Interlude: "Why Do We Live For?" - 1 (Patreon)

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Two high-class selective barriers that let in nothing but the purest air without any impurities and equally pure water past them. Reliable and high-level guards, able to drive superior enemy forces into the ground without even getting their blood and guts dirty, blocking all available approaches to the barrier-covered manor. Individual enchantments cover every corner of a large building, serving as protection, a trap, and simply clogging sensory skills. A set of protective amulets and artifacts worn on the body and capable of winning seconds from death, whatever form it may take. Finally, the very fact that the mansion was located right in the center of the Capital, in a noble neighborhood that was regularly patrolled by trained and financially motivated guards, ready to really serve and protect (only the inhabitants of that neighborhood, of course).

All of this was supposed to serve as the ultimate defense against a possible assassination attempt, as Silay Mariun, the King's Sixth Advisor, was well aware. In fact, most of the time such precautions had seemed a waste of energy, for his main shield was his position as a man of great power within and even beyond the borders of Melareth. But lately, that confidence had worn thin.

Actually, elves don't avenge each and every one of their kin no matter how much they convince everyone otherwise. Yes, dragging a collared elf maiden with a whitewashed personality with you in public would be a rash act, even for him. But bragging about the elf maiden and her sister among a small circle of guests? Why not, after all? No doubt the eared scum's informants could easily find out about the presence of a couple of perpetually young sluts in his power, but that's all. They wouldn't start a war or a diplomatic scandal by eliminating not the last man in the world for another girl. Otherwise, they would soon have to go to war with the whole world, which the forest dwellers did not want at all.

And one elf is not the same as another elf. At first glance, the Star Lords may seem to care for all their subjects equally, but that's only first glance. No doubt, even the most pathetic and untalented elf lives in a way that not every capital aristocrat can afford. The excellent education, the equipment, the food, the servants recruited from other races, bred under the supervision of the pointed-eared ones - all of this was perfectly true. As was the fact that absolutely all the elves, at least in the three elven states known to Silay, belonged in one way or another to one of the many ruling branches.

But it is one case of an ordinary craftswoman, even if very skilled, captured during another Sorz's raid, then hastily transported to the depths of human territory, where all pride and disobedience were thoroughly beaten out of her. And it was quite another case if this craftswoman was one of those close to someone who had real power among the Eared Ones.

It's the third case if the abductee was a child, not even a teenager by elf standards. And if he was the first heir of the Emerald Branch... They could really go to war over him - economically, of course - with Melareth. All the more so since Melareth itself was not the most powerful state entity in the foreseeable part of the continent.

And there's no way to explain to them that the Advisor himself had nothing to do with the kidnapping! And the elves should know by now that there was no kidnapping since the little bastard had been evacuated straight back to his home.

Silay, of course, was well aware that children can be naughty, stupid, and, of course, enterprising, and, more often than not, all of these together. But still, he was used to the fact that this applied primarily to human brats. Albeit because no one ever sees the big-eared little thing except the big-eared ones themselves.

Just think about it!

He read ancient legends about great warriors, arm himself with artifacts taken without asking, and then use the teleport by entering random coordinates. He wanted glory and reverence! Naturally, the boy was picked up rather quickly, especially since he had already managed to lose most of his amulets amid wild thickets and deadwood. The elves, of course, are close to the forests, but you have to learn how to survive in them, too, rather than wait for things to work themselves out.

In Silay's opinion, the sun-cursed scum should have paid more to keep the boy from starving to death in those very woods! And certainly not to declare a personal vendetta against anyone connected with the existence of the Red Knot. Yes, he was selling high-end live goods, but he was paying off everyone who should be paid. He didn't sell them to the Sorz, but to his own nobles, tying them down with debts and favors, not forgetting to ask for those favors. A trifle, but still a benefit.

He would have brought the brat back himself if he had only known about his captivity!

He would even clean up the Knot, despite the losses, to bury the loose ends in the grave, goddamn it!

What kind of bastard had so well-timed to not only "save" the petty non-human, but also to frame an Advisor? And what good timing it was to hit him! He had only just received a denunciation from his man about the captured elf kid, the Eared Ones themselves had only sent their note of displeasure through the embassy, and the unknown strike team was already completing the sweep of the distant representation!

