An uneasy truce, and unravelling webs.

AN: No sex in this one, but plenty to come.

Markash was at the mayoral manor reporting on Isabella’s first lessons in opening her astral gateway when the town alarms began ringing. The mayor's eyes grew wide with alarm, and he bolted from his chair, his face paling. "What is happening?" He demanded, fear lacing his voice.

"Calm mayor Castellanos, I suspect this is your caravan arriving safe and sound." Markash spoke with an air of calm confidence, though his eyes betrayed a hint of concern. "Perhaps we should go welcome them." He suggested, his hand on the mayor's shoulder, guiding him towards the door.

They arrived at the town's western gate to find that the town militia had mustered and were manning the walls. A guard captain raced up to them. "I've never seen anything like it before mi'lord, the green skins are waiting. They arrived with a trade caravan from Mosspoint. It doesn't make sense." his confusion written deeply on his face.

Virrit stepped forward, her movements fluid and graceful, despite the chaos around her. "Please, peace." She gestured at Samuel's **** body. "Hurt, bad." she called out in the common tongue, her voice clear and strong. The town guard looked down at the stretcher, their eyes going wide at the sight of Samuel's bloodied form.

"Fuck..." He looked at the mayor who inclined his head in approval. "Open the gate." The militia guard rushed to obey and the town palisade's gate ground open it's rusty hinges struggling with the weight of neglect. The caravan rolled through, the smell of fear and sweat mixing with the sweet scent of their goods. Samuel lay on a stretcher made of tree limbs and beast hide, his body a canvas of blood and bruises. Virrit and the goblins looked like they had been through hell and back, their leather armor torn and bloodied, but their eyes shone with victory.

As the caravan rumbled through the gates, Markash's gaze remained on Samuel. He felt a strange mix of pride and concern for the young guard. He had proven his worth, but in a costly way. Turning to the mayor, who looked visibly relieved, he spoke with a tone of urgency. "Send for Maya of the guild. She has knowledge of healing and I will not have my man die after saving your caravan." If any of the guards were surprised by how Markash spoke to the mayor, or of Samuel's new allegiance, they did not speak or show it.

Maya arrived swiftly, her robes billowing in the early morning breeze, her eyes flickering with a mix of curiosity and cold determination. As the caravan pulled into the town's main square, the townsfolk gathered to see the commotion, whispering in hushed tones about the unexpected arrival. Samuel's condition was grim, but Maya's touch was filled with the warmth of healing magic. She directed the goblins and townsfolk to bring him to the makeshift infirmary in the guild hall.

Markash let her take charge of the healing of the young man, his worth proven should he survive. Instead he attended the assembly of the goblin scouts surrounded by the town militia. Virrit went to follow Samuel to the infirmary before realizing her presence was needed to keep the peace. She was the goblin representative. The town had never seen their kind in such large numbers and the tension was palpable.

"Magister Markash," her bow was deep and as formal as the goblin could manage. "The caravan is here. Our job is done." Virrit's words were a mix of respect and fear.

"So it is..." Markash let the silence sit for a moment watching as Virrit couldn't help but let her eyes dart to where Samuel had been taken. "Your people will be paid for your service and I will be speaking to Bagra Cinn about your service." He nodded to the goblins, their eyes gleaming with greed. They knew the score, gold and loot was the currency of the realm and they had earned it today. "Your people are dismissed, You've done well" The mayor watched the exchange, his own mind racing with the implications of what he had just witnessed.

While the rest of the goblin's packed their belongings, Virrit held back a moment. "Master, the male Samuel..." Markash couldn't help but catch the concern in her voice.

"Yes, Virrit?" Markash's voice was calm but firm, his eyes never leaving hers.

Virrit swallowed hard, her hands clenched into fists. "He's... hurt badly." She didn't dare speak of the bond that had formed between her and Samuel, not yet. But Markash's eyes lit up with understanding. He had felt the echoes of the demon's power, the ripples of their union. The demon within him whispered of the connection, the fiery passion that had claimed them both.

