Forbidden Bond: A Velthorn Tale

A candle flickered, casting dancing shadows across Borst's bloated face. He leaned back in his creaking chair, a malicious grin spreading across his features as he listened to his informant's report.

"So, the elk rider and his little green pet have finally arrived," Borst mused, his fingers drumming on the worn wooden desk. "And you're certain it was them?"

The weaselly man before him nodded frantically. "Yes, m'lord. Saw 'em with me own eyes, I did. Walked right through the gates, bold as you please. The elk was hard to miss, and the small one... well, the lad tried to hide her, but I caught a glimpse of green skin beneath that cloak."

Borst's grin widened. "Excellent work," he said, reaching into a pouch at his belt. Producing a gleaming gold coin, tossing it to the informant with a flick of his wrist. "Your loyalty will not be forgotten."

The man's eyes lit up at the sight of the gold. He snatched it from the air, bowing so low his nose nearly touched the floor. "Thank you, m'lord! Thank you! You're too kind, truly!" he babbled, backing towards the door.

"Yes, yes," Borst waved dismissively. "Now get out of my sight."

As the door closed behind the still-groveling informant, Borst's expression hardened. He raised his voice, calling out, "Rawl! Get in here!"

The door swung open again, revealing a mountain of a man. Rawl ducked to enter the room, his broad shoulders nearly scraping the doorframe. His face was a patchwork of scars, and his small eyes glinted with cruel intelligence.

"You called, boss?" Rawl rumbled, his voice like gravel in a metal bucket.

Borst leaned forward, his chair groaning under his weight. "Our quarry has arrived in the city. I want you to gather a couple of our best men and hit the streets. Find the elk rider and his goblin companion."

Rawl's scarred lips twisted into a savage grin. "And when we find 'em?"

"Take them alive," Borst commanded, his tone brooking no argument. "The Veldrins want them in one piece. But," he added, a cruel glint in his eye, "feel free to rough them up a bit. Teach them the price of meddling in affairs beyond their understanding."

"As you wish, boss," Rawl chuckled, cracking his massive knuckles. "We'll bring 'em to you trussed up like festival hogs."

As Rawl's hulking form retreated from the room, Borst leaned back in his chair once more. His mind raced with possibilities, visions of power and wealth dancing before his eyes.

The Veldrins had promised him much for this task – gold beyond measure, influence in the highest circles of the kingdom. But Borst's ambitions stretched further still. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to indulge in his most treasured fantasy.

He saw himself seated in a grand hall, not this cramped, dim room. Fine tapestries adorned the walls, and supplicants bowed before him. In this vision, he was no longer just Borst, the shadowy power broker of Sablewood's underworld. No, he was Lord Borst, master of the city, a power to be reckoned with throughout the Northern Kingdom.

A cruel smile played across Borst's lips as he savored the imagined scene. Soon, he thought. Soon, the elk rider and his goblin would be in his grasp. And with them, the key to all his dreams of power and glory.

Borst's eyes snapped open, the fantasy fading but leaving him filled with renewed purpose. He reached for a bottle of wine on his desk, pouring himself a generous measure. As he raised the goblet to his lips, he toasted his own imminent success.

"To the future Lord of Sablewood," he murmured, before draining the cup in one long swallow.

Gunter led Mikhail, Anora, and Bakule through the winding back alleys of Sablewood. The cobblestones were slick with grime, and the stench of refuse filled the air. As they ventured deeper into the city's underbelly, the atmosphere grew noticeably more tense.

Mikhail's eyes darted from side to side, taking in their surroundings. Gone were the colorful market stalls and bustling crowds of the main streets. Here, shadows seemed to cling to every corner, and suspicious eyes followed their every move.

"Are you sure this is the right way?" Mikhail whispered, eyeing the decrepit buildings looming over them.

Gunter nodded grimly. "Aye. The kind of help you're looking for... it doesn't exactly advertise in the town square."

