before. But those days were long gone, overtaken by a new era where the southern elves had orchestrated a coup, dethroning the queen and seizing control of the city. These towering, cloaked figures, emerging from the shadows of windows, stalking the streets, and boldly traversing the open spaces, marked every corner of Evov. The paths of escape that Ezekiel once knew were irrelevant; being spotted by the Southerners meant particular peril.

Please, let me remain unseen, he silently pleaded, weaving through the crowd.

Despite his efforts to blend in, Ezekiel's stature made him a sore thumb among the elves; he was noticeably larger, and no amount of mimicking their movements, masking his scent, or adopting their manner of speech could disguise his human essence. His sole hope rested on the bustling chaos of the city—perhaps the sheer volume of individuals and the whirlwind of activity might render him invisible to their keen eyes.

Evov was a complex labyrinth carved into a mountain's flank, its architecture a multi-tiered puzzle of streets and dwellings. The paths were slender and winding, designed more for the lithe bodies of its native inhabitants than for someone of Ezekiel's build. The elves navigated these confines with a fluidity that Ezekiel could only envy, their movements harmonious and unencumbered. Engrossed in their own worlds, they seemed oblivious to his presence, allowing him to move, for the moment, as just another shadow among many.

Ezekiel couldn't help but observe them closely. Their alabaster skin stretched over elongated limbs, a stark canvas for the dance of shadow and light. He catalogued their armaments with precision—their preference for blades, an assortment of swords, and daggers, punctuated occasionally by the presence of a crossbow. And then, their visages: high, defined cheekbones and thick eyebrows framing faces of ethereal beauty, yet marked by an eerie uniformity. The elves appeared exquisite statues to any outsider, their expressions etched in permanent neutrality. This was typical, as elves rarely wore their emotions openly.

Yet, this observation didn't mean their emotions were entirely obscured. On the contrary, their feelings were intricately concealed, discernible only to those adept in the art of interpretation, much like Ezekiel. His prolonged exposure to their society had honed his understanding of their complex signals. The subtle rigidity of their mouths, a fleeting glance cast sideways—these minutiae revealed their concealed sentiments to him. The casual way their fingers grazed their weaponry was telling, revealing a layer of tension beneath the calm facade, a shared sense of disquiet that vibrated through Evov's very foundation. This pervasive sense of anxiety was understandable; the coronation of a new elf queen was an event laden with political intrigue and bloodshed. The silent air of Evov was heavy, each movement and gaze laden with the turmoil that had seized the city in the wake of the throne's last succession.

Reflecting on this, Ezekiel felt a knot form in his stomach. Memories, vivid and painful, haunted him: he had been in the royal chambers when Farah's treachery unfolded when Raffan conspired with the Southerners to ignite a rebellion. It had been merely eight days since Farah's blade had found Rishiana, spilling her blood across the chamber floor. How had the Southerners breached the city's defences, laying waste to its protectors and decimating the royal court? And Jenilia... The thought of her intertwined with these events brought an acute sense of dread, a reminder of how deeply the scars of betrayal and loss had been etched into the heart of Evov.

Conjurer on your left, Dourin said in Ezekiel's ear. When Ezekiel looked back at his elf friend, the other person raised his hat a bit and cocked his head to the side. Two in that window up there. 

Don't do that, Ezekiel said in a low voice. 

Another in that alley.

I can find them on my own. 

One more—

Dourin.

Dourin's gaze lingered on Ezekiel, a mix of irritation and reprimand colouring his expression before he eventually shrugged—a gesture so quintessentially human that its presence on an elf felt startlingly out of place, even dangerous, should the wrong eyes catch it. There was a fleeting moment where Dourin seemed to acknowledge his slip, the slight hitch in his demeanour revealing his awareness. With a cautious hood adjustment, he cast glances to his left and right, scanning for any observers who might have caught the inappropriate action.

Fortunately, the passersby remained oblivious, their attention trapped by their concerns, allowing the moment to dissolve unnoticed into the backdrop of the bustling city.

