Chapter 10: Night Thief

“Wow! What a luxurious thing…” The Lich sucked in a cool breath, his voice thick with astonishment. Even the slender pupil on the Soul stone tightened slightly. “I never thought in this age anyone could be so extravagant… Now I even doubt if you’re some country’s Prince… or that Archmage’s illegitimate son? But that would explain why a brat like you has Sorcerer powers…”

“So what exactly is this Magic Array for?” The youth felt great interest from the Lich’s string of exclamations, but the Lich’s next answer was shockingly blunt, almost making the boy who was doing stretches sprain his back. “Don’t know! … I’ve never seen this kind of Magic Array before!”

“Don’t know? Are you joking?” Constantine snatched the Soul stone, glaring fiercely at its magic-eye-like surface as if trying to spot signs of lying. “Elder of the three-leaf clover, Morning Star Archmage. Lich of Arcane Arts, seventh neck-bone of the Shadow Mages’ Guild! Are all these titles just for show? You didn’t know it? Then why were you ranting? Or do I look easy to trick? Do you love the feel of the Soul-devouring curse from breaking the Pact?”

“I wasn’t lying, and I kept nothing… the Soul-devouring curse won’t hit me…” Much calmer than Constantine’s angry tone, the Lich answered mockingly. “Mages all have their own knowledge passed down. I’m not this Magic Array’s maker’s teacher or master, so how could I know its structure fully? And these fine Runes are clearly miniaturized. Without tools, I can’t tell exactly what they’re for.”

“As for my exclamation, it was about the array’s grand scale. By my guess, at least five rare materials were used in drawing it, like those silvery things…” He paused, adding a proud tone like a sage. “Ignorant brat, do you even know what the gray stuff is? If I didn’t guess wrong, it’s all Dragon Blood! And not just young—at least adult Silver Dragon blood! Plus dragon bone powder… Having a Magic Array like that on your body explains why you developed Sorcerer abilities… What a waste!”

Constantine’s mind felt dizzy for a moment. A flood of memories rushed in, full of unanswered questions.

Dragons, those huge things asleep on mountain-sized heaps of gold and treasure, collecting shiny objects like birds, guarding their turf like beasts, only joining mates during mating… Some scholars even thought these big lizards weren’t truly smart, just stubborn with strange racial pride.

But their power was real. In legends from not so long ago, one evil dragon alone could threaten a city or even a small kingdom. Their arrival meant ruin and death. A so-called good dragon could swing a whole war. Too many tales told of unbeatable armies losing victories and honor to these giants.

“The guy who made this Magic Array sure was generous… Those so-called monster kings, these big lizards, have their weak spots but still mean trouble. Their blood wasn’t easy to get even at my full power… Have dragons found a fast-breeding trick like Goblins in my sleep? Or…”

As the Lich rambled, Constantine fell into deep thought.

The Magic Array’s purpose remained unclear, but at least now he knew a little… That fit his status as the true-born son. But now new doubts popped up—why carve such a complex, expensive Magic Array on his back so soon after birth? Clearly not to give him Sorcerer powers, or he’d have been trained as a Sorcerer long ago.

Walter had called it a guardian array, which made some sense. But needing Dragon Blood and such grand magic for protection—what threat was big enough to need that? Was his nearly trapped life those years for the same reason? If so, why was he free now? Because he didn’t need protection anymore, or couldn’t have it?

“Recently, I often get headaches and see things—a blurry face with gold eyes. Is that linked to this Magic Array?” Since no quick answer came, the youth turned to another topic.

“Seeing things? That… Look, the brain is the body’s oddest part. I can’t say for sure about your visions. But touching your Soul, I noticed an issue. The headaches might be the array messing with your Soul. After you used your magic, though, the problem seemed gone… Huh? Someone’s at the window?”

The youth barely sorted his thoughts before the Lich’s rambling turned urgent. Constantine’s alert glance darted to the window as he grabbed the Scimitar from the small table. His room was on the second floor with no balcony—if someone was outside, it wasn’t a friendly guest. His mind flashed to trouble from that day’s chaos.

Sadly, he reacted too slow. A dark figure flashed in his sight just as it ghost-like slipped inside. His Scimitar hadn’t even cleared its sheath when the black shape enveloped him. Warmth pressed against his bare back, but sharp cold pricked under his throat.

Constantine jerked his head back, his skull hitting something soft and strange… the bizarre feel left him rigid. One touch was enough—whoever held him had to be a woman.

“Stay quiet, little lord,” a hushed voice breathed by his ear, low and strange but still tinged with light crispness. “Or I’ll carve an extra mouth on your throat—not for eating! Now, set down what’s in your hand… gently… use one hand!”

Her words weren’t warm like the touch. Cold bit harder at his throat; he felt his skin split under metal.

“Heck…” Constantine screamed inside, and not over the dagger.

The silky curves warming him had shocking softness and bounce. An odd fragrance followed, stealing his breath. Young Master Constantine was ten in body but held a grown man’s Soul inside. He’d seen images ten times hotter than this—on a computer screen.

But the real thing—that wild resilience, the faint sweet scent at his nose, the low whisper puffing warm air near his ear—stoked his blood. Heat and iron smells pooled in his nostrils.

“Faster! No tricks! Hands behind you!”

She couldn’t know his thoughts. His slow moves earned a sharp rebuke. Reluctantly, he palmed the Scimitar back onto the table—it was more about fear than real help now, his weak arm muscles throbbing.

Then a rope—snake-like—wrapped his body. Tight coils hurt. Constantine’s shoulders bunched.

He saw then it wasn’t alive, but braided cord. Right then, the Lich’s Telepathy chimed in. “That’s a simple trick—Magic Rope. But by how she tied it, this girl’s a pro thief…”

“Now, little boy, you can move,” Her husky voice rose slightly. “Try running, if you dare…”

Constantine turned slowly. Tempting legs met his eyes.

