𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐁𝐎𝐑𝐍 | ❝Monsters don't get happy endings.❞
Rennen of Skellige was a cold-blooded killer, an assassin from the mysterious Dark Brotherhood. She liked to think that a life of blood and bruises was what she was made for, a life that was...
‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾ CHAPTER FIVE ☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙ of the white towers
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IT WAS A DWELLING AT THE EDGE of the mountain, the anger of a woman the conduit for the current of magic that called to her. She had been the one to pray. The woman's voice echoed through the dwelling as she hit something—someone—with pure hatred. The anger was raw, and it fueled something primal inside the assassin as she stepped inside.
The woman stood in front of the witcher, hands closed into fists at her side. No, not a mere woman.
An elf. An Aen Seidhe.
The assassin watched carefully as the witcher butted her in the head, the woman fell back with a groan. She covered her mouth and began to furiously cough, her shoulders shaking with each hack that left her mouth. Blood dribbled down the corner of her mouth and her nose. Two others came in, straight to the woman, another elf and a Sylvan.
"He's Filavandrel, King of the Elves," the Sylvan said when the man tied behind the witcher asked.
Rennen rolled her eyes when she realised the bard from the tavern was tied behind the witcher. Back-to-back, like fish that had just been caught and were prepared to be sold at the market.
"Not a king," the other elf with blonde hair spat. "Not by choice."
A king, Rennen thought. What will Riordaine say when he finds that I met his king?
"You were stealing for them," the witcher spoke. His voice was deep and raspy, low but not unpleasant. It was the kind of voice she liked to hear.
The Sylvan turned to stare at the witcher. "I felt for them," he said. "They were forced out of Dol Blathanna."
"Forced out? No, they chose—"
"Do you know anyone that would choose to leave their home?" the king turned his head and stared at the tied duo. "To starve?" The same anger the woman held coursed through him, called to her like the lilt of a song. "To have a Sylvan steal for them?" The anger subsided into a gentle course as he turned his head to look at the woman.
"Toruviel, no one was supposed to get hurt." The Sylvan laid his hand on her shoulder.
The woman—Toruviel—breathed as best as she could as blood trickled down her nose. "What's two humans in the ground when countless elves have died?" she spat.
"One human," the witcher corrected.
The assassin rolled her eyes.
"And you can let him go."
Rennen raised a brow as her eyes moved to the witcher. She could not read his face, nor his body language, but she could feel there was something in him that rolled like the harsh waves in the middle of the sea. Merciless and loud, a tempest.
