The Wraith leapt from where he stood, landing atop the table with a clatter of cups and silverware. A hand on the hilt of his sword, he grinned at them all.

“Why do you discuss in secret?” he asked. His voice was strangely soft, and would have seemed charming if not for how coldly amused he sounded. “Do you fear the ears of man? Do you plot his downfall, or wonder for a way you might go crawling to lick their boots while somehow maintaining your dignity?”

Eravon prepared to draw his own sword. He would endure no insults from such a disrespectful whelp.

“I don’t know how you found-”

He stopped as the Wraith whirled on him, staring with unseen eyes. The intruder grabbed his face with his fingers, in a movement so fast Eravon did not have time to react.

“I found you by following the stench of cowardice. You leaked piss all the way from Angelport, like a frightened dog.”

Maradun stood, a sword flashing in his hand.

“Let him go,” he said.

The Wraith laughed.

“As you wish.”

He shoved Eravon aside, then spun atop the table. His foot lashed out, the heel smashing Maradun’s face before he could lift his sword to block. Eravon drew his sword and slashed, but the Wraith pulled his own blade. As the sound of steel rang out, the elves leapt away from the table, standing at the far reaches of the tent. Only the Wraith remained in the center, turning so his back faced none of them for long.

“Do you fear me?” he asked. “Good. Then perhaps you will remember the message I bring.”

“What is that?” Eravon asked, stealing a glance at Maradun, who clutched his face with his free hand, blood dripping between his fingers from what Eravon guessed was a broken nose.

“Do not ask as if you don’t intend to listen, Eravon.”

The Wraith leapt, his body changing from relaxed to taut in an imperceptible moment of time.