Anora's grip on Mikhail's hand tightened as they passed a group of particularly menacing-looking men. Their scarred faces and cruel eyes followed the group's progress, hands resting casually on weapon hilts. Mikhail felt Anora press closer to his side, her orange eyes wide with apprehension.

They passed a run-down tavern, its door hanging crookedly on rusted hinges. The sour smell of cheap ale wafted out, along with the low murmur of rough voices. As they walked by, conversation seemed to halt. Patrons turned to stare, their faces half-hidden in the gloom. Some openly glared, while others whispered to each other, never taking their eyes off the strange procession.

Mikhail straightened his back, trying to project confidence he didn't entirely feel. He glanced down at Anora, giving her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "It'll be alright," he murmured. "We're almost there... right, Gunter?"

From the corner of his eye Mikhail could see movement, and soon Gunter's path was suddenly blocked by a hulking figure. The man, easily a head taller than Gunter and twice as wide, crossed his arms and glared down at them.

"This ain't no place for a city guard," the man growled.

Gunter didn't flinch. "Step aside," he commanded, his voice firm. "Unless you want me to bring the entire guard garrison down here and haul all of you off to jail." He said, glaring at all of the others leaned against the wall of the shop then returning his gaze back to the large man.

For a tense moment, the two men locked eyes, neither willing to back down. Mikhail held his breath, feeling Anora's grip on his hand tighten. Finally, the large man grunted and moved aside, returning to his spot against a nearby wall.

As they continued walking, Mikhail leaned in close to Gunter. "Did you know that guy?"

Gunter shook his head. "No, but I've learned you can't back down with these types. They respect someone with a backbone."

They walked for another few minutes, covering another block before Gunter pointed ahead. "There it is."

Lorna's shop came into view, tucked into a dark corner near the city wall. It was surrounded by warehouses and other nondescript buildings, seemingly intent on blending into the shadows.

As they approached, Mikhail felt a change in the air. It was subtle but unmistakable – a heaviness that seemed to press down on them. Beside him, Anora shivered, and even Bakule snorted nervously, shaking his antlered head.

Gunter stopped short of the shop's entrance. "This is where I leave you," he said, his voice low. "I've heard stories about Lorna's reputation. I'd rather wait out here with Bakule, if it's all the same to you."

Mikhail nodded, understanding the unspoken warning in his friend's words. He turned to Anora, whose orange eyes were wide with a mix of fear and determination. "Ready?" he asked softly.

As they approached the door, Mikhail reached out to push it open. Just before his hand touched the weathered wood, Gunter called out.

"Mikhail!" His friend's voice was urgent. "Be careful in there. And remember – make sure you're willing to pay the price. Whatever Lorna asks... it might be more than you expect."

Mikhail paused, considering Gunter's warning. He looked down at Anora, then back at his friend. With a determined nod, he turned back to the door.

Taking a deep breath, Mikhail pushed it open. He felt Anora's small hand slip into his, gripping it tightly. Together, they stepped over the threshold and into Lorna's shop. The door swung shut behind them with a soft thud, leaving Gunter and Bakule in the alley outside.

As their eyes adjusted to the gloom, Mikhail and Anora found themselves in a narrow room filled with shelves. Jars and vials lined the walls, their contents barely visible in the low light. The floorboards creaked beneath their feet as they ventured further inside, unsure of what – or who – they might find.

Rawl and his two cohorts strode through the market area, their eyes scanning the crowd for any sign of their quarry. They had backtracked from the city gate, questioning various informants and passersby about the elk rider and the goblin. Some had required a bit of... persuasion to loosen their tongues.

Now, Rawl found himself speaking to the weapons vendor. The man nervously recounted the incident with the baker earlier that day. Rawl's eyes narrowed as he listened, then he nodded to his men and crossed the street to the bakery.