"Ah, I see." Markash's smile grew knowing. "You've mated with him, haven't you?" His words were a statement, not a question. Virrit's cheeks flushed a deep shade of green, and she nodded, unable to hide the truth. "You may stay with him in the Magi Peerage house. Maya will make accommodations for you."

The demon Aesraram within Markash stirred, sensing the new bond formed between Virrit and Samuel. It whispered into Markash's mind, filling him with a sense of satisfaction. The demon's plan was unfolding, and the connections between these pawns grew stronger by the day. The bond of lust and power that now tied them together was a potent one, and it was essential for what was to come. Virrit raced away, released by her master to attend her mate.

"Goblins? You trust these monsters?" The mayor opined from behind Markash.

Markash chuckled lowly, "They are no more monsters than any of us, Mayor Castellanos. You have your caravan. Send your militia to collect the bandit bodies, my goblin clan is clearing up their camp in the woods as we speak." He watched Virrit disappear into the guild hall, her movements swift and graceful.

Isabella, who had been quietly observing from a distance, approached her father. Her thoughts were a whirlwind of confusion and excitement.

"Father," she began tentatively, "What does this mean for us? For Samuel?"

Mayor Castellanos looked at his daughter, the weight of his decisions etched on his furrowed brow. "It means that Markash Roanan is a man of his word." He sighed heavily, the tension in his shoulders visibly easing.

"Mayor, I will visit you soon to plan our next steps. Isabella, come along." The girl glanced at her father, her look apologetic, but the urgency in Markash's tone brooked no argument. They made their way back towards the outpost, leaving the town to deal with the aftermath of the bandit raid.

Isabella, however, couldn't shake the feeling of unease that had settled in her gut. She watched as Virrit disappeared into the guild hall, her heart racing with questions she wasn't ready to ask. The goblin had been with Samuel, had shared something intimate with him, something that went beyond their mission.

She felt a twinge of jealousy, but it was quickly overshadowed by the realization that she had been left out of the loop. Markash had not shared his true intentions with her. and she was torn between her loyalty to her father and her growing curiosity about the magi's plans.

"You have something to add apprentice?" Mark's attention turning to Isabella.

Isabella took a step forward, her eyes lingering on the disappearing goblin. "Magister, I... I just wondered, what was the true nature of Samuel's mission?" Her voice was soft, but her gaze was sharp and searching.

"Part of my contract with your father. Nothing more. I did not tell him about the Cinn clan. Mortals are not exceptionally understanding of the other races." Markash replied. The causal way Markash emphasized the difference between them and her father was not lost on Isabella. "Normally bandits hit and run. When they stay in an area too long the town militia eventually get involved. But they did not in this case."

Isabella caught on. "Something was stopping him." She said more to herself than Markash.

"Quite, and now we just need to find out who." Markash said with a cryptic smile, his eyes seemingly looking through Isabella. The young girl felt a chill run down her spine, realizing that there was much more to her tutor's intentions than she had initially thought.

"And the goblins?" Isabella pressed, her curiosity piqued.

"A good opportunity for them to earn some favor. The goblins, like men, want security, food, and purpose." His eyes lit with a remembered night with the Chieftess Bagra Cinn. "They are far more complex than the monsters they have are seen as."

Isabella nodded, her curiosity still piqued. Markash knew she was smarter than that. He knew she wouldn't let it go without more answers. "But Magister, why involve Samuel in such a dangerous mission?" She asked, her voice tight with concern.

"The Sanders family has long had their claws in Merrit's Bend. They have been working tirelessly to weaken your father's rule. By allowing the banditry to continue, they hoped to discredit him in the eyes of the people." He paused, allowing Isabella to absorb the information before continuing. "I offered Samuel a part in my coming plans, but it would be an investment in him. I needed to know that he was willing to work for my trust."

"I am not one to let injustices fester," Markash said, his voice like the purr of a contented cat. "The Sanders family has been a thorn in Merrit's Bend for too long. By eliminating this bandit problem, I aim to expose their manipulations and bring their treachery to light." His gaze was sharp, his intent clear.

Instead of heading to the tower as Isabella assumed Markash walked past the outpost and deeper into the woods. She followed him, her heart pounding with excitement and fear. "What are we doing here?" She whispered as they approached the remnants of the bandit camp, the smell of smoke and decaying flesh heavy in the air.