Tell me what you're going to do if we get stopped on the palace bridge, Ezekiel said in a low voice as they switched from the main road to a busy market. 

Nothing will stop us.

Then?

No.

Yet, Dourin's confidence bordered on arrogance. Having spent a month confined within the formidable stone embrace of the royal palace, Ezekiel was intimately familiar with its architecture, including the imposing, ancient black bridge that served as the sole entry and exit over the bay's waters. Given that elves traditionally despised swimming, this bridge was crucial. Considering Farah's recent ascension to the throne—an event that left her claim vulnerable to challenge—it stood to reason that she would fortify this vital passageway with a heightened guard presence, far more than Ezekiel had previously encountered.

Ezekiel surmised that Farah, wise to the precariousness of her new reign, would increase the number of soldiers stationed on the bridge and enlist the protection of witches to safeguard the queen. This strategic move would ensure a vigilant watch over the palace, deterring any who might dare to undermine her authority.

Then what? What is it? Ezekiel asked as he moved around a horse-drawn cart under bright lights. Do you think Farah's witches will let us in?" 

No, was Dourin's quick answer. But it doesn't matter. We're not going to the house. 

Dourin almost ran into Ezekiel when he stopped so quickly. He turned around. 

What do you mean we're not going to the palace?

Drop your voice.

That's the main reason we're here. 

We are here to find Jenilia in any way that will most likely not kill us, the elf replied. You might want to fight witches to get across the bridge— 

I never said that which makes sense since you like to hit your way through everything— 

I don't hit people—

Ezekiel angrily said, Oh, for God's sake, Dourin. He made fists with his hands. He knew they would get attention since they were arguing in the middle of the market. Still, he didn't lower his voice and move on; instead, he turned it up even more. Where will you find her if she's not at the palace? We can't search the whole city. 

If that's what it takes, we can. 

You're not very serious.

Dourin said, We owe it to her. We both do. 

Ezekiel crossed his arms, firmly believing he owed Jenilia nothing. Despite this, a whirlwind of thoughts plagued him, cursing Dourin's recklessness. The wiser course of action seemed to be patience, allowing the mythical figure to shoulder the immense risk. Turning back, abandoning this perilous quest to preserve lives, appeared increasingly sensible. After all, their initial escape from Evov had been a narrow one.

The decision to return, driven by the singular goal of locating Jenilia, bordered on madness. In the chaotic aftermath of the coup and the queen's assassination, only a handful of the royal entourage had managed to decipher an exit strategy from the besieged city. These individuals, witnesses to Queen Rishiana's brutal end, were paralysed by the uncertainty of their future. For eight days, they had lingered in the lower reaches surrounding Evov, embroiled in tumultuous discussions and, more often than not, in conflict. Dourin and Ezekiel emerged among these protestors as prominent figures, their influence unmistakable amidst the turmoil.

Given that Jenilia hadn't escaped alongside the majority, Dourin speculated she might have been captured in the conflict, possibly now detained within the city's confines. Ezekiel, harbouring deep scepticism about any news of Jenilia, posited another possibility: perhaps she hadn't sought escape, choosing instead a fate akin to her sister's deceit.

A third, unspoken option lingered heavily in the air, untouched by their conversation.

The silence between Ezekiel and Dourin only deepened, the tension becoming almost tangible. Ezekiel had been vocal about his reluctance to return to the city, spending recent nights attempting to dissuade Dourin, arguing that their energies could be better directed elsewhere. With the Southerners having successfully orchestrated Queen Rishiana's downfall and overtaken Evov, Ezekiel felt their venture back was ill-timed and potentially futile.

The rumours were clear: the Southerners had swiftly expanded their influence, systematically seizing control of the Elflands, city by city, under Farah's command and bolstered by her legion's unwavering loyalty. But their ambitions stretched far beyond these initial victories. After subduing the North, their sights were set on advancing westward, threatening to engulf Ezekiel's homeland in the middlelands in their relentless conquest. The strategy was to reinvigorate their alliances in the northern bloc and expedite their campaign. In the heart of enemy territory, they were chasing after someone accused of betrayal.

