As Joran looked at her through slightly blurry vision, his breath caught in his throat. The elegant poise, the casual fluidity of movement, the overwhelming control in her presence—it wasn’t just confidence. It was mastery. And suddenly, he recognized her.

  Druna Myclerva.

  He had read of her in books buried deep in the palace library, the kind tucked away by archivists who feared the influence of certain names. Her legend had always seemed too precise to be real. A mercenary whose name once made seasoned warlords hesitate. A killer turned myth. But she was real. She was standing right in front of him.

  The Silver Phantom.

  She had once been the most feared blade-for-hire in the realm—not for brutality, but for what she embodied. Silence. Precision. Ghostlike disappearance. Where most mercenaries carved a path through their enemies with noise and spectacle, Druna left only questions in her wake. A noble’s throat slit in his sleep despite layers of magical wards. A tyrant assassinated during a siege without a single guard noticing. A band of elite knights reportedly torn apart in the dark, their weapons never drawn. And always, always, the stories ended the same way: no witnesses, no trace, no sound.

  She moved like wind between arrows. Slipped past enchanted sentries and silent mages like mist. Her blade never gleamed—just flashed once, and that was the end of it. It wasn’t just skill. It was artistry. To those who fought for power, she was a nightmare. To those who feared it, she was a promise.

  They said she’d once stood against a warband of giants alone and left only corpses behind. Another tale told of how she ended a civil war with a single night’s work—removing every would-be heir to a fractured throne before dawn. The whispers called her many things: a weapon without a wielder, a spirit forged in shadow, a blade that decided its own targets.

  But then… she vanished.

  No grand farewell, no final kill, no bloodstained legacy. Just silence. Some said she died. Others claimed she had been cursed—doomed to drift, unseen and forgotten. But the truth, Joran now understood, was something much quieter.

  Druna Myclerva had simply walked away.

  She’d left that path behind, retreating into obscurity, hiding her legend behind the wooden walls of an inn near the edge of the known world. Vandren’s Rest. A nowhere town in a nowhere borderland, where exiles and mercenaries came to vanish.

  And she? She ran the bar.

  She poured drinks. Kept the books. Kicked out the troublemakers. She’d built a place where fighters could rest their blades, where ghosts of the battlefield could pretend, if only for a night, that they were just people. No contracts. No war. No killing.

  The Silver Phantom had disappeared… but she hadn’t stopped watching.

  And tonight, she had moved again.

  Not as a legend. Not as a killer.

  But as something far more dangerous: someone with a reason to protect.

  Joran swallowed hard. Druna had returned from the fog of myth—and if the look in her eyes meant anything, she hadn't forgotten how to fight.

  Joran lay on the ground, his body paralyzed, his thoughts racing. His limbs refused to obey him, his breaths shallow as his mind swam in fog and his body screamed in pain. His eyes moved to see druna as she stood over him but that was all he could really move at this point.

  She watched the knights carefully, her expression unreadable, though her eyes flicked toward Joran with the briefest of glances. Then, without a word, she reached into a pouch at her side, pulling free a small glass vial. The liquid inside shimmered faintly, a soft blue glow pulsing from within. She pulled the cork free with her teeth and muttered, “Never thought I’d be using this for fucking paralysis…” With her other hand, she tilted Joran’s head back, her fingers firm but careful. He felt his jaw forced open, and before he could react, the acrid taste of the potion spilled onto his tongue.

  “Swallow,” she ordered, voice low. The taste was vile—bitter and thick, like crushed herbs mixed with iron—but he obeyed. The liquid burned down his throat, and for a moment, it felt as though his body rejected it. Then, a rush of clarity. His vision steadied, the fog in his mind clearing as sensation crept back into his limbs.

  He could move again. Slowly, weakly, Joran pushed himself up, his muscles sluggish but no longer frozen. His breathing came heavy, but he was no longer helpless. He shakily lifted up his sword and looked down to see he was covered in fresh cuts and bruises but he noticed that despite vaelin’s rage, he had made sure not to cause permanent damage on joran’s body. The sword was heavy in his hands to the point he could just barely lift it to a ready position.

  Druna rose smoothly to her feet, stepping between Joran and the knights who stood before them. Her hands drifted to the hilts of her blades.

  Vaelin, ever smug, tilted his head as he regarded her. “You’re interfering in royal matters, girl. It would be in your best interest to stand aside.”

  Druna’s fingers tapped against the hilt of her blade with idle rhythm, her pale green eyes steady and cold. “Royal matters?” she echoed, voice calm, almost amused. “Is that what they’re calling it now? Beating a bleeding man into the dirt? Draining his blood for fun?”

  Vaelin raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “The prince is… unstable. Dangerous. He attacked innocent patrons in the inn and resisted arrest. We're cleaning up his mess.”