The camp was a grisly sight, bodies torn and left where they fell, their blood staining the earth. The goblin archers had been thorough, leaving no survivors. The goblins themselves were gone, having taken their share of gold and supplies, leaving only the grim evidence of their battle prowess.

"Look for any sign of who paid them, any letters, seals, or symbols that might point to someone funding them." Markash's voice was a low murmur as they moved through the carnage. His eyes searched the ground, looking for any clue that might have been missed in the chaos.

Isabella swallowed hard, her nose wrinkling at the smell of **** and fear. She **** herself to focus, scanning the area with a new determination. The camp was a mess of discarded supplies and blood-soaked earth. It was clear that the bandits had been living here for some time, taking refuge in the shadows of the trees.

As they moved through the camp, Isabella's eyes fell upon a scrap of parchment fluttering in the breeze. She bent down to pick it up, her heart racing. It was a hastily scribbled note, the ink barely dry, and the writing was crude but legible. It spoke of a payment received from someone with the initials 'E.S.'. The mention of the Sanders family sent a jolt through her.

Suddenly, the snap of twigs underfoot alerted them to the presence of others. Instinctively, Isabella ducked behind a large tree, her breath hitching. Markash remained unfazed, his eyes scanning the surrounding woods with a predatory gaze. A group of armed figures emerged from the foliage, their faces twisted in anger at the sight of the carnage.

"I really wish you hadn't seen that" The voice was cold and sharp, cutting through the silence of the camp like a knife. Isabella's head snapped up, and she saw a figure emerge from the trees, his robes billowing in the breeze. He wore the same crest of the Sanders family. Two guards flanked him, watching the pair of Mark and Isabella closely.

The Sanders Magister stepped closer, his hand raised. "You should not have involved yourself in this Magister," he sneered, his eyes flickering to Isabella. "And you," he spat, "should have stayed home, the prim daughter." Sparks leapt from his fingers.

Isabella crashed into the ground, pushed aside as Markash took her place facing Bartholomew Sanders. The gout of fire sent towards them absorbed into an orb of pure midnight black floating over Mark's hand.

"Last chance boy." Markash snapped his had closed, and the orb bubbled away into nothingness. "I suggest you leave and let the branch family take the fall. I don’t want to have to kill you.” He didn't move, his posture relaxed but the power in the air was palpable. Isabella scurried to the edge of the camp, but stayed close enough to watch the duel unfolding.

Bartholomew Sanders, his hand still smoking, sneered. "You dare to threaten me?" His hand shot out again, and a bolt of fire shot towards Markash. But Markash was ready. He conjured a shield of darkness, the flames sputtering into nothing on impact.

Bartholomew Sanders sneered, his hand dropping to the hilt of his sword. "Very well," he spat. "You leave me ****." With a swift, practiced motion, he drew his weapon, the steel glinting in the dappled light filtering through the canopy. Markash's eyes narrowed, a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. He hadn't anticipated a confrontation like this, but he was ready. He drew his own blade, a rapier who's fluted blade rippled like reflected moonlight. He reached up, undoing the clasp on his cloak letting it fall to the ground.

Even from her distance Isabella could feel the two clashing auras, Bartholomew's of a barely restrained wildfire, **** to escape and ravage the land. and Markash's... it was unlike anything she had felt before. It was as if a hole in reality had opened up, a cold, empty void that seemed to suck all light and warmth into it. It was terrifying and mesmerizing all at once. The power that Markash exuded was ancient, a **** of nature that could swallow the very essence of the world. The duality from before was gone, there was no warmth, no life in his aura now.

They stood watching each other waiting for one to make the first move. Instead it was one of the Sanders guards who moved towards Isabella. Markash reacted, lashing out with his sword, from the tip of the blade a drop of purple and black energy no larger than a raindrop flashed away catching the guard in the throat and leaving a smoking hole. The guard's eyes widened in shock before he crumpled to the ground, a silent scream frozen on his lips, the black cracks spreading from the wound like spider webs over fine porcelain.

