"The Holy Empire is hunting elves. Specifically, they're hunting elves of the twelve clans. They're after the power that runs through the twelve original clans."

The cave seemed to grow colder.

Jorghan, "What? Why?"

Sigora leaned forward, her eyes intense. "The Empire isn't just hunting randomly. They're targeting specific lineages and specific bloodline abilities. They want to harvest that power, to study it, and to potentially replicate it. We've lost five clans in the past six months—entire settlements wiped out, their people taken. And the pattern suggests they're working from some kind of list."

"Do you think Father was also killing for this reason? I mean, we don't know since when they have started going after the elves."

Sigora's expression was pained but honest. "Well, I'm not sure, Jorghan. Hawkin had a lot of grudges against your father, so he may have attacked the clan for his revenge."

"The Nuwe'rak and Nue'roka are part of the twelve," Sarhita said quietly.

"If the Empire is truly hunting the ancient bloodlines..."

"Then your people are targets too," Sigora confirmed.

"That's part of why the clans agreed to let the Turtle Rock settle here. Strength in numbers, pooled resources, shared defense."

She looked at Jorghan directly, and there was something in her eyes that made him brace for impact.

"There's more. We've intercepted communications suggesting the Empire has records—ancient documents that list the twelve original clans, their abilities, and their last known locations. The solver was on that list, marked as 'neutralized.' But there are notes suggesting they suspected a survivor."

"They're looking for me," Jorghan said, and it wasn't a question.

"They're looking for anyone with your bloodline signature," Sigora corrected.

"They might not know about you specifically, but they're watching for any manifestation of sol'vur abilities. That's why we've been so careful, why I've taught you to suppress your bloodline signature, and why we've kept moving."

Jorghan fell into thought; Hawkin was aware of his bloodline awakening, but it seems like he hadn't informed the empire about his progress.

He wondered why he did it so.

She paused, seeming to gather herself. "The Turtle Rock will arrive in approximately ten days. I came ahead to talk to the patriarch and—" She stopped, her eyes narrowing as she truly looked at him for the first time since they'd entered the cave.

"Something's different. Your aura. Your presence. You've grown stronger since I last saw you."

Jorghan could feel her magical perception washing over him, probing with the familiarity of someone who'd helped him learn to control his power in the first place. He didn't resist—there was no point, and Sigora could read him better than anyone.

"I was just away for a while, and you have done a lot of things in that short span."

"And now you're about to fight a several-hundred-year-old patriarch in mortal combat," Sigora said, her tone making it clear what she thought of that particular decision.

"Jorghan, I don't understand why you would do something reckless."

"I know," Jorghan said.

"But I don't have a choice. Sarhita—"

"—made a bold play to protect her father and her clan," Sigora finished, turning her attention to the pale red-skinned woman.

"I understand politics. I even approve of the strategy. But the execution puts my son in mortal danger."

"I know," Sarhita said, meeting Sigora's gaze without flinching.

"And if I could face El'ran myself, I would. But our customs don't allow it. The challenge was issued to Jorghan specifically."

Sigora studied her for a long moment, then something in her expression softened slightly. "You care for him. Truly care, not just using him as a convenient shield."

"I—" Sarhita hesitated, then straightened.

"Yes. I care for him. More than I expected to, more than I probably should, given we've known each other barely two weeks."

"I know I made a selfish request, but I will stand by him and won't let anything happen to him."

"Good," Sigora said, surprising them both.

She turned back to Jorghan. "I can't fight this battle for you. Even if the customs allowed it, my intervention would raise too many questions. But I can give you information. El'ran, I've heard of him. Seven centuries old, master of seventeen different combat styles, and veteran of the Clan Wars three hundred years ago. He's powerful, skilled, and absolutely ruthless when he believes his interests are threatened."

"Encouraging," Jorghan muttered.

"But," Sigora continued, "he's also arrogant. He's won so many battles over so many centuries that he assumes victory. He'll underestimate you, especially after seeing you're a half-blood. That arrogance is your opening."

