Gunmage-Chapter 277: Royal doctorine; alive, not intact

"I don’t think those two are faking it."

All three turned in unison to glance at the two elves relaxed nearby.

The one seated higher on the branch finally summoned the courage to speak.

"Uhm... Vaelith?"

"Hmmm?"

Vaelith responded with a hum—cool and effortless—not bothering to move from her languid position. Her eyes remained half-lidded, posture draped with indifference.

"Mother has already unsealed your magic, hasn’t she?"

There was no response. The silence stretched, weighty. Rwanda shot her a sidelong glance, already growing uneasy. Soramir, meanwhile, had drifted back into her usual meditative state.

"I’m gonna take your silence as a yes," frёewebnoѵel.ƈo๓

The elf continued, more tentative now.

"So... why are you still moving around with that toy?"

Vaelith moved for the first time. Her head inclined back slowly, enough to meet the speaker’s eyes above her.

Her fingers curled loosely around the rifle leaning beside her.

"You mean this?"

"Y-Yeah."

She levelled her head forward again, posture folding back into that signature laconic stillness.

"It’s useful,"

She said simply. Then nothing more.

They’d have loved to press further—questions burned behind their tongues, especially about her role during the siege of Drakensmar and the rumors surrounding her time sailing the Devil Sea.

But Vaelith was one of the older elves in the guard. There was something about her—a quiet, aged menace—that always made them hesitate.

There was also someone else. One whose very presence inspired pause.

Her gaze drifted forward.

The elf seated on the velvet chair rose in a single, fluid motion. Her veil fluttered faintly as she stood, yet it revealed no glimpse of the face beneath.

She raised the heavy-looking chair with a single hand. In the next instant, it vanished into the air as if plucked from reality.

Then came the voice.

A deep, sultry, and husky tone, smooth as wine and thick as smoke.

"The target is here. Form up."

Neither of them had sensed a thing. Not even the faintest ripple in the air. But none hesitated.

Vaelith rose, expression unreadable as she reached for her own veil and pulled it over her head.

The elf in the tree leapt down, landing with practiced ease, while Soramir unfolded her legs and stood, stretching as if waking from a long dream.

Rwanda straightened where he stood, his mouth set in a grim line. He’d have preferred a proper mask, but the veil was standard issue. He donned it without further complaint.

They snapped to attention in seamless synchronicity.

It didn’t take long for the presence to register in their senses. Except for the woman who had issued the order, Vaelith was the first to notice.

Then Soramir. The pressure was growing by the second.

The loudmouth of the group perked up.

"Hey, hey, can I be the one to do the talking?"

They all glanced at her.

A short pause. Then the husky voice responded.

"Very well."

...

Ren was not one to waste time.

The moment the Canines were ambushed in Pyrellis, she had fled, discarding her disguise without hesitation.

In the open, she could finally draw upon the full extent of her beastkin bloodline. Her speed became a blur—legs pounding against the earth, claws propelling her forward as she tore through the terrain.

She gulped down one of her remaining alchemical concoctions, the bitter fluid flooding her system with refreshed stamina.

Her breath came sharp and shallow, more like a beast’s snarl than anything human.

She had escaped with only the barest essentials.

Eventually, she’d have to stop, maybe in a town, maybe in some border village. After all, no matter how fast she was—even burning every last drop of inhuman power—she couldn’t cross Ophris in a single day.

For now however, she gave up those cares, hoping to put as much of a distance between herself, the capital city—pyrellis—and the dreadful entities that dwelled within its stone white walls.

Yet, even as she ran, her heart ached. Images of her teammates flickered behind her eyes—faces twisted in pain, jaws clenched in defiance. She blinked quickly, trying to chase away the blur in her vision.

They’ll pay. They will pay for this. Those filthy humans will learn what it means to cross a beastkin.

She raced through thickets, ducked under branches, slipped into valleys and gorges with uncanny agility. A phantom in motion, a whisper across the wilds.

Then—

Five presences flared to life. Their auras slammed into her, ripping her from her momentum. Her eyes snapped wide in raw disbelief.

Elves.

She skidded to a halt.

In the blink of an eye, she was surrounded. Their formation was perfect—tight, deliberate, no wasted space.

They wore crisp white uniforms edged in gold thread, veils covering their features in haunting uniformity. Every inch of them screamed precision.

Royal Guard.

No... Her thoughts stuttered. The Royal Guard?

But... why are elves in the Royal Guard?

The question barely formed before instinct buried it. It didn’t matter. Their appearance—no, their revelation—meant one thing:

Her life was no longer in her hands.

She was done for.

The one at the forefront stepped forward, voice cold as frost.

"We’ve been ordered to bring you in alive. Be warned: that is not a strict requirement. Surrender peacefully."

Ren swallowed the fear rising in her chest. She sneered.

"How very generous,"

She said through clenched teeth.

"I’m sorry. But I’ll have to decline your offer."

She couldn’t see the elf’s eyes, but she swore she felt them narrow from behind the veil.

The voice came again, colder now.

"Let me make this clear. You don’t get to choose."

Ren’s sneer dropped. Her expression hardened, lips curling into a grim line of resolve. If death was the price, so be it—but she would never be taken in chains.

She crouched low, limbs rippling with tension, claws extending. With a snarl, she shot forward, closing the distance.

The elf barely moved.

A burst of blinding blood red light.

Ren could no longer feel the ground.

Could no longer feel her legs.

Legs? Did she ever have something like legs?

She twisted midair. A gasp of horror leaving her throat as she saw the cleanly severed limbs spinning away from her body. Then an impact slammed into her midsection, and the world went black.

...

In the silence that followed, the five elves stepped forward, converging around the now-unconscious beastkin.

Her limbs lay neatly severed, yet not a single drop of blood spilled from the wounds. Neither the torso nor the detached parts bled.

The loudmouth broke the silence first.

"What do you think? I was cold and domineering, wasn’t I?"

A familiar husky voice responded.

"You also didn’t need to sever her legs."

She winced beneath her veil.

"Sorry."

Another pause. An exhale.

"What’s done is done. I can’t store living things, so you’ll have to carry her back to the city yourself."

A groan.

"Ohhh... damn."

She turned to the only male in the group.

"Hey, Rwanda. Mind helping me with the legs?"

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