The Price of Uncreation

Twenty Paces From Death

“Didn’t your parents teach you not to point sharp objects at people who aren’t your enemy?” the man asked with a cocky grin, but a flicker of fear betrayed him. He knew he was one twitch away from death. His blond hair and blue eyes clashed with the black velvet cloak that fell to chestnut-colored boots. Carefully coiffed hair framed thin facial hair that lent him the air of a rogue, or perhaps he fancied himself a lady’s man. He wore no soldier’s armor, nor did he bear a banner to indicate his allegiance.

“Don’t ever talk about my parents,” Azzlya snapped, pulling back her bowstring tighter. The fletching brushed her cheek as she held her aim squarely on the man twenty paces away. I stalk wild game for leagues… and somehow, I let this human get so close without knowing. “Whether you’re my enemy or not remains to be seen. You’re a filthy human, so you already have one strike against you. Care to make it two? You won’t get a third.”

She regretted drawing the arrow so far back. Her arms strained, but she refused to ease her stance. Even a hint of mercy might send the wrong message.

The stranger seemed to notice her tension but made no move. “I didn’t call you a filthy half-breed, so I’d appreciate the same courtesy. Let’s use proper names instead of insults. I’m known as Rathman.” He bowed slowly, drawing out his introduction. “By what name would the stunning gorgon archer like to be called?”

“Azzlya,” she answered blandly. His flattery bounced off her like hail on stone. “You still haven’t given me a reason not to put an arrow through your skull, Rathman. Humans aren’t welcome this deep into hybrid territory.”

Rathman spread his hands to show they were empty. A sheathed rapier hung at his belt. “I can offer one compelling reason not to. My associate is standing twenty paces behind you with a crossbow aimed at your back. He’s grown fond of my face remaining arrow-free.”

“Do you really expect me to fall for that?”

“I’m not bluffing.”