Ezekiel quietly revisited his doubts, his eyes tracing the expanse of the sky above as he weighed the uncertainties surrounding Jenilia's allegiance. The reality was neither clear-cut nor comforting; the spectre of her betrayal remained unconfirmed, an uneasy question mark between him and Dourin. With a moment's more reflection, Ezekiel found the notion of Jenilia's deceit at odds with her essence. Her dedication to her homeland was deep, and her service as a legionnaire was a testament to her deep-seated loyalty.

Moreover, the relationship between Jenilia and Farah was marked by distance rather than closeness. This chasm extended to Jenilia's bondmate, Raffan, as well. Given these estrangements, might it not be plausible that Jenilia had become an unintended casualty of the conflict? Could she be imprisoned within these walls despite her desires to the contrary, trapped by a turmoil she sought to escape?

It might have simplified matters if Jenilia were unequivocally the adversary. Such clarity would have given Ezekiel a straightforward reason for his turmoil towards her. Imagining Jenilia as a deceiver to the North allowed him to speculate on actions devoid of her usual principles and allegiances. He could identify specific ways she might have undermined Dourin and their allies. Yet, when it came to envisioning her betraying her nation or abandoning her values, Ezekiel found himself at a loss. It was easier to focus on the personal grievances—how she had misled him, cast him aside, and seemingly wished harm upon him.

Top of Form

If she's being held captive, it's unlikely she'd be in the palace, he reasoned. More likely, she'd be in the city's dungeons.

Are we heading to the dungeons, then?

No.

Typical. The elf was being difficult, Ezekiel mused. Dourin, this is absurd.

I have a plan.

Perhaps now would be a good time to let me in on that plan, Ezekiel's voice unexpectedly boomed, slicing through the market's din. He instantly recognised his blunder. More prudence was expected of him; he scolded himself internally, acknowledging their overextended presence had now drawn the curious gazes of patrons and vendors alike. Ezekiel's lapse in discretion had ignited scrutiny. His irritation simmered beneath the surface.

A fleeting hush descended, punctuated by the sharp focus of many eyes suddenly turning their way. Realising his mistake's irreversibility, Ezekiel scowled, bracing for potential confrontations. The crowd's attention intensified, their stares narrowing as they shifted between Dourin and the conspicuously prominent and out-of-place figure of Ezekiel. It was clear to all: he was no elf—merely a human, an outsider amongst them.

Didn't take them long, Dourin remarked with a hint of sarcasm as two witches entered.

Instantly, the mood of the market became indiscernible. With the approach of the witches, the crowd instinctively parted, drifting away from Ezekiel and Dourin and towards the newcomers, creating a space that ebbed and flowed around them. Suddenly, there was ample room for action, whether to draw a weapon or to launch an attack.

Ezekiel moved closer to support Dourin, his hand instinctively reaching for the green glass blade at his side, readying himself for what may come. He pushed aside thoughts of their disadvantage in numbers. Ezekiel's experiences with summoning visions had been fraught with difficulty. He recalled these magicians' unique methods, altering their environment and ascending to power through enchantments that bent reality—shadow-winding, storm-conjuring, and veiling visibility. Should any of these sorcerers attempt to bewitch him now, his sword would be useless against their magic.

Ezekiel turned to Dourin, urgency lacing his voice. Please figure out a way to get us out of this.

Oh, you do make things interesting, Dourin quipped.

Ezekiel's gaze swept over the encircling magicians, the constricted paths, and the charming storefronts that framed their predicament. They were thoroughly hemmed in, with no apparent escape in sight.

It wasn't meant to be funny.

Really? Well, listen up. We need a diversion, Dourin suggested.

A diversion?

See the brazier behind you.