Rawl ducked through the bakery door, the bell jingling overhead. The baker looked up, his face paling slightly at the sight of the imposing man. "What do you want?" he asked gruffly, wiping his flour-covered hands on his apron.

Rawl's eyes scanned the shop before settling on the baker. "Heard there was some trouble here this morning," he rumbled. "Something about a goblin?"

The baker's face darkened, his hands clenching into fists. "Aye, a thieving little goblin wench. Stole some of my best pastries, she did."

"Tell me what happened," Rawl pressed, leaning against the counter.

The baker snorted. "Not much to tell. Caught her red-handed, I did. Was about to teach her a lesson when some guardsman stepped in. Paid me for the pastries and told me to go back inside."

Rawl's eyebrow raised. "A guardsman, you say? That's interesting."

"Interesting?" the baker scoffed. "It's a bloody nuisance, is what it is. Can't even protect my own shop anymore."

"Did you hear where they were headed?" Rawl asked, his tone casual but his eyes sharp.

The baker paused, thinking. "Didn't see which way they went, but..." he lowered his voice, leaning in. "I heard them mention the witch Lorna." He looked about as if expecting something to happen to him.

Rawl grunted, reaching into his pocket. He tossed a gold coin onto the counter. "For your trouble."

The baker snatched up the coin, biting it to test its authenticity. Satisfied, he pocketed it, then looked back at Rawl suspiciously. "What's your interest in this, anyway?"

Rawl's scarred face twisted into a grin. "Just doing my job, baker. Just doing my job."

The baker's eyes narrowed. "Right. Well, you've got what you came for. Now get out of my shop."

Rawl chuckled, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "As you wish." He turned to leave, then paused at the door. "Oh, and baker? If you see that goblin again..."

"Yeah?"

"Don't do anything. Just send word to Borst. There'll be more gold in it for you."

The baker nodded slowly, a greedy glint in his eye. "Aye, I can do that."

Rawl stepped out into the street, rejoining his men. He turned to one of them. "Go get a couple more lads. Inform Borst, then meet us at the warehouse near Lorna's."

As the man hurried off, Rawl and his remaining companion set off towards the seedier part of town. A grim smile played across Rawl's scarred face. The hunt was nearly over.

As their eyes adjusted to the gloom, Mikhail and Anora found themselves in a narrow room filled with shelves. Jars and vials lined the walls, their contents barely visible in the low light. The floorboards creaked beneath their feet as they ventured further inside, unsure of what – or who – they might find.

The interior of the shop was dimly lit and acrid, a strange mix of herbs and something Mikhail couldn't quite identify filling the air. Together, they stepped towards an old woman sitting behind a counter at the far end of the room.

Before they could speak, the woman's raspy voice cut through the silence. "Whatever you want, I don't have it. Best be on your way."

Mikhail cleared his throat, ignoring her statement. "Actually, we've been seeking your help specifically."

As they approached the counter, Mikhail noticed the woman's eyes. They were cloudy, unfocused. She was nearly blind.

"Are you Lorna?" Mikhail asked hesitantly.

The woman snorted. "I am. What of it?"

Lorna rose from her chair with a grunt, feeling her way to the counter. As she drew closer, Mikhail could see the cataracts clouding her vision. Anora's head barely cleared the counter as Lorna stepped up to it.

Lorna's milky eyes swept over them, lingering on Anora for a long moment. "Well now," she muttered, "you don't see that every day."

Mikhail's brow furrowed in confusion. "See what?"

Lorna's head snapped back to Mikhail. "Love, boy! Are ya blind?"

Mikhail felt heat rise to his cheeks. He glanced down at Anora, who shrugged slightly, her own face flushed as she avoided eye contact.

Clearing his throat, Mikhail tried to regain his composure. Before he could speak, Lorna cut in again. "Why are you here bothering an old woman, anyway?"

Mikhail took a deep breath. "A man named Thaddeus told us you might be able to heal Anora's voice."

