Opeka's autumn air bit with a crisp edge, the village settling into its post-festival rhythm of rattling carts and whispered tales.
Killyaen, self-proclaimed Supreme Elf and Opeka's chaos maestro, was out back in the training field, gripping a wooden practice sword, his grin sharp enough to slice the wind. The Harvest Moon Festival's "Cursed Cat" ballad had etched his name deeper into village lore, and with Janko cowering—terrified another prank would shred his tattered "Cursed Cat" reputation—Killy's mischief hunted fresh targets. But first, he had a blade to sharpen.
Goran, the seven-time Arena of Immortals champion, circled Killy, his broad frame a looming cliff. "Wind's Rebuke, no slop," he growled, tossing Killy a second wooden sword. "And learn Thunder's Edge—follows Rebuke, uses the curse's weight for a double-force slash. Pivot, then strike up." He demonstrated, his blade cracking the air, swift despite his bulk. Killy mimicked, weaving through the grass, the curse's strain tugging his muscles. Wind's Rebuke was his now, the blade whistling as he spun, but Thunder's Edge was a beast—his first slashes wobbled, one nearly grazing his own ear.
"Focus, you idiot," Goran barked, parrying a clumsy strike. "Or you'll be scrubbing swords with your pride." Killy, sweat-soaked, pushed on, the curse's stamina fueling him past exhaustion. By afternoon, Thunder's Edge sharpened, his upward slashes humming with power, the curse anchoring each blow. Goran's eye glinted with rare approval. "Spar, now. Show me you're not just a loudmouth."The spar was a storm, wood clacking like thunderclaps.
Killy danced, Wind's Rebuke flowing into Thunder's Edge, his curse steadying him against Goran's onslaught. The old warrior pressed, but Killy's cunning shone. Feinting left, he pivoted, slashing upward with Thunder's Edge, and—crack—Goran's wooden sword split, the top half thudding to the grass.
Goran froze, then laughed, a deep bellow that shook the field. "First time you've got me, Supreme Elf," he said, clapping Killy's shoulder. "Don't let it swell your head."
Killy, panting, grinned like he'd toppled a dragon. "Too late, old man!" He strutted to the tavern, sore but smug, his mind already brewing chaos to keep Opeka's spirit alive. Janko's silence left a void—his fear of Killy's pranks kept him meek—but the village merchant, a portly tavern regular with a braying laugh and a weakness for ale, became Killy's muse.
The man often staggered home drunk, his barn housing a Dox—a lumbering beast with a shaggy coat and drooping ears, built for pulling carts—left unguarded. Killy saw a canvas.
For three nights, Killy planned, scouting the merchant's barn under moonlight. The Dox, grey and wrinkled, snorted in its stall, its blunt snout twitching. He gathered his tools: a bucket of pig's blood from the butcher, reeking but fresh; a spiral-horned Iklos horn, swiped from a festival trader's stall boasting plains hunts; a jar of pine sap for glue; and a pouch of spark-root, a volatile powder peddled by a shady alchemist that flared bright and boomed when struck. The Iklos, a beast with hooves that shook the earth and crowned horns that curled like dark corkscrews, had horns that curled three ways, and this one, three feet long, gleamed faintly.
On the third night, after the merchant wobbled home, Killy struck. He crept into the barn, his curse's thirty kilograms slowing his steps but not his nerve. The Dox stirred, its beady eyes glinting, but a handful of oats kept it calm. Killy slathered the beast's hide with blood, painting jagged stripes like wounds. He smeared the snout and legs, crafting a slaughter-soaked nightmare. He coated the horn's base with sap, packing it with spark-root sealed by wax for a surprise, then glued it to the Dox's forehead. The horn jutted absurdly, a spiral of menace. By dawn, the Dox was the "Demonic Unicorn," snorting in blood-streaked, horned glory.
Morning unleashed pandemonium. The merchant's scream pierced the village as the Dox waddled out, horn wobbling, blood stripes gleaming. A spark-root flash erupted with a thunderous crack when the horn grazed the barn door, sending the Dox lumbering into the square.
Kids shrieked, pointing at the "Demon Dox"; farmers dropped their tools, roaring with laughter; and Old Lady Mirna wailed, "Cursed beast! Only my spiritual stones can save us!" Her cronies clutched shawls, muttering about dark magic. Marko, at his forge, doubled over, gasping, "Killy's outdone himself!"
The merchant, red-faced, shook a fist, vowing to catch the culprit, but the Dox's placid chewing—horn tilting comically—fueled the mirth.