Silay had read the reports, which had to be bought back for a fabulous sum - business with him was not so eager now, waiting for the results of the conflict - and therefore he was aware that the frame-up had to be done by someone who was not inferior in influence to the Adviser himself. He was already weighing all the factors, coming to the conclusion that he could assemble such a team that could quietly and quickly mop up a small army. By the way, he should execute Artle, one of his assistants, who had allowed the controlled gang to grow so big, and he didn't care about the increase in profits! They had almost stopped hiding, which is why they were so easy to get at!

Back to the purge team. He could assemble the same, or not much inferior, especially knowing the Red Knot's personnel and waiting for the moment of separation of forces. He could, yes. But to do it quickly and in secret... Hardly, hardly. Not his old enemies, like the Paarimis or the Valtinori, whom he watched as closely as they watched him. It was someone new, but experienced, dangerous, and unfamiliar. As if not the head of the Secret Corps himself, or even His Majesty. Silay's decisions in recent years were far from always for the good of the state and the sovereign, even though he did not do anything beyond measure, but who knows, who knows?

But that's not all!

He ordered that Artle be drowned in his favorite pool, and slowly so that he could feel it. Because you'd have to be an idiot to miss that shit! Someone, that mysterious stranger again, had pushed that bastard into the Knot, who had actually dissected the non-human like a corpse in the newfangled anatomy theater recently opened at the Academy. And they let him!

What happened?

Rescued non-human - one.

Rescuers all in white, two.

The nearly-sacrificed pointed-eared boy - three.

And it is clearly a billet, and a long time ago, as if not prepared by the elves themselves! The same refusal of a reward is a very clever decision. Silay would not have been lazy to see who would have benefited from the favor in return. But no, the work was done by pros who didn't even try to take the trophies, taking only jewels and meltable gold.

And he, Silay, is now guilty from all sides.

There probably won't be a war, and there won't be a siege; the elves will get away with it, too. Since their brat has brought trouble on himself. Great Warrior of the Woods, blast him in the Sun! No, they wouldn't start a war because of the boy's stupidity, but they'd make trouble for sure.

Already mopped up all of the lower ranks associated with the Knot, also by elves - Silay himself didn't have time to give that order, though he would have liked it very much. The higher-ups who covered the slave catchers activities had also begun to either die, disappear without a trace, or lock themselves away in tightly protected estates and be afraid of every shadow.

Shadows, burn their hearts out!

He had already made requests for detailed surveillance of Chancey Ortnam, the closest associate of the Head of the Secret Corps. The Shadow Stealer seemed to be at a social function that day, along with his superiors, but for someone who changes shape like a glove, outside surveillance is no barrier. Though no one has ever heard that the bastard can heal with his shadows, the Sun alone knows what secrets he keeps and what artifacts he might use. Though given the specifics of his powers, even the Sun probably doesn't know.

It's okay.

It's nothing.

He will be patient, wait a couple of years, and give gifts to the embassy... Even "rescuing" from slavery a dozen or so pointed-eared girls and a couple of their men (also a compromise on the female owner and doubly a compromise on the male owner). It's gold they won't accept, politely kicking his messengers out the door, and they won't refuse such a handout. And he will even cover their punitive raids on connoisseurs of "star love", especially if the toys of those who decided to abruptly forget about their debts, taking advantage of his, Silay, temporary difficulties, will be "rescued".

He will endure it.

He'll get back on his feet.

And after that, he's going to give away a stock of grudges.

His memory is good, yes.

"Finish up." He stopped strolling through the garden, turning back to the entrance of the mansion to escape the sudden onset of rain. "I need information on the requests I made earlier. Also, get out, by all means, to the Ganikars and nail them with those letters, I need..."

The thunder strike was very sudden, but much more sudden was the mighty strike of lightning, powerlessly splashing across the protective barriers. Such power was not at all natural for simple lightning, nor was it suspiciously accurate, but it could not penetrate the defenses, splashing harmlessly across them in sparks.

But it did manage to illuminate the structure of the barrier, and at the same time forced the guards to switch to the threat from above, if only for a fraction of a second. The professionals missed - though forgivable, all things considered - a thin arrow, seemingly translucent because of the charms that cloaked it. Standing outside the usual space, the long, feathery, sharp-edged rod managed to pass through the weak point of the barriers (exactly where both of them adjoin each other) and plunge into the back of an advisor already inside the manor.

