“Or my two hundredth win.” Loran shot back, then shook his head. “No. I have no intention of joining Dantel in Hokda’s office tonight.” A sly smile crept onto his face, his eyes trailing down Killian’s body. “But I could think of a few ways to burn off some of that extra energy you have. You’re always morefunwhen you’re worked up.”
Catching Loran’s chin in his hand, Killian drew it up so Loran had no choice but meet his eyes. Loran winced a bit at the grip Killian had on his jaw, but his smile and the heat in his eyes always proved he liked it.
Killian’s breath fanned lightly over Loran’s lips, making the shorter elf shiver. “Let’s go have some fun then.”
CHAPTER THREE
KILLIAN’S FISTS CLENCHED around his reins, knuckles white, his whole body ached for how tense he was as he rode through Turell's dusty main street. It was little more than a dirt path, well worn under his bay stallion’s hooves.
Turell was a small village in Netyere’s southern province of Torne, an added two days ride would bring Killian to the border Netyere shared with the human kingdom of Valle.
The province’s rolling hills and sparse population made it perfect for the cultivation of specialty vineyards for Netyere’s prized wines, the mellow climate and fertile soil boasting large bounties and plentiful harvests. Endless rows of grape vines, ripening purple and green fruits heavy for harvest spread out as far as the eye could see.
The best wines in Netyere came out of the Torne province. A fact the residents boasted constantly.
Only a few houses stood in the village center, smaller and simpler than their country counterparts, but cleaner and more ornate. They were home to the village craftsmen, ironworkers and tailors, and the village merchants who ferried the farmer’s barrels of wine to larger cities to turn a profit.
Not much for entertainment, Turell had only a single tavernand a vacant village hall.
The rest of Turell’s residents were scattered across the farmland in every direction. They made the journey to the tavern almost nightly after a long day in the fields as well as during times of celebration.
Life was good there. Life was simple there.
Killian was grateful for the empty streets. He didn’t want to deal with any prying eyes or loose lips, village elves eager to run and tell their neighbor thatKillian del Torauhad returned. Though he was sure word would spread soon enough.
Miles outside the village, through the fields and across the river stood a lone, single story farmhouse with a tall barn just across the way. They were weather worn and the wood had seen better days, but Killian recognized it in an instant. The sight of it like a physical blow.
It had been home once.
It looked exactly as he had left it a century ago.
Tying his horse outside the barn, Killian noticed that the other stalls were empty. He strained his ears, listening for signs of life. He heard nothing but a faint coughing coming from deep inside the house.
Apparently, Kade was already out for the day.
A weight lifted from Killian’s shoulders. He wasn’t ready to face Kade, yet. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever be ready.
The house was quiet. Eerie.
A rush of memories Killian had spent decades trying to forget all came flooding back at once. The sound of Tyr yelling, of Pella screaming, of Kade crying, and feel of poorly covered bruises.
Forcing his legs to move, Killian followed the sound of coughing.
Light amber eyes, widened when Killian all but materialized in the open doorway of the bedroom. A simple wooden bed frame and nightstand sat in the center of the room, a single chair off to the side. The smell of death and decay soaked into the very walls, like poison in the air.
Shoulders squared and his head held high, Killian prepared for a fight.
For a moment, they just stared at each other, a blanket of heavy silence settling over them.
Years past her thousandth birthday, Pella had managed to outlive many of their kind, though the time hadn’t been kind to her.
Pella was unrecognizable, sinking into the old mattress. Her once rich chocolate hair was cut short, choppy and dull; and what little she had left was beginning to matte into a gnarled mess on the back of her head. Her cheeks were hollow and sunken, clinging to the bone.
Gone was any trace of the vibrant rage Killian remembered her by.
By human standards, Pella may have been considered a sickly middle aged woman. Her elven aging had the years crawling by much slower for her than for any other race. So far past her prime, her body was failing her. Her organs shutting down one by one as she decayed from the inside out. No doubt she had lasted this long out of pure spite.
Killian had to admit, he respected her for it.