Lorna chuckled, a dry sound like leaves rustling. "That old fool told you that, did he?

"Yes," Mikhail replied, a hint of desperation creeping into his voice. "Can you help us?"

Silence fell over the room for a moment. Then Lorna spoke, her voice low and serious. "I can help. But there will be a price."

Mikhail nodded eagerly, reaching for the leather pouch at his belt. "Of course. I have gold—"

"Not that kind of price, boy," Lorna interrupted, shaking her head. She turned her cloudy gaze to Anora. "You won't be the one paying. It'll be her."

Mikhail's hand froze on the pouch. He looked down at Anora, who stared back with wide, orange eyes.

Lorna leaned over the counter, her unseeing eyes seeming to bore into Anora. "Are you willing to pay the price for this magic, child?"

Anora hesitated, her small frame tense with uncertainty. After a moment of silent deliberation, she nodded firmly, meeting Lorna's gaze with determination.

"Very well," Lorna said, straightening up. "Follow me."

She led them to a room behind the counter. Strange carvings and symbols decorated the stone and wood walls, barely visible in the dim light cast by four candles in the corners.

"Lie down on the table," Lorna instructed Anora, gesturing to a wooden table in the center of the room.

Anora glanced nervously at the table, then at Mikhail. He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring nod. Slowly, she climbed onto the table and lay down on her back.

Mikhail moved to stand beside her, taking her small hand in his. But Lorna's voice stopped him.

"Step away from the table, boy. Unless you want your life force used for the healing."

Reluctantly, Mikhail released Anora's hand and backed away. He kept his eyes locked with hers, seeing the fear and uncertainty mirrored in her orange orbs.

"Will this kill someone?" Mikhail blurted out, voicing the question he saw in Anora's eyes.

Lorna turned her clouded gaze to him. "No. It's a simple thing to repair her voice. But it will cost something somewhere. Usually, for small things like this, it's a dead chicken or goat. But you never know."

She patted Anora's arm reassuringly. "It'll be fine, child. Now, let's begin."

Lorna stood beside Anora, fixing Mikhail with a stern gaze. "No matter what you see, do not interfere."

Mikhail nodded, his jaw clenched with tension. Lorna placed her left hand over Anora's neck and began to chant in a language Mikhail had never heard before. The words seemed to slither through the air, making his skin crawl.

The room began to rumble and shake. Strange creatures emerged from the shadows, swirling above Lorna's head in a dizzying dance. The candles flickered as an otherworldly wind whipped through the room, then flared up brightly.

Mikhail watched, heart pounding, as a light began to emanate from Lorna's palm. Anora lay still, her orange eyes wide with fear. Suddenly, a blinding flash erupted from Lorna's hand, illuminating the room for a brief, intense moment.

As quickly as it had begun, it was over. The room returned to normal, and Lorna wiped sweat from her brow. She looked up at Mikhail, her cloudy eyes somehow clearer. "It is done," she said, then shakily left the room.

Anora sat up, touching her neck. The scar was fading before their eyes, leaving smooth green skin in its wake. Mikhail stood beside her, watching in awe.

Hesitantly, Anora tested her voice, making soft noises at first. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she said, "Can I really speak?"

Hearing herself speak for the first time in years, Anora's eyes filled with tears. Mikhail, concerned, placed a hand on her back. "Is something wrong?"

Their eyes met, and before Mikhail could react, Anora lunged forward. Their lips met in a passionate, heartfelt kiss. Time seemed to stand still as they embraced, years of unspoken emotions pouring out in that single moment.

As they broke apart, their eyes locked once more. Anora's voice was stronger now, filled with emotion. "I love you, Mikhail."

Mikhail stammered, overwhelmed by the kiss and her declaration. "I... Anora, I—"

But before he could finish, the sound of the shop door bursting open interrupted them. Gunter's voice rang out, urgent and alarmed. "Mikhail!"