The poison on the arrow had the fairly standard property of inducing excruciating agony and the far more surprising capacity to stretch the inner perception of time.

Those few hours while the healers fight for Silay's life will seem like years of uninterrupted torment.

Surprisingly, the only healer who could attempt to save the dying advisor's life was recalled in advance from the capital to a distant estate. The inhabitants of that estate, also quite noble but still markedly less wealthy and influential, had previously been unable to afford the services of such a healer, but a recent gold mine found in their possessions allowed for new and much heavier expenditures.

A few days later, the aristocrat, partially paralyzed from another rare poison, was able to get back on his feet and began raising his heir with tripled vigor and enthusiasm. However, this small detail is not important to the story at all.

After all, without the call, those behind the mysterious marksmen who managed to send their deadly projectile through half the city from an unremarkable (except for the fortunate location on a hill) mill would have found another way to lure the healer out of the Capital.

As always.

In this mill, as usual for this time, it was noisy and very dusty - the work is such that silence and cleanliness are impossible here. In this mill, flour was made from expensive varieties of grain, which would afterward go to the hot baked goods served on the table in the expensive establishments of the capital. That is why this place was allowed to operate within the capital (albeit far from the rich quarters), so as not to have to deal with the delivery of newly milled white powder (not that one) to the capital's taverns.

Getting in here unnoticed was an extremely difficult task, unless, of course, you were an experienced fugitive, but it was impossible to establish yourself here permanently while remaining unnoticed, especially if you were not alone, but with a whole group of support. Sooner or later, someone would come across the hiding individual, because there were no really unattended corners in this place.

However, the four assassins, wrapped in shimmering and color-changing chameleon cloaks, were adept at finding workarounds so as not to get into trouble over nothing. The four of them had been working together for decades, doing the difficult, dangerous, and admittedly dirty job of disrupting the lives of those who would oppose the interests of the Morning Realm. Though it was not the strongest or oldest state the elves had created, it had enough power to respond sharply to any damage to their honor or the lives of their subjects.

The foursome had been sitting here for nearly two weeks, waiting for the best possible moment - the advisor's death had been sealed the moment his complicity in the failed sacrifice of young starblood had been proven. Even the elves themselves were well aware that the old (as for humans) Silay Mariun was not at all happy about the initiative of his subordinates, but no one cared. Even without taking into account the fact that the destroyed slave-trading squad traded, among other things, Starblood, any head is the origin of the will of his subordinates. And the disobedience of those very subordinates, as well as their excessive initiative, are the problem of the head himself, not of those whose interests his proxies have hurt.

Such a long wait was due solely to the need to prepare the ground for the elimination of the target, and at the same time to remove suspicion from himself. In their minds, everyone would understand who killed the ugly short-eared man and why, but there would be no proof. Naturally, many people would not need any evidence to retaliate. In fact, most of the effort was to ensure that no one who could take such action wouldn't do so.

Several factors coincided quite happily - the necessary negotiations ended exactly when the elimination group was able to find the key to the protection of the Mariun family estate. However, this is why the diplomatic mission employs real professionals to provide such lucky coincidences. And such little things are good for their image and reputation - a successful assassination attempt on the same day as the agreement was made would make many people shiver nervously. Then again, one's mind would know that the elves had sent out eliminators beforehand, but one would suspect that the agents of the Morning Realm had long ago picked up the keys to any of Melareth's defenses, which was only partially true - not all, but many.

The eliminators did not care about politics, even though they were well versed in it because of their age and education. Their goal was not cunning combinations and labyrinths of intrigue, but the banal termination of the life of those who had turned the wrong way in this labyrinth.

The four fighters, at least level thirty-five (though none of them had reached forty either), knew their job very well, proving this fact once again.

Their leader, who possessed the two epic classes of Illusion Creator and Image Distortor, was the one who allowed the four elves to spend a week and a half literally in front of the mill workers. The minds of the short-eared ones simply refused to accept the presence of outsiders, even if they were regularly tangled under the workers' feet. Moreover, the enchantments that enmeshed their feeble minds had no effect on the quality of their work and products, allowing the elves no fear of premature disclosure. Which did not prevent them all from taking the utmost precautions and never coming out of disguise.