Glancing back, Ezekiel spotted a fire bowl nestled in a metal grid, a standard device merchants used to warm their wares against the mountain's chill. The idea almost coaxed a laugh from him. Toppling it might grant them a momentary reprieve at best. Yet, even the most pessimistic mind couldn't deny the potential chaos it would unleash. In his mind's eye, Ezekiel envisioned the city ablaze, a consequence far beyond a simple diversion.

Is that seriously the plan?

Just wait for my signal.

By the gods, you're actually serious, Ezekiel mumbled.

One.

Ezekiel tensed, poised on the balls of his feet amidst the bustling market. Elves surrounded them, any one of whom might decide to draw a weapon. The approaching enchanters swiftly narrowed the distance, yet the crowd remained strangely passive, with no hint of aggression.

Two.

Ezekiel's thoughts raced to how the northern elves perceived Farah's ascendency. Her strategy seemed incongruent with the traditional balance of power. Utilising a loophole in Evov's ancient safeguards, Farah had infiltrated the city with a formidable force of southern warriors and sorcerers, executing a swift and brutal coup. Though part of Ezekiel acknowledged the plan's cunning, its sheer audacity and cruelty filled him with dread. Such a feat, he pondered, seemed beyond even those born and bred for conquest.

Three!

As Dourin shouted the signal, Ezekiel acted, his foot striking the brazier with force. Embers and flames scattered in a wild dance, creating instant chaos. Seizing the moment, he and Dourin darted away, weaving through the stunned crowd and back into the labyrinth of Evov's streets. As they fled, Ezekiel dared to hope their abrupt departure had thrown their pursuers off their trail. Their survival now hinged on the slim chance they had indeed managed to lose them.

Their escape was short-lived, as Ezekiel immediately caught the telltale sound of cloaks billowing and the distinct tread of boots on cobblestones close behind them. Risking a glance back confirmed his fears: two dark-haired sorcerers were swiftly gaining on them.

Ezekiel's adrenaline surged, propelling him forward with renewed velocity. He matched Dourin's pace as the elf sharply turned right, then another quick right. They navigated a maze of simple, tall buildings chiselled into the cliffside, a complex network of alleys and hidden passages. The pursuit was relentless, with the witches mere shadows behind them. The city's layout and pedestrian-only pathways allowed for nimble escapes through less conspicuous routes. Yet, Ezekiel focused solely on the chase, the cityscape blurring into insignificance around him.

Abruptly, the sound of their pursuers vanished. Ezekiel spun around for a final, cautious inspection—the street was deserted, and their chasers seemingly disappeared.

Ezekiel drew his sword instantly, anticipating deception, expecting their adversaries to emerge suddenly, weapons ready.

Dourin stopped alongside him.

Put that away, Dourin advised.

Despite Dourin's suggestion, Ezekiel's gaze darted to nearby windows and rooftops, then upward to a labyrinth of aerial walkways and apertures. They had ventured into a quieter, more residential area of the city, distinguishable by its rudimentary architecture. The buildings here bore a primal aspect; their surfaces were rougher, and the stone cuts were less refined than those in Evov's commercial heart, resembling structures wrought from a child's play with earth.

Dourin's voice cut through the tension, Put it away. Do you not see you're in full view of the entire street?

But the sorcerers—

They're gone.

Ezekiel couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss. The sorcerers had been hot on their heels mere moments ago. Yet, as Dourin slipped through the front door of a nearby house without awaiting a response, not bothering to conceal their entry, Ezekiel followed without hesitation.

What—?

You wondered where we were heading, Dourin interrupted, venturing deeper into the dwelling. Well, now you have your answer. We've arrived.

Confusion clouded Ezekiel's thoughts, still trapped by the memory of the chase. His mind replayed the sight of their cloaks fluttering, the soft sounds of their footsteps, the fleeting presence of danger—then nothing. As if the pursuit had dissipated like smoke, leaving no trace. Lost in these reflections, Ezekiel barely registered the interior of the clandestine house or the significance of the knife Dourin held as they stepped inside and shut the door. Caught in the turmoil of unanswered questions, Ezekiel was left grappling with the reality of their sudden sanctuary.

