The Memory Eater

A soft wind stirred as Oreon faced the corrupted dark elf woman. He glared at her, his dagger still trained on her.

"I'm only going to ask you one more time," Oreon growled. "What did you do to Silas?"

A smile crept across the dark elf's face, sharp teeth showing. "The old tailor of this town," she said softly, her gentle voice twisting the words into a tease. "The old man with the kind smile and gentle hands? The one who could thread anything and turn cloth into wonders?" A quiet, cruel laugh drifted through the square. "Such a caring soul, wasn't he? Always helping however he could. He had earned this little town's respect." She folded her arms and calmly looked over the square, as if only now taking it in.

Oreon's grip tightened around his daggers. She was playing with him, and he knew it. "Answer the damn question," he said through clenched teeth, his breathing slowly quickening.

The dark elf gave a theatrical sigh and pressed a hand to her cheek. "So impatient… You humans really don't know how to enjoy anything, do you?" Her gaze slid back to Oreon as she sighed again. "Very well. Since you asked so nicely… if you're wondering whether the old man is alive, then yes—for now." Her clawed finger tapped lightly against her temple. "But his mind? That is a different conversation entirely."

Oreon's eyes narrowed. "Where. Is. He."

"Right here, boy." Her smile stayed fixed as she spread her arms in a grand, mocking gesture. "You've been looking at him all this time. Or rather—" She lifted one clawed finger and tapped her temple. "His memories." A soft chuckle slipped from her lips. "His habits, his little quirks, every tiny piece of him—" Then her voice shifted. "—Even his voice." Her laughter grew louder as Oreon's eyes widened in horror.

Dread washed over Oreon. That voice was impossible to mistake—the warm, slightly raspy tone that had welcomed him countless times in the tailor's shop. It was the same voice he had heard arguing with his fabric, offering advice, cracking jokes, and laughing with Meara during his time in town.

"No…" The word escaped him before he could stop it. His daggers trembled slightly in his hands.

The dark elf—no, the thing wearing Silas's memories—laughed in delight at his reaction. "Ah, that face! You should see yourself!" She clapped her hands like a child given a present. "This is why I love this part. Watching hope collapse into despair… It's simply delicious." Her voice changed again. "Come now, boy. Don't look so pale. You'll worry this old man."

"Stop it." Oreon's voice dropped, thick with frustration. He glared at the elf before him, breathing hard as he fought to keep his emotions under control.

"Stop what?" She laughed, slipping back into her own voice—that silky, venomous purr. "I'm merely wearing him. Memories are such a delicacy, you know. All those years of kindness, hope, and faith in others." She pressed a hand to her chest with exaggerated grace. "It's almost sickening how pure he was. How deeply he cared for this miserable little town. Even worse, he kept living day after day with the haunting memory of the Order trampling his quiet little village." Her smirk turned devilish.

Oreon's breath caught in his throat.

The words struck Oreon hard. Silas had never spoken about his past—not once. Whenever anyone asked, the old tailor offered only a gentle smile and quietly changed the subject. "Some stories are better left untold," he'd say, patting Oreon's shoulder before returning to his needlework.

"Oh?" The dark elf said, savoring each shift in Oreon's expression. "He never told you, did he? About the village he came from? The family he lost?" She gasped theatrically and pressed her clawed fingers to her lips. "How tragic… the boy never even knew."

"Watch it," Oreon growled, but his voice wavered.

"His wife's screams as they dragged her away. His children's faces—" She paused, tilting her head as if listening to a voice only she could hear. "Ah, yes. Two of them. A boy and a girl. Burned alive in their own home while he watched, helpless and bleeding in the dirt. Such a sad, pitiful man."

"That's enough!" Oreon lunged forward, his body moving before his mind could catch up. "You're dead…" he snarled as he closed the distance to the dark elf.

His daggers slashed through the air in a furious arc, aimed straight for the dark elf's throat. But she was impossibly fast. She slipped aside with ease, catching his wrist mid-swing in her clawed hand.

"Ah-ah-ah…" she tutted. "Temper, temper." With a casual flick, she sent him stumbling back. Oreon caught himself, boots scraping against the cobblestones, his chest heaving. Then he lunged again, unleashing a rapid series of slashes at his opponent.

His blades sang through the air—left, right, diagonal, thrust—each strike sharp and precise despite his fury. The dark elf drifted back, dodging and sidestepping him with little effort, slipping between his attacks as if it were nothing more than a casual stroll.

"Such passion!" she laughed, deflecting one of his strikes with her clawed fingers. Sparks burst where steel met nails. "But so sloppy!" She slipped past another slash, then drove a brutal roundhouse kick into his midsection, sending him crashing into a stack of nearby crates.

Wood splintered around him as he smashed through the crates, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. For a moment, Oreon lay there, gasping and staring up at the sky through the debris.

"Get up." His body screamed in protest. His ribs ached, and his wrist throbbed where she had grabbed him. "Come on. It was just one kick." Breathing hard, Oreon slowly pushed himself upright and forced himself onto one knee, coughing. Blood trickled from a cut on his forehead as it ran red past his right eye.

The dark elf hadn't moved. Arms crossed, she watched him with the detached amusement of a cat toying with a trapped mouse. "Still alive? Good." She tilted her head. "For a moment, I thought I'd already broken my new toy."