  Druna gave a faint tilt of her head, silver braid brushing her shoulder. “Interesting. Because what I saw was a lycan throttling him in the street, a proud knight carving into him with surgical precision, and a druid siphoning his life out with a ritual I’ve only ever seen used on corpses.”

  Lorsan snarled low in his throat and stepped forward, claws twitching, the fresh burns on his arm still raw and peeling. His golden eyes blazed. “Enough. She knows too much. We kill her here and now.”

  Vaelin didn’t move. He looked Druna up and down, unimpressed. “You’re just an innkeeper who got lucky with a few kicks.”

  “Is that so?” Druna asked, voice still light. “You didn’t seem very lucky after I kicked you across the street.”

  Vaelin’s eyes narrowed.

  But Lorsan wasn’t listening. His entire stance had shifted—lower, more feral. He wasn’t posturing anymore. He was preparing to strike.

  “That’s no innkeeper,” he growled. “That’s Druna Myclerva.”

  Vaelin blinked. “Who?”

  “The Silver Phantom,” Lorsan snapped, fangs bared. “She’s a ghost story they used to tell new recruits. A mercenary who could kill a man before he knew she was in the room. She vanished years ago… no one thought she was still alive.”

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Vaelin scoffed. “And I’m supposed to care because… what? She used to be scary?”

  “She’s dangerous,” Lorsan snarled. “More dangerous than you think.”

  Druna smiled faintly, almost pleased. “You flatter me, beast.”

  Dain stepped forward slowly, his voice a rasping whisper. “We must… end her. Quickly. She will not... be swayed.”

  “Finally, something we agree on,” Lorsan hissed. His claws gleamed as he began to circle her.

  Druna didn’t move.

  Her voice remained calm, but there was steel beneath it now. “I suggest you three walk away. That boy lying on the ground? He’s ten times the man either of you will ever be. And if you take another step toward him—”

  Her twin blades were already in her hands, smooth as breath.

  “—you’ll find out just how much I’ve missed the art of killing.”

  Vaelin rolled his eyes and drew his blade. “Fine. Let’s kill the ghost, then.”

  “Gladly,” Lorsan growled.

  Druna’s eyes narrowed. “Try.”

  Joran, still unsteady, met her gaze. His brown eyes were wide, his breath unsteady. He could see it—the moment of decision—the question unspoken between them.

  Then she whispered, so low only he could hear:

  “I need you to run.”

  His breath caught.

  “Don’t argue. Don’t fight. Just run.”

  Everything happened at once. Lorsan lunged forward on all fours, claws tearing into the dirt. Dain’s hands wove through the air, summoning thick, writhing vines that surged toward Joran. Vaelin disappeared in a blur, moving too fast for the eye to follow.

  Druna vanished.

  A flash of silver—vines sliced mid-motion, severed before they could ensnare Joran.

  A sharp crack—Lorsan’s head snapped back as Druna’s boot slammed into his snout, sending him skidding backward.

  A clash of metal—Vaelin appeared mid-strike, his blade flashing downward—only to meet Druna’s own sword, locked against his in a deadly clash.

  For the first time that night, Vaelin’s smirk faded. Until today he had never faced someone who could match his speed and power.

  Joran couldn’t help but watch in awe as this innkeeper—this phantom of an age past—held her own against two of the most feared knights in Lothara and a druid whose cruelty knew no bounds. Every strike, every movement, every perfectly timed step was a masterstroke in combat. She was not just fighting; she was dictating the flow of battle itself. And yet, despite how enthralling it was to witness, it took only a sharp, knowing glance from Druna between clashes for him to snap back to reality.

  Run.

  The order, unspoken but absolute, sent his sluggish body into motion. He turned on his heel and forced himself into a sprint, ignoring the pain that burned through his muscles, the raw ache of wounds both fresh and deep. He had lost too much blood, suffered too many blows, and the lingering effects of paralysis still clung to him like a phantom’s grasp. But he put his blade back into its sheath and ran anyway.

  High above, Lorsan vaulted onto the rooftops, moving with predatory ease. His claws dug into the wood and stone as he leaped from building to building, keeping pace with Joran before finally lunging downward. The prince barely registered the movement before a blur of silver intercepted him. A sickening crack rang out as Lorsan was kicked mid-air, sent hurtling into a wall with bone-jarring force. Druna vanished just as quickly as she had appeared.

  Sparks flared around Joran. He barely had time to register their meaning before another flash of silver cut through the air—Vaelin had been attempting to close in on him, but Druna intercepted him again, blade meeting blade in a cascade of arcane light. Every move he made, she was there, denying them any chance to take him. Dain, however, moved differently. He was in no rush, his steps slow, measured. A tap of his staff against the cobblestone sent a ripple through the ground, morphing it beneath him into a rolling wave of stone, effortlessly carrying him forward.