Shadow-dark, soft leather boots—simple, almost plain—but tracing beautiful lines. Perfect stitching said they weren’t cheap. The legs stood straight, no gap between, curves making his mouth go dry.

He tilted his head up, eyes climbing from those long legs past tight clothes he’d never seen in this world, over the chest heaving against swimwear-like armor… Constantine stood nearly five feet tall, not small for his years, but the woman’s bosom faced him directly. He stepped back, then saw her long neck and flawless face above.

“Hmm…”

Constantine gave a stifled grunt, masking shock. A face fine as china, long ears, pale-gold hair, brows arched thickly—even in dim light, all glowed bright. Gone was the dirt-stained green robe from the slave market. Now deadly black clothes hugged her form. But this face… this was the High Elf the fat Count bought!

All traces of that day’s misery had vanished. Instead, lazy charm mixed with lethal allure. The black bodysuit showed curves tense like wild animals—mature female beauty at its peak. If not for his past art training, he’d almost doubt this was the same Elf.

“So it’s true…”

After his surprise, the youth mumbled low. Then he saw the day’s weirdness plain—gloomily lit, her eyelids slitting, the eyes pulsed red—a strange danger and seduction.

Blood Elf, an Elf sub-race.

The great Bard Tolkien’s journals—his travel diaries—were called the “Race Guide” on the Continent. Especially the “Gemstone of Elves” book, which covered Elves best. Luck had it, Constantine had one in his family’s library in Western Frontier. So he knew: though subspecies, Blood Elves could pass flawlessly for High Elves—only the crimson eyes set them apart. Yet Tolkien’s work said before exile, they were High Elves—their rebellious streak turned them into the Continent’s ghosts. Most now worked as Rogues, thieves, or Mercenaries, with good enough repute.

Not that they were harmless like High Elves—not evil at heart, but far more dangerous than most Elves… except their dark kin like Underdark Drow.

Like this tempting siren staring down at Constantine.

Ruby eyes dripped contempt. She toyed with her weapon—a sharp dagger—even its small guard etched delicate patterns. Elves craved beauty, even on weapons. And the smoky wisps around the blade, the fine grind, warned all: pretty… but deadly.

“Easy there. I don’t care if a Human brat like you lives or dies. Your old man seems rich, though… I just pulled a big heist—I don’t need hostages now. I just want to rest here till light… So don’t get any nasty ideas, or I swear your life won’t be pleasant…”

The terror on the youth’s face amused the Blood Elf. Her lips curled, making beauty shockingly alluring. Yet her words held no grace—Constantine almost thought a bandit lived under that skin.

“Ah? You rich kids in mansions… always got something nice?”

The sudden praise surprised Constantine. She stretched a hand toward him. He flinched too late—her boneless fingers brushed, and his Amulet skipped into her grasp. Crimson eyes fixed on the beast-like surface; her smile widened with joy.

“Trouble…” Constantine cursed inwardly.

The Governor’s Mansion kept sound out, but one shout and servants would hear. Seven Griffon Knights should handle most threats. Yet he didn’t plan to yell—this Blood Elf might look a touch older, but Elf lives outstripped Humans. Born twice, he still had no edge—who knew how many hundred years this beauty lived?

If she slipped past security into his room unseen, this lady wasn’t weak. Fighting meant pain. He’d no urge to test that dagger.

Though death once took him by surprise, fear still lived—he hated dying now.

His choices felt thin. Walter would bring dinner soon—if free by then, staying alive seemed easy. But first he faced a snag: she mustn’t take that Soul stone holding the Lich. By her speed, Walter could beat her but not trap her. Worse, Walter’s return might scare her off.

“Weren’t you sold to that Count Feesman? You escaped?” After silence, the youth spoke up. Stalling came first—he tried for flat calm, forcing eyes away from her Amulet-toting left hand.

He hadn’t much guess why she entered—like before, a classic scam: her “poor Elf” act unharmed? Then that fat Count suffered. Her gear was new—she’d made money. But he needed time—this query sparked her interest.

“Oh? Saw me today?” The Elf feigned exaggerated shock, then shifted awkwardly. “Human minds seem alike—empty, except filled with… let’s say, lust… or envy. A brat like you at that place…”

She stretched her arms, a gesture heart-skippingly sexy. Her voice oozed pride. “Playing the weak chick was hard… But with half a brain, you’d guess: could someone like me—great and mighty—ever get caught? Could I ever be sold by a cheap slave trader?”

“Speaking of that pig-faced creep—sorry, pigs deserve respect… but when I squeezed his brains out, his face was pure art—any bright creature would love it.”

To prove her point, she casually dug in a tiny pouch. Slender fingers emerged holding a stone blue as dusk, big as a pigeon’s egg. Soft light sprayed from the diamond, painting her stunning grin. “That slug disgusted me, but his goons knew gems! This beauty pleases me!”

“And… after this deal,” She went on, “I’m free from that pesky guild! Now the skies, the seas—all mine… Brat, is going to a coastal town—say, Klaam—to open an inn a good idea?” Newly rich, the Blood Elf spoke lightly. Or because he looked weak?

“Congratulations,” Constantine flattered. Inside, he snarled—the woman knew her work, pocketing his Amulet with ease. Now he must stop her.

“You don’t really fear that much?”

The boy stumbled back two steps—stopping against the wall, trembling like a punished schoolboy from cold drafts at the open window. The Blood Elf scoffed, shaking her head.

“I’m naturally timid,” Constantine uttered meekly. An awkward grin fixed on his mouth—the rest pure helplessness. “And my father taught me not to get close to strangers.”

Then—right at “close”—he moved!