Oreon spat blood onto the ground and tightened his grip on his daggers as he slowly rose to his feet, ready to face her again. "You're… not… getting… that shard," he forced out between ragged breaths. "And you're damn sure… going to give back everything you stole from Silas." He gritted his teeth, bracing himself for another round.

The dark elf's laughter rang across the square. "Oh, how adorable." She let her arms fall loosely to her sides. "You can barely stand. One kick was enough to crack your ribs." She took a slow step forward. "And you still want to fight?"

His hands shook, and he knew she saw it. Still, Oreon planted his feet and widened his stance, ignoring the sharp protest from his battered ribs.

"Stubborn little thing, aren't you?" The dark elf sighed, almost disappointed. "Very well. If you insist on making this difficult…" She moved.

In one instant, she stood thirty feet away. In the next, her face was inches from his, close enough for him to feel her breath.

Oreon gritted his teeth, trying to move for an attack. "Damn it, she's too fast."

"—Then I'll simply have to beat that stubbornness out of you!" Her knee slammed into Oreon's stomach, stealing his breath before he could react. He doubled over, gagging, as she grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked his head back, exposing his throat.

"The shard," She whispered, her lips brushing his ear. "Where is it?"

"Go to hell," Oreon rasped.

"Wrong answer!" She hurled him aside like he weighed nothing. Oreon skidded and bounced across the hard ground, barely able to breathe, let alone regain control. Before he could even think, she was already on him. Her next kick slammed into his stomach and drove him crashing into another heap of crates and debris piled against the corner of a building.

Pain tore through Oreon as wood splintered around him. Something cracked—another rib, maybe two. His vision blurred, and the world tilted sideways as he lay crumpled in the wreckage.

"Pathetic." The dark elf's voice drifted toward him as her footsteps approached, slow and unhurried. Click. Click. Click. "Is that truly all you have? You—the troublesome human who stole the dragon shard right from under the Order's noses?"

Oreon's vision swam. He tried to push himself up, but his arms buckled, and he collapsed back into the debris, coughing blood. "…Damn… she hits hard. Harder than rot." His thoughts raced as he fought to pull in a full breath.

"Honestly…" The dark elf crouched beside him, disappointment dulling her gaze. "I expected more. The reports said you were clever. Resourceful." She reached down and caught his chin between her clawed fingers, forcing him to meet her eyes. "But all I see is a broken boy. A useless… broken… human."

Oreon could barely glare at the dark elf. With what little strength he had left, he forced his body upward—not quickly, but fast enough to catch her off guard. His dagger swept up in a wide arc. For a heartbeat, time seemed to slow as surprise flashed across her face. Then it vanished, replaced by a smirk.

Oreon's eyes widened as they stared at each other, their faces showing two very different reactions for two very different reasons.

The blade whistled past her cheek, close enough to stir a strand of silver hair—but nothing more. She hadn't even moved. She had only tilted her head, barely an inch.

"Oh, what a shame…" Her smirk widened. "…You missed." Her fist slammed into his jaw before he could even see it move. The world spun as Oreon's body twisted through the air and crashed hard against the ground. One dagger clattered away, spinning out of reach. The other stayed locked in his numb fingers.

Grog and his men watched from behind barrels at the far end of the market, frozen with fear as Oreon lay on the ground, barely breathing.

The dark elf straightened and brushed imaginary dust from her shoulders. "Tch. You got dirt on my clothes." She clicked her tongue, slowly shaking her head. "How rude." Her gaze dropped to Oreon, lying face down with his head turned to the side, his eyes nearly blank.

"Hmm…" she hummed, setting her boot on his head. "Maybe I overdid it a little." His body twitched beneath her, and her smile sharpened. "Oh? Still conscious?" The weight of her boot pressed harder against his skull. "Hello? Anyone awake in there?" Her voice drifted down as the pressure slowly increased.

“…Ngh…” A faint sound slipped from him.

"There we go." Her boot lifted slightly, then tapped his head in mockery. "For a moment, I thought I'd actually killed you. That would have been… inconvenient." She stepped off him. "Now then." The dark elf crouched beside him again, silver hair spilling over her shoulder like a curtain. She reached down and brushed bloodied strands from his face with a touch that almost seemed tender. "Let's try this again, shall we? The Dragon Shard. Where. Is. It."

Oreon looked up at her through the one eye he could still open, his vision blurred as he struggled to focus on her face. Her expression was clear enough. She looked at him like he was nothing more than an insect pinned to a board.

“I already…told you…” His voice came out, barely audible. “Go…to hell…”

The dark elf sighed. "You know, I'm starting to think you actually want me to hurt you." She stood and set her boot on the hand still gripping his dagger, then pressed down hard. "Is that it? Some strange human thing? Pain as pleasure? Or are you simply that stupid?"

Oreon bit back a scream as the bones in his hand ground together. "No?" She tilted her head, watching his face twist in pain. "Then perhaps it's the latter. Or maybe—"

"—Get away from the human." The dark elf's eyes widened as Sylvanie's voice reached her. She turned just in time to see Sylvanie's scythe slicing toward her abdomen. The blade struck hard, sending the dark elf crashing through several structures.