It wasn't until the cold blade pressed against Ezekiel's throat that he froze, his gaze dropping to the lethal sharpness before meeting the eyes of the elf wielding it. Observing the blue veins that stood out against fair skin, the delicate white hairs, and the tense muscles, Ezekiel noted the elf's wrist's fluid motion and the ease with which his fingers gripped the knife's handle. This individual possessed a skilled familiarity with weapons, knowing precisely how to wield and position them for maximum effect.

Ezekiel chided himself internally, Ezekiel, you fool. Did you really expect a friend? A benign inhabitant? Perhaps a divine mercy, but only once.

Mateo, called Dourin from Ezekiel's left, breaking the tense silence. Lower your weapon.

Mateo, the elf in question, kept his gaze locked on Ezekiel, suspicion evident in his posture. Why are you in my house?

We've been through a bit of an ordeal, Dourin explained calmly.

And your solution was to come here?

Don't make me repeat myself, Dourin warned, low voice edging with impatience.

Had Ezekiel's mind not been clouded by the immediacy of danger, he might have reminded Dourin of the peril of provoking a potential adversary.

Dourin's insistence, Put down the weapon, eventually bore fruit to Ezekiel's astonishment. Mateo relented, stepping back to sheathe his sword, then seamlessly blending his arms into the wide sleeves of his robe. With the blade now out of reach, he seemed far removed from any intent to harm, a stark contrast to moments before. Mimicking this cautious détente, Ezekiel drew back, folding his arms, his gaze sweeping the sparse hallway, lamenting the absence of a hidden blade for self-defence—just in case Mateo reconsidered or their witch pursuers reemerged.

His scrutiny returned to Dourin as Mateo observed, That door was locked.

Always a pleasure, Dourin retorted, light-heartedness lacing his tone.

Do you have the key? Mateo inquired, curiosity piqued.

Kept one handy for such occasions, Dourin replied with a grin. Now, how about offering us a drink? Someplace to rest? What kind of greeting is this for an old friend, Mateo?

Mateo was a sight, even among elves known for their beauty. Uniquely sculpted, he stood out with his sombre expressions and pronounced features, larger and distinctively different in complexion from the typically fair-skinned elven folk. His hair, a departure from the elfin norm, was neither sleek nor straight but curled and medium length. Yet, his eyes sparkled with the familiar elven luminescence. Ezekiel felt a prickling reminder at his neck of Mateo's demonstrated skill with a blade.

You shouldn't be here, Mateo cautioned.

Dourin's smile dimmed, Seems your welcome hasn't warmed with age.

The Dark Queen is on your trail.

So, Farah's been dubbed the Dark Queen now? Dourin mused.

This is no laughing matter.

I'm not joking, Dourin assured, his demeanour remarkably calm for someone who had narrowly eluded the queen's sorcerers. He casually crossed his arms and legs, leaning against the wall casually. In stark contrast, Mateo stood openly yet with a guarded watchfulness that was palpable.

We've been spotted by Farah's witches, so it seems wise to lay low until we're no longer pursued. We're counting on your assistance, Dourin proposed.

And why should my feelings on the matter change? What's in it for me? Mateo's indifference was evident.

Do we really have to transact on favours now? Dourin challenged.

It appears we do, Mateo countered, his stance unyielding.

Dourin shrugged, though it was clear there was an underlying tension between him and Mateo, the cause of which was not immediately apparent. Dourin's agitation wasn't just about escaping from the palace; he seemed deeply troubled, his facade barely concealing his turmoil.

Let's just say you'd be supporting a cause worth believing in, Dourin finally said, glancing significantly towards Ezekiel. You do know who he is, right?

His reputation precedes him, Mateo acknowledged quietly.

That should give you a clue as to why Farah and her minions are following us.

I've caught wind of some rumours, Mateo admitted reluctantly.