The second number, playing first fiddle in the eliminations, the Master Sniper and Ghostly Archer, was their main weapon and punishing hand. The ability to launch arrows from a seemingly impossible distance, even for an elf, was very useful for those operating in an a priori hostile environment. The second class's abilities complemented the first perfectly - ghost arrows were extremely reluctant to be stopped by any defense, and a weakened and destabilized one could not be an obstacle at all.

The third, who was also the only woman on the team, also possessed two epic classes that complemented each other perfectly. Caller of Rain and Caller of Thunder could not just summon bad weather and the abysses of heaven upon her enemies' heads, no. Her raindrops serve as her eyes and fingers, creating a perfect map of the terrain, and her lightning strikes always hit in the right place and with the right force, easily destabilizing any barrier and defense... if you know where to hit.

It was for the latter that the last member of the group was needed, the possessor of a very controversial class for children of stars, which not everyone chooses. Strength does not always mean safety, and too close contact with other planes can be more dangerous than enemy steel and magic. For everliving elves any risk is unacceptable, but some still take risks, hoping for luck and their skills.

The Barrier Mage is a standard rare class that cannot surprise the inhabitants of the Morning Realm. There are very few there whose first class falls below the "rare" bar, and the epic class surprises no one. On the other hand, the barrier class provides enough money and employment to occupy a decent position in the home state. Not outstanding by any means, but decent, that's right.

The leader himself, long since forgotten about civilian life, did not know the reason why the seemingly thoroughly civilian mage had abruptly decided to change his life. All he knew was that Number Four had passed selection for the outer guard, despite his non-combat class, and had managed to secure enrollment in the Fallen Leaves, or the Elimination ranks, where so few wanted to go. The fourth answered all questions with polite translations of the subject, even if asked by those to whom refusal might be fraught with career problems. He was silent, spending all his free time at firing ranges and training grounds, trying to bridge the gap between himself and the fighters as much as possible.

Every single instructor and mentor admitted to the fact that the Fourth's mind was incredibly prone to improvisation and original use of his abilities. Where the rest of the children of the stars won through a skill that had been honed over years and decades and carefully handed down to them by their mentors, the fourth won with impudence and effrontery, unpleasantly similar to the human champions - the short-lived races have always been known for their unpredictability and inventiveness. And when you combine that with elven longevity and learning...

His second class of Night Guest, specializing in breaking, deceiving, and slipping through any magical barrier, gave him a chance to squeeze into one of the elite elimination groups, of which the first was the leader. As much as his youngest subordinate raised many questions, the first objectively assessed the benefits he brought to the table. Even today's operation would have taken many times longer and would have had a considerable risk of failure had it not been for the data provided by the fourth.

The four figures moved silently and stealthily toward the rallying point designated by their temporary supervisor. Later, when they are out of human lands and within the walls of their native forests, they will allow themselves to remember their real names again, not empty numbers, they will allow themselves normal conversation, instead of short gesture commands and barely audible whispers of coded orders. That's all for later, for now, they're just moving forward, the lonely leaves of the native tree.

They would be out of the city by tonight, without waiting for darkness to fall. They had several separate passageways through the walls, leaving it up to them to choose the right one. Quiet and stealthy, disguised by the illusions of others, they would slip through any barrier even if they managed to raise it. The latter, however, is unlikely - by the time people will still inform the posts near the walls and the gate about the need for increased attention, the eliminators themselves will be very far. No one will see them, no one will hear them.

Death to their enemies always comes in silence, and in the same way, it goes away. No one should hear the rustling of the fallen leaves before they die, no one should survive their flight.

The Leaves have no desires of their own, no temptations or aspirations of their own. All they have is the Will of the Tree that sent them, for the sake of which they once decided to cut off their eternity. They all knew that they would meet their end this way, ignominiously and namelessly, like withered leaves that have fallen to the ground. Another sacrifice was given for the sake of others, another fate that would perish in the endless flow of the river of time. They have no choice but to walk this road, relying only on the shoulder of their comrades and their own strength. That they will survive.

As always.

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