  Joran gritted his teeth, desperately trying to think of a spell to mend his wounds, anything that could buy him more time. But before he could focus, a chilling sensation wrapped around his ankles. He looked down. The solid ground beneath him had turned liquid, viscous and dark like thickened tar. He was sinking.

  Panic seized him as he struggled, but the more he moved, the deeper he sank. The once-cobblestone road had become a living trap, pulling him down inch by inch. Druna moved in an instant, but Vaelin was faster, intercepting her with a smirk. “Eyes on me, puny elf.”

  Joran was waist-deep now, his breath coming in rapid bursts. Lorsan shook off the daze from his earlier collision, prowling toward him with a grin. “Well, well… looks like Joran is a little stuck.” Dain’s floating platform coasted to a stop beside the trapped prince, his smirk deepening. “Yes… and now all that remains is to deal with the troublemaker.”

  Lorsan cracked his knuckles, anticipation gleaming in his eyes. “Leave it to me.” He bided his time, waiting until Druna and Vaelin reappeared in their dance of steel and sorcery, then lunged. Claws clashed against her blade, while her second sword met Vaelin’s strike in perfect synchronization. Dain crouched before Joran, watching him with dark amusement.

  “Just give up, Joran… there is no escape.” His voice was honeyed venom, soothing yet laced with cruelty. Fingers, cold and unnervingly gentle, caressed Joran’s temple as he squirmed away. “I have so much planned for—” A knife embedded itself deep into his arm.

  Dain’s pained cry shattered the moment as he reeled backward, clutching the wound. Druna’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding: “Joran! I told you to run, but for fuck’s sake, do something! I can’t do everything!”

  His pulse pounded in his ears. She was right. He wasn’t some helpless royal. He had been trained by the greatest mages of the realm. Fear might keep him from fighting, but it wouldn’t keep him from escaping. Gritting his teeth, he pressed his hands against the liquefied ground, channeling his magic. The earth softened beneath his touch, shifting, lifting—until he was no longer sinking but rising. Solid ground formed beneath his feet once more.

  He didn’t hesitate. He ran.

  Dain climbed to his feet, fury twisting his features. “Cursed bitch…” He wrenched the dagger free and tossed it aside, eyes narrowing as he watched Joran nearing the end of the street. His scowl deepened. “I suppose I have no choice.”

  From his robes, he retrieved a small vial filled with dark, shimmering liquid—Joran’s blood. Vaelin, locked in a clash with Druna, saw it too. His voice snapped with warning. “Dain, no! We aren’t to use that unless absolutely necessary!” Dain ignored him. His grip tightened around the vial. “I won’t allow my test subject to get away.”

  He downed it in a single motion.

  The glass shattered at his feet, and almost immediately, his body convulsed. A guttural cough ripped from his throat, sending plumes of smoke and stray sparks into the night air. His eyes burned a deep, unnatural red before flickering back to normal. He staggered, one knee hitting the ground as wooden, bark-like scales erupted across his skin before retreating just as quickly.

  A suffocating pressure blanketed the area. Druna, Vaelin, Lorsan—even Joran—felt the shift. The raw, overwhelming surge of magic was unlike anything they had encountered before. For a moment, everything stilled.

  Then Dain exhaled, a wicked grin splitting his face. “Let the fun begin.”

  He raised his staff and brought it down with crushing force. A shockwave burst outward, splitting the very streets. The ground cracked and heaved as massive, gnarled vines erupted from below, thick as tree trunks. They lashed out—toward Druna, toward Joran—seeking to ensnare, to crush, to end.

  Druna got separated from the knights but was already moving, weaving through the chaos, blades a flurry of motion as she severed the monstrous vines before they could reach her. Joran ran, firing beams of raw magic at any vine that strayed too close, but the living tendrils were relentless. They coiled around him, walls of greenery forming a closing dome.

  “Run, Joran!” Druna’s voice cut through the chaos. “Don’t worry about me—just run!”

  He panted, eyes darting, searching for any possible escape. The vines encroached, sealing him in. No way out. No way—

  A teleport spell. His mind latched onto the only viable option. It was risky, unstable given his condition, but he had no choice. If he could escape, Druna could disappear. He just needed to think of a location—

  A blur. A glint of steel.

  Vaelin appeared before him, blade raised high. “Gotcha.”

  Joran’s instincts screamed. Without thinking, he unleashed the spell.

  Light enveloped him—

  Then he was gone.

  Vaelin’s sword met empty space. For a heartbeat, he stood motionless, staring at the spot where Joran had been. Then, tremors of rage wracked his frame, his breath sharp and uneven. His fists clenched. The street echoed with his roar of fury. The prince had escaped.