By noon, kids chanted "Demon Dox!" and drew horned beasts in the dirt. A tavern urchin, bribed by Killy's pilfered bread, let slip that the "Supreme Elf" was behind it. Whispers spread, and by dusk, villagers toasted Killy's legend, the merchant cursing louder as he scrubbed sap from his beast. Killy, perched on a tavern roof, struck a pose, grinning as chants of "Supreme Elf!" echoed below.
Janko, skulking in his barn, peeked through a crack, his face pale. "That cursed elf," he muttered, clutching a cabbage as if it were a ward. "I'll trap him—cabbages, nets, anything!" His fear of Killy's pranks, stoked by the "Cursed Cat" whiskers, chained him to his barn, his plots growing wilder but his courage thin. He kicked a crate, muttering, "Supreme Elf, my foot—supreme pest!" yet stayed hidden, dreading Killy's next move.
Killy, serving ale in the tavern, kept his grin neutral, though his eyes danced. That same day, his mischief spiraled. His next move was a mistake. Bera, hauling a tray of ale, passed too close, her skirt brushing his shoulder. Killyaen, ever the fool, pinched the hem, tugging it up to flash her calf.
"Nice legs, Broom Queen," he teased, expecting a laugh.
Bera froze, her face a storm. She dumped the tray—ale soaking Killyaen—and slapped his cheek, the crack silencing the tavern. "Touch me again, elf," she hissed, "and I'll gut you." The patrons gaped, Marko stifling a chuckle, Goran shaking his head. Killyaen, drenched and stinging, muttered, "Just a jest, lass," but Bera stormed off, her rage a wall.
The tavern buzzed, bets flying on how Killyaen would fix this—or make it worse.Undeterred, Killyaen's prankster spirit refused to learn its lesson. Bera's slap stung, but her fire only fueled his urge to poke the beast again. He lingered in the tavern, watching her storm about, her sharp tongue lashing other patrons who dared jest about the incident.
By late afternoon, the tavern's bustle had settled, and Killyaen, still damp from ale, saw another chance to stir the pot. He slipped toward the kitchen, where Bera had retreated, his mind already spinning a new scheme to reclaim his Supreme Elf swagger.
In the tavern kitchen, Bera was baking bread, her apron flour-dusted, her dark curls spilling from her scarf. Killy lounged nearby, braying about her "secret pie recipe" and dodging her swipes. "Keep your jests for the drunks, clown," she snapped, her eyes narrowing. Despite her scorn, Bera's gaze lingered a moment too long on Killy's lean frame, a flicker of unwanted heat stirring before she shoved it down. While she stoked the oven, Killy slyly tied a strip of her skirt to the stove's handle with a loose knot, the fabric catching just enough. "You're a pest, Supreme Elf," she growled, turning to knead dough. Killy, grinning, pinched her backside, laughing as she roared and swung her wooden spoon. Bera chased him, fury blazing, but as she burst into the tavern's main room, the knot tugged, and her skirt tore, slipping to her knees. Her apron, flour-streaked, held fast, covering her modesty, but the tear bared her thighs, sparking gasps.
Most patrons—farmers, millers, rowdy travelers—hooted, sloshing ale, shouting, "Bera's got legs!" But older regulars scowled, muttering, "That's our lass, Killy's gone too far." Bera's face flushed scarlet, her eyes flashing fury, not tears. She clutched the apron, snarling, "You're a disgrace, elf-wannabe!" and stormed to the kitchen, the door slamming.
Killy's laughter faltered, guilt gnawing as the cheers faded. He'd meant a jest, not this. Ignoring the patrons' jeers, he slipped into the kitchen, finding Bera by the oven, tying her torn skirt with a rag. "Bera, I'm sorry," he said, voice low, no swagger left. "I went too far." He stepped closer, bracing for a blow.
Bera turned, her eyes fierce, raising her wooden spoon. "You're lucky I don't crack your skull, fool," she hissed, but her voice softened a fraction, her gaze flicking to his gold-flecked eyes, a traitorous spark of attraction she cursed. "Get out before I change my mind." Killy nodded, backing away, her words sharp but less venomous than before.
The tavern buzzed, patrons betting on Killy's next blunder, but Bera's softened tone left a crack in the rift, a hint of something neither could name.The square hummed with "Demon Dox" chants, Mirna's spiritual stone tales growing wilder, kids sketching horned beasts. Janko, still skulking in his barn, muttered darker plots, his fear of Killy's pranks a heavier chain. Killy, bruised from training, stung by guilt, and puzzled by Bera's fleeting glance, felt alive.