She reached into the leather satchel she carried and pulled out a small vial filled with dark liquid. "This is the concentrated essence of the Shaerda root. If you drink it an hour before the fight, it will temporarily suppress your bloodline signature—make you seem weaker, more ordinary than you actually are. Let El'ran think he's fighting a capable half-blood warrior. Don't show him what you truly are until you absolutely must."

Jorghan took the vial, feeling the cold glass against his palm.

"Alright, I need to go talk with your father and leave immediately," Sigora said.

"Stay here, Jorghan. I will meet you soon."

Sigora turned to Sarhita. "Take care of him."

"I will," Sarhita promised.

Sigora nodded, then moved toward the cave entrance.

At the opening, she paused and looked back. "The Turtle Rock will arrive in ten days, as I said. Be ready to leave with us if necessary. Your clan might need to make hard choices about their future, Sarhita. The Empire's net is closing, and staying in one place makes you vulnerable."

Then she was gone, striding out into the late afternoon light with the confidence of someone who'd never doubted her right to exist in any space she occupied.

Jorghan and Sarhita sat in silence for a long moment, processing everything they'd just learned. The scope of the threat, the Empire's systematic hunting of ancient bloodlines, the target that marked not just Jorghan but potentially all the elf clans—it was overwhelming.

"Your mother is terrifying," Sarhita said finally.

Despite everything, Jorghan laughed. "She really is. But she's also the reason I'm alive, the reason I've survived this long. Without her..."

He trailed off, not wanting to contemplate that alternative timeline.

He touched the red tattoo on his neck, feeling it pulse beneath his fingers.

Sarhita was quiet for the moment.

She had learned so much about him, and seeing both of them, she felt a newfound sense of admiration for the strength and resilience they both possessed.

-

-

The training began before dawn the next morning. Sarhita wanted to train him personally in the ways of their clan so he would know the basic fighting style of their clan.

Sarhita woke him from his guest quarters—a comfortable room carved into the stone near her father's dwelling—while the settlement still slept and the desert air held its brief coolness.

"Come," she said.

"We will start."

She led him to a training ground near the river, a flat expanse of packed sand surrounded by natural rock formations. The space was clearly ancient, worn smooth by countless feet over countless years. Weapons racks lined one side, holding an array of blades, staves, and implements Jorghan didn't recognize.

"First, you need to understand how we fight," Sarhita said, moving to the center of the space. She'd changed from her traveling clothes into something more practical—loose pants and a wrapped top that left her arms free while providing support.

"The Nuwe'rak fighting style is called Kir'stalan—the Dance of the Desert Wind. It's built on principles of efficiency, redirection, and using your opponent's strength against them."

She demonstrated, her movements flowing like water, each strike transitioning seamlessly into the next. Her seven-foot frame should have been ungainly, but instead she moved with a grace that seemed to defy the norms.

"We're taller than most opponents," she explained, resetting to a neutral stance.

"That gives us a reach advantage but also makes us targets. Kir'stalan teaches us to use our height for leverage while minimizing our exposure. Watch."

She performed a sequence—a high strike that flowed into a sweeping low kick—then used the momentum to spin into a defensive posture. Every movement served multiple purposes; every transition created openings while closing vulnerabilities.

"Now you try," she said.

Jorghan mimicked the sequence and immediately felt the difference. His fighting style, honed through survival and desperation, was more direct—brutal efficiency over elegant flow. The Kir'stalan movements felt foreign, almost inefficient to his combat-trained instincts.

"Stop," Sarhita said, moving close to adjust his stance. Her hands on his shoulders repositioned him, her foot nudging his into the correct placement.

"You're fighting like you need to end things quickly. That works against lesser opponents, but El'ran isn't a lesser opponent. Against him, you need to be patient, to read his patterns, to wait for your opening."

"In a week, I'm supposed to learn patience?" Jorghan asked, some frustration bleeding into his voice.

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