Good enough, Dourin concluded with a faint hint of satisfaction.

Their exchange seemed to momentarily ease the strain as Dourin then wandered off, the sound of him rummaging through what seemed like a kitchen echoing shortly after. Mateo made no move to follow or stop him. Despite his desire to leave, Ezekiel remained stationary, not wanting to provoke this new, enigmatic elf.

A heavy silence fell between them, laden with unspoken thoughts, as they regarded one another.

Chapter Two

At last, Mateo broke the silence, You're full of surprises. His words weren't exactly welcoming, but they neared it. As Ezekiel relaxed slightly, he unconsciously made an Elvish gesture of openness, allowing him to meet Mateo's gaze directly. I wasn't certain the rumours were true—that you spoke Elvish. It's unusual for a human to master our tongue, Mateo observed, shifting into Elvish for emphasis. It's said that one cannot lie in Elvish.

In Elvish, lies are impossible, Ezekiel responded fluently, his pronunciation precise and effortless, a testament to his sincerity.

Indeed, Mateo conceded, reverting to the common tongue of the Mainland. I suppose not, he mused, his attention momentarily drifting towards the sound of Dourin rummaging in the distance. He's always been too bold for his own good. I'd almost forgotten that trait.

Ezekiel, taken aback by the casual critique, added, And he's quite self-assured.

He's infuriating.

You're telling me.

A flicker of curiosity replaced the suspicion in Mateo's eyes as he gave Ezekiel another glance, this time with a hint of amusement. Their conversation, brief as it was, forged a tentative connection.

They proceeded down the hallway together, entering a kitchen that defied Ezekiel's expectations of elven homes. Mateo's dwelling exuded warmth and simplicity, unlike the grandiose and austere architecture he had seen in the elven city and the royal palace. The kitchen, with its low ceiling, reminded him vaguely of Irek. The lively fire in the corner, neatly arranged containers, and a pot of stew simmering on the stove all contributed to an unexpectedly homey atmosphere—the wooden table and chairs, adorned with plush furs, added to the room's inviting feel.

Dourin's voice cut through the homeliness, No tea, he announced, holding a glass filled with a rich, earthy liquid. But I found your stash of rezahe. I took the liberty.

You did, Mateo acknowledged a trace of resignation in his voice.

You've made changes. Those curtains are a recent addition, Dourin said.

Ezekiel noted the draperies already drawn despite the early afternoon light.

They're for your protection, Mateo explained.

From the sunlight? Dourin queried, half in jest.

From the Southerners, Mateo corrected, settling into his chair with an elegance that belied a readiness to spring into action, though his weariness was apparent. The turmoil brought by the southern elves to Evov... Our city has been a sanctuary, impenetrable for millennia, and now… His voice trailed off, leaving an ominous silence. Ezekiel leaned against the wall while Dourin positioned himself near Mateo. Suddenly, Mateo shared, Did you know Farah has decreed our homes open to her forces? We're expected to provide shelter, clothing, and sustenance. The military barracks are overwhelmed. But these Southerners, they're barbarians.

Ezekiel understood the implication. Under Farah's unification, the southern elves were untamed and ruthless—diametrically opposed to the cultured beings of the North. Previously fragmented into tribes within the south of forests, their allegiance to Farah's banner did little to civilise their deep-rooted savagery. Now, with enhanced organisation and the queen's endorsement, their preference for violence only intensified.

Have they been cruel? Dourin's usually light tone darkened.

Only when their demands aren't met.

Have they harmed you? Ezekiel pressed.

Mateo paused, his gaze momentarily lost outside the kitchen window, then returned with a dismissive shake as though dispelling unwanted thoughts.

No, they haven't injured me. Yet, the city's essence has shifted. With Southerners patrolling every corner, hunting for Farah's adversaries, seeking conflict, safety has become an antiquated concept, Mateo solemnly stated. You came to warn us?

Ezekiel had indeed rushed to alert the northern realms upon