The Devil's Son and His Fated Bride
Chapter 193: Fishy act!

Chapter 193: Fishy act!

The forest opened before them like a great black maw, its trees whispering secrets in the wind. Just beyond the thickness of tree lines, two horses waited, stomping their hooves as if impatient to flee the night in this land.

"You never told me who’s helping you," Elaika wondered, eyeing the animals warily as she swung onto the saddle. She poured the scent-hiding potion into the fabric of her new clothes, its acrid aroma stinging her nostrils and then her scent matched the forest.

Zaira mounted up beside her, adjusting her cloak with practiced ease. "Her name is Phoria."

Elaika’s brow twitched. She didn’t recognize the name. But is someone so fluent in spellcraft? That stank of witchery. That wasn’t easy to earn strong spells.

They galloped beneath the moonless sky, hooves pounding over soil and stone. The air grew heavier the farther they rode from Thegara as if the land itself mourned their passage or Elaika felt so. She was leaving the land she loved the most.

At last, the glow of a tavern bled through the dark, and raucous laughter spilled out into the night like spilled ale.

"Humans," Elaika growled under her breath, the sound more animal than woman. "This couldn’t get better."

They reined in near the stable, where a lanky young man stepped forward, half-drunk and blinking in the torchlight.

Zaira dismounted with a sweep of her cloak. Her voice cracked like a whip: "Feed them. Water them. Now."

The man flinched, scurrying into motion under her bitter command.

The young stablehand snatched the coin Zaira tossed at him, his fingers greedy and eyes wary. "See it done," he snapped, not sparing her a second glance as he was hitting his coin.

They entered the tavern together, and the change in the air hit instantly, thick with sweat, smoke, and spilled ale. The low ceiling rattled with laughter and the heavy clank of beer mugs. Hunters filled the space, their scarred hands wrapped around tankards, their eyes sharp from more than drink.

Elaika’s voice dropped to a whisper. "So many hunters..."

Several heads turned toward them, men pausing mid-sip, eyes narrowing, nostrils flaring.

"Well now," one drawled. "Female hunters?"

Zaira met the stares without flinching. A slow, knowing smirk curved her lips. "Then don’t mess with us."

She strode boldly to an empty table and dropped into a seat, boots clinking against the wood as she leaned back and flagged down the server.

An old man shuffled over to take their order, a cup trembling slightly in his hand.

"How long is it to Jaigara with fast horses?" Zaira asked without ceremony.

He blinked at her. "Three days, if the roads are kind."

He took the order and hurried off.

Zaira leaned across the table, her tone suddenly intimate. "Word is... Gloria stole something from Phoria. A magical tool. During the heist, one of Phoria’s men was burned, badly. She revived the man and he reported what he beheld."

Elaika blinked, stunned. "Gloria? Stealing from a sorcerer?"

Her thoughts spun. Gloria, who wouldn’t even step on a beetle if it crawled across her path, stealing from a magic-wielding woman? Hurting someone in the process? A man!?!

Either Zaira was lying... or this Phoria was an idiot.

"Are we talking about the same Gloria?" Elaika muttered, voice polluted with disbelief. "The one who used to tremble when I shouted at her?"

Zaira nodded gravely. "Yes. But Phoria said Rail helped her. I think they’re working with Luther."

Elaika leaned back, her expression unreadable, though her mind was a storm. Zaira, you scheming, desperate hag... Of course. She saw Elaika as easy prey, wounded, cornered, and out of options. Zaira was spinning a tale, baiting her with half-truths and venom, hoping Elaika would do her dirty work. Kill Rail. Kill Gloria. And then Zaira would slip away, bloodless, the blame sinking like a dagger into Elaika’s back.

This bitch.

She folded her arms across her chest, feigning interest. "Tell me more. Are they planning to hurt His Highness now?"

Zaira leaned closer, her breath warm and sour with tension. But just as her lips parted, the old waiter shuffled over, placing steaming plates in front of them with a grunt. The moment he disappeared, Zaira resumed, voice low and urgent.

"Yes. They’re working with Luther to assassinate His Highness. They plan to use a weapon they call Spike, something magical and deadly."

Elaika kept her face still, eyes sharp. "And this woman, Phoria, what’s she getting out of it? Why would she help?"

"She wants her weapon back," Zaira said. "Claims it’s the only tool that can restore peace between witches and the rest of the world. That’s her reason. Mine is simpler. I want Gloria dead. So I help them, get close, save His Highness... and kill that silly, pampered maiden."

But deep in Elaika’s gut, something twisted. The story didn’t line up. The pieces didn’t fit. Gloria, naive and harmless, suddenly stealing weapons and plotting murder? It reeked of manipulation, and Elaika wasn’t that gullible.

"So," Elaika said slowly, her voice testing. "This Phoria... She’s a high witch, isn’t she? How do you know she’s not working with Lutherieth herself?"

Zaira’s lips curled into a smug smile. "Why would she? That weapon, Spike, can kill Lutherieth, too."

Elaika didn’t respond. She didn’t trust her voice not to betray her thoughts. Instead, she let the silence stretch between them as a rope pulled tight, waiting to snap.

Four days passed.

They rode hard, slipping through forests and over hills until the capital of Alvonia rose before them like a stone titan. Towers clawed at the sky, smoke curled from chimneys, and the streets buzzed with the scents of spice and clamor of human life.

It was Elaika’s first time in the human world, and it already reeked of danger.

As they pushed their way through a crowded street, a flash of white darted past them. A child, no older than ten, collided with Elaika’s side, muttering an apology as he stumbled away. But in that instant, his fingers brushed hers, pressing something small and crumpled into her palm.

Zaira barely noticed. She was too busy glaring at the crowd.

Elaika said nothing, her grip tightening around the tiny scroll.

Later, when they had settled into a shadowed guesthouse near the city’s edge, Elaika finally unrolled the paper beneath the thin light of a lantern.

The handwriting was swift and critical:

Lady Elaika, Phoria is working with Lutherieth and is trying to use you to kill your Alpha King. Ditch this woman next to you and meet me on the roof at midnight.

Her pulse thudded in her ears. The truth was unwinding. Fast. But who was that kid?

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