CHAPTER 121: A COORDINATED ATTACK

It was an unfortunate thing.

In fact, for one human aide, it was an unfortunate day.

If Riley had remembered that opening his mouth tended to land him in trouble, he might have saved himself from what was now several hours’ worth of political history lessons.

Don’t get him wrong—he loved learning. He really did. But there was a time and place for everything, and listening to an elven king recount the tangled gossip of who feuded with whom was not ideal in the middle of an investigation.

Instead of hearing about missing artifacts, Riley was being spoon-fed tales of ancient arguments, whispered betrayals, and that one great love-related spat that split the elves into factions.

Three hours. Three. Hours.

And they still hadn’t gotten to the one crucial detail: how that spat ended up splitting the readers into several factions. In particular, who exactly got them and how many there were in the first place!

That was the information he needed. Not who ran off with whose lover.

But here he was, forced to sit politely as the Elven King himself smiled graciously, deciding to "enlighten" a human with stories that could have filled a dozen gossip scrolls.

Riley wanted to scream.

Any other day—fine, he’d even enjoy it. But not with the possibility of thieves escaping, and not when he risked being grounded here until the end of his natural life. He did not care who cheated on whom and sparked centuries of political division.

Still... it wasn’t subtle. The longer he listened, the more he realized Lord Arlen was quietly steering the conversation toward the dark elves.

For someone who constantly waxed poetic about the communal nature of elves, Arlen was toeing a dangerous line. He couldn’t outright accuse the dark elves without sounding hypocritical, but oh, the hints were there. Words about vengeance, about who retained the capital and the spire, about the Elowen family’s sacrifices—all painting a neat little arrow that pointed to motive.

And Riley did want to pursue that. He really did.

But then came the whispers.

They’d been nagging at him for a while now. At first, he thought it was just background noise—an old palace creaking, maybe a stray breeze. But no. These were voices. Elven voices.

And to Riley, who’d made translation his specialty, they might as well have been his own language. He understood them. He couldn’t stop understanding them.

Which was odd. Because he was supposed to be locked away in this chamber with the Elven King while Kael was allegedly off doing some investigations of his own.

"Now we are getting to the most interesting part," King Arlen was saying, his tone smooth as he leaned forward.

Riley smiled politely, even as his ears strained and his skull throbbed. Because the whispers were growing louder. Clearer.

Was the spire haunted?

Had he brushed against something cursed without realizing?

Or worse—were these vengeful spirits? Spirits that had marked him because he was supposed to die earlier, only to be dragged back into life?

His stomach twisted, his skin prickled with goosebumps, and his heart thudded uncomfortably in his chest.

And then—he heard something off.

At first, Riley thought the whispers were just echoes. The kind that bounced around in old chambers until they turned into nonsense.

But no. These weren’t nonsense. They were words. And worse—they were words he understood as clearly as if someone had been standing beside him, speaking directly into his ear.

"Prepare the rooms for the guests," one voice murmured.

Another whispered back sharply, "What about the human? He was suddenly placed closer to the dragon lord instead of the original plan. Was that really wise?"

A third voice chimed in, hushed but insistent. "How could the lord be expected to stay longer if the clearly important human was kept away? Proximity seems necessary."

Riley’s eyes widened. His ears strained even harder, though he had no idea how he was even hearing this. These people weren’t nearby—and even then, he was in a room discussing with the elven ruler. And yet it was like their gossip was something he kept on picking up.

The whispers carried on.

"Then who will serve them?"

"Obviously, we must assign the best-looking ones. Although if it is Lord Dravaryn, we’ll have to see who annoys him the least."

"And what of the human?"

A pause. Then a sly voice: "Actually, it would be better to go for the human. Humans are usually easier taken in by appearances. A pretty face here, a kind smile there... it shouldn’t be difficult."

Riley froze, his polite mask nearly cracking.

Excuse me?!

His inner voice screeched. Did they just say I’d be easy to beguile with good looks?

Heat shot up his neck as indignation churned in his chest. Sure, yes, admittedly, he was weak to a well-sculpted jawline or a pair of dazzling eyes—who wasn’t?—but did they have to say it out loud like he was some simple-minded idiot ready to roll over for cheekbones and a smile?

His lips twitched, torn between grimacing and laughing at the sheer audacity.

Guarded, Riley straightened in his chair, every sense on high alert now. He was still supposed to be listening to this lecture, but how could he just ignore all those words?

Also, what made them think that he was all about the face?

There were other things to consider when it came to the appeal. What was a great face when one was unable to wield it well?

But then maybe—just maybe—Riley really shouldn’t have thought about it.

Because what was he supposed to do now, standing in the middle of his supposed room, when it was painfully obvious that the faces surrounding him belonged to beings who had dedicated their long lives to mastering the art of weaponizing beauty?

He had finally, mercifully, been released from the endless droning of the walking, talking, elven chronicler—who had likely memorized every scandal dating back to the dawn of the First Rune Era—only to be escorted toward what he thought would be a quiet room.

But no.

Because waiting for him was a line. A literal line of elves.

Each one radiated elegance, their posture perfect, their robes flowing like liquid moonlight. And every last one of them looked like they had just walked off the cover of Elven Glam: Timeless Beauty Edition.

One stepped forward with a graceful bow, his voice smooth enough to butter toast. "My lord," he said, placing a hand over his chest, "I am Leto, your appointed valet. I shall be in charge of all your personal services during your stay."

Riley blinked. Then blinked