The other fled. Dying like that for a noble family was not worth it. Bartholomew's sneer grew into a snarl. "You'll pay for that," he spat. He charged forward, sword blazing with fiery malice. Markash met his charge with an eerie calm, his rapier a sliver of darkness in the sun-dappled clearing. The two men's blades clashed with the ring of steel on steel, sparks flying as their auras collided in a deadly dance. The very air around them grew hot with the intensity of their battle, the smell of burning leaves and earth mingling with the metallic tang of blood.

They broke apart each taking the momentary respite to collect themselves, An explosion at Bartholomew's feet sent him rocketing furiously towards Markash, blade forward with an empowered strike.

The air around Markash shimmered with cold, and a shield of night sapping Bartholomew's fiery ****. The magi stepped aside, allowing the shield to collapse. As the shards fell away, Bartholomew stumbled, his blade smoking. Markash was too fast, he twisted to the side, his rapier slicing through the air with the sound of a serpents hiss. It found purchase on Bartholomew's arm, the blade cutting deep. The Sanders Magister howled in pain, dropping his sword and clutching at the wound.

Isabella watched in horror, her heart in her throat. She had never seen such ferocity, such raw power from a human. Markash's eyes gleamed with a cold, predatory light as he stalked closer to his adversary, the demon's influence on him becoming more pronounced. He was no longer the tutor she knew, but a creature of darkness, a **** to be feared.

Sanders threw his arm towards Markash, a gout of flame desperately shooting from his palm. Markash smirked, his aura consolidating into an armor of pure darkness that absorbed the fire as if it were a mere trickle of water. The fight started as a draw, but as the void magic consumes more, it grew in power. The shadows thickened, wrapping around Markash like a second skin, his eyes burning with the cold light of a distant star. His movements grew more fluid, almost serpentine, as if he was one with the darkness itself.

The Sanders magi, realizing he could no longer track Markash through his shadows locked his eyes on Isabella. "You will pay for this," he snarled, charging at her with his flaming sword. She screamed as he bore down on her.

But Markash was faster. With a roar that seemed to echo through the very fabric of the shadowy veil he'd cast, he crashed into the scion of the Sanders family before he could reach her. The two men collided with the **** of a storm, sending up a cloud of dust and ash. They tumbled to the ground, the Sanders magi's fiery blade clanging against Markash's rapier.

Isabella watched, frozen, as the two powerful figures rolled and writhed in the dirt. The flames of Bartholomew's sword licked at the shadows surrounding Markash, but the void mage remained untouched, his midnight aura pulsing like a heart of pure darkness. The air grew colder, the very essence of warmth and light being devoured by the abyssal power that surged around Markash.

Bartholomew Sanders managed to knock Markash's rapier aside with a snarl of effort, but it was a temporary victory. Markash's off-hand shot out, his fingers coated in the same purple-black energy that had claimed the guard. He whispered an incantation of unmaking, and a line of nothingness appeared in the space between them, a tear in the fabric of reality itself.

The energy lashed out like a whip, slicing through the air with the sound of a thousand screams. The Sanders magi barely had time to react before it struck, carving a deep, smoking gash through his chest. The impact sent him reeling back, his sword clattering to the ground as he clutched at the mortal wound, half of a lung and a lower third of his left side simply gone. The void spell had not killed him outright, but it had left him broken, weakened and gasping for breath that would do no good.

With the battlefield secured, Markash dissipated the shadows around him with a flick of his wrist. The sudden influx of light was blinding after the deep darkness that had enveloped the camp. He sheathed his rapier with a metallic whisper and turned to Isabella, who was trembling on the ground. He offered her a hand, his own movements surprisingly gentle. "It's over," he murmured, his eyes scanning her for injuries.

When she was on her feet, he spoke with the authority of a man who had seen countless battles. "Return to the mayor. Tell him of our victory and the treachery of House Sanders. You have the evidence?"

Isabella nodded, clutching the blood-stained parchment in her trembling hand. "Yes, I have it master." Any trace of rebellion of disobedience gone. She turned to leave, her eyes lingering on Markash's cold, unflinching gaze. She took one last look at the fallen magi, his life's essence seeping into the earth. Then she ran.