He was just sitting there. Like he'd taken a polite little break from being alive and decided to rest forever. Back leaned against a weather-warped post, legs stretched out, head cradled gently in his lap like some awkward devotional doll left by a cult that couldn't commit.
"Okay," I muttered, hands on hips. "That's new."
I've seen corpses. Hundreds. Give or take a few dozen I only heard screaming. Burned, bloated, eaten, exploded, impaled, and once? Folded in half. Like a laundry mistake.
But this one? This one had taste.
Clean. Composed. Dressed like a caravan guard who'd made peace with death and scheduled it in his day planner.
I crouched beside him, tilting my head. The neck stump was... neat. Not hacked. Not torn. No desperation in it.
Just a single line. Precise.
As if someone had drawn a red string across his throat and said: Here. Yes. That's enough.
There wasn't even a pool of blood. Whoever did it either cleaned up or had such clean technique that the body didn't realize it was dead until it politely sat down.
Behind me, the Dragon finally moved. His claws clicked against the dry path as he came to my side and loomed.
I prodded at the corpse's collar with the tip of my dagger. Empty pockets. Turned out. Boots gone. Head arranged like an offering.
I scanned the post behind him—then spotted it.
A single hair. Pale. Fine. So light I almost missed it. Not gray. Not white. Not old.
Silver.
I stood up fast.
"Ugh, what is this?" I said, half to myself. "Some ceremonial kill? Secret duel? Cult with style points?"
The Dragon didn't respond right away. Just crouched beside the body and stared, long and slow.
Then he said, in that low, ruinous voice of his:
"Elves."
I blinked. "Elves?"
He nodded once.
"Like—actual elves? The hermit kingdom kind? Real deal crystal-singing, moon-worshipping, don't‑even‑shit‑outside‑their‑borders elves?"
Another nod.
"In Hanigalbat?" I asked, voice climbing like a goat on fire. "This backwater? Are you sure?"
The Dragon gestured with his claw. "When did you last see a cut this precise? You could practically count the blood vessels."
I stared down at the line across the man's neck again.
Fuck.
That wasn't human work. Not even guild-trained assassin sharp. This was… art. Cold, perfect, ancient art.
"Elves," I whispered. My stomach did a small, tasteful somersault.
Elves didn't leave their foggy palaces. Elves didn't ride into the badlands. Elves didn't exist here. And when they did?
People ended up like this.
"What in the nine glazed assholes are elves doing here?" I asked.
The Dragon didn't answer.
Which meant he didn't know.
Which meant I didn't want to find out.
"Right," I said, stepping back from the body. "Right. Okay. Let's not be here anymore."
I didn't wait for his agreement. I was already walking.
And for once?
He didn't argue.
We didn't make it ten paces before the Dragon stopped short and tilted his snout toward the dirt.
"Look," he said.
I followed his gaze.
Ground was dry—Hanigalbat dry—cracked like old parchment. But there, pressed faint into the ochre dust, were prints. Hooves. But not horse. Too narrow. Too delicate. Too... wrong.
I crouched, squinting. "What are those? Goats on stilts?"
"Silver elk," he said. "Elven mounts."
I blinked. "Elves ride elk?"
He gave me a look that said don't start.
I stared at the prints again, tried to make some grand tracking insight, but mostly just saw a mess. Crisscrossing arcs, half-prints, deep turns. It looked like someone had let a whole herd of rich deer play tag in the middle of a murder scene.
"I mean, it's a lot of... whatever it is," I offered. "That's a lot, right?"
The Dragon sighed.
"Yes," he said, slowly. "This wasn't a single scout."
He turned in a circle, scanning the tree line.
"This was a host. Small. Mobile. Armored. Probably cloaked. Moved through here just before sundown. Maybe twelve, maybe fifteen riders. No carts. No camp."
He looked down again. "No fire."
I swallowed.
Twelve cloaked elves on silver elk, gliding through the wild like moonlight with knives. No fires. No noise. Just a beheaded man posed like a forgotten prayer.
"Why here?" I asked, quietly now. "Why Hanigalbat?"
The Dragon didn't answer right away.
But something in his body shifted—some ancient coil of worry tightening in his shoulders.
He didn't like this. Not the kill. Not the precision. Not the movement.
Elves didn't move anymore. They retreated. They refused. They watched from behind enchanted gates and said nothing while the rest of the world pissed itself to death.
But now they were here.
And they were hunting something.
Or someone.
And they were not being subtle.
The Dragon was still staring at the tracks like they'd insulted his lineage. His tail barely twitched, which meant his brain was chewing on something awful.
He muttered it more to himself than to me. "The Grove."
My spine prickled. "As in The Grove?"
He gave the faintest nod.
"That would explain the elks," he added. "They still breed silver lines. Bone-hollow hooves. Silent step."
I rubbed my face. "The Grove is a thousand leagues northwest. Beyond the stone rivers. Past the bramble walls. Way on the other side of Redwall. You're telling me a hunting party just skipped all of that and strolled into Hanigalbat?"
He didn't answer.
I paced in a tight circle, trying to logic this away.
"Okay, maybe they're not full Grove. Maybe it's just one of those merchant enclaves—Delvida has one. Lerida, too, if you count the snobs in the upper embassies. Maybe some silk-robed cousin with a diplomatic seal and a fancy pet elk decided to get dramatic. Ambassador. Merchant-lord. Something like that."
I looked at him hopefully.
The Dragon shook his head.
"They don't travel like this," he said. "Not in groups. Not mounted. Not armed. Merchant elves wear velvet and trade emeralds for spice and call it war. These... came for blood."
He moved forward again, nose close to the dirt.
"See this?" he pointed. "Rear hooves stepped exactly into the front. Military discipline. Mounted and trained."
My stomach turned.
Not delegation.
Not an envoy.
This was a war-band.
"Okay," I said slowly. "So let's tally it."
One beheaded corpse.
Twelve maybe more silver-elk riders.
From a hermit kingdom that hasn't opened its gates since my grandmother still had both kidneys.
And they're riding through this dust pit with surgical steel and no paper trail?
"Dragon?"
He didn't look up.
"I really don't like how quiet you're being."
Still silent.
Then, finally, he said, "If the Grove sent warriors into the world, something broke."
He looked at me now, yellow eyes flat and grim.
"They don't leave unless something's worth staining their name over."
I swallowed. "What kind of something?"
He stared at the silver hair still trembling in the wind.
"Something personal."