Follow Allareon

Allareon did not wait for an answer. He simply tilted his head toward the darker edge of the clearing, away from the wagons and the faint shimmer of the enchanted shelter, and began walking.

Crombie followed.

The elf moved like smoke between the trees — silent, fluid, never quite touching the ground in the same way twice. Crombie’s heavier steps crunched on frozen leaves and snapped the occasional twig, but he made no effort to match the other male’s stealth. He simply kept a respectful distance, halberd resting across one broad shoulder, the magically bound chest still warm against his hip.

They stopped in a small hollow where the wind was broken by a cluster of thick pines. The music and laughter from inside the shelter were distant now, muffled by distance and magic. Only the creak of branches and the soft hiss of wind through needles remained.

Allareon turned. In the faint moonlight his sharp features looked almost carved from pale stone. Long dark hair was tied back with a simple leather cord. The twin curved blades at his hips caught the light when he shifted his weight.

“You carry something valuable,” the elf said without preamble. His voice was low, smooth, carrying that faint forest accent. “Valuable enough that two separate groups have already tried to take it from you in as many days.”

Crombie remained still, yellow eyes steady on the smaller male. “The chest is bound to me. It won’t leave my side until it reaches its destination.”

“I know.” Allareon’s gaze flicked to the ornate box at Crombie’s hip. The runes along its surface pulsed once, faintly, as if acknowledging the attention. “Mistress Veyra is cautious with her deliveries. She hired me three days before the convoy left Havenford. Quiet contract. Shadow the blue Bugbear carrying the bound chest. Intervene only if the cargo is threatened.”

Crombie’s ears twitched. “You were already in Havenford when the raiders hit the inn.”

A single nod. “I was. I dealt with the thugs who tried to drag you into that alley because they were sloppy and would have drawn too much attention. The masked riders who attacked the convoy yesterday morning were better organized. Professionals. They knew exactly which wagon the chest was on.”

The elf took one step closer. Even at this distance Crombie could smell the faint scent of pine and steel that clung to Allareon’s dark leathers.

“They were not after the traders’ silks or spices,” Allareon continued. “They were after you. Or rather, after what you are carrying. The binding magic on that chest is old and particular. It only accepts certain carriers. Strong ones. Honest ones, in Veyra’s estimation. You fit the requirements.”

Crombie’s deep voice was quiet. “Why tell me this now?”

Allareon’s mouth curved in the smallest, sharpest smile. “Because I watched you tonight. Both of you.” His eyes flicked briefly toward Crombie’s chest, then lower, then back up again. There was no judgment in the look — only cool assessment, and something else. Interest. “You were careful with her. Controlled. Even when she was riding you like she wanted to break herself on you, you still held back. Most males your size would have lost themselves.”

Crombie felt heat rise beneath his blue fur, but he did not look away. “I don’t hurt people I care about.”

“No,” Allareon agreed softly. “You don’t. That is… rare. And useful.”

The elf reached into a hidden pocket and produced a small, dark token — a flat disc of polished obsidian etched with a single rune that matched one on the chest. He held it out between two fingers.

“This will let me sense when the chest is in danger. If the binding is ever threatened or if someone tries to sever it, I will know. I can be there faster than the traders’ guards. Consider it an extension of your own watch.”

Crombie studied the token for a long moment before accepting it. The obsidian was cold against his palm, then warmed as if recognizing him.

“You’re offering to help,” he said.

“I’m offering to do the job I was already paid for,” Allareon corrected. “But yes. I would rather work with you than around you. The road to the next town is three days through increasingly rough country. Those who want the chest will try again. And they will not be as obvious next time.”

A branch cracked somewhere in the darkness. Both males went still. Allareon’s hands drifted to his blades, but the sound did not repeat. After a moment the elf relaxed fractionally.

“Get some sleep when your watch ends,” he said, stepping back. “I will take the next shift. And… tell your feline bard that if she wishes to be subtle, she should perhaps keep her tail under better control. Or stop trying to be subtle altogether.” The faint smile returned, sharper this time. “I suspect the latter would suit her better.”

Allareon turned and melted into the trees without another word, leaving Crombie alone with the token in his hand and the weight of new information settling over him.

The magical chest pulsed once against his hip, as if in quiet agreement.

When Crombie finally returned to the edge of the clearing, the first pale hint of dawn was touching the horizon. The enchanted shelter still glowed softly. Inside, most of the convoy slept. Joy would be curled somewhere warm among the blankets and furs, tail tucked, probably purring in her sleep.

Crombie flexed his fingers around the obsidian token and looked out over the sleeping camp.

Three days to the next town.

Two women who had already left marks on him in very different ways.

One elf who saw far more than he should.

And a chest that someone was willing to kill for.

The road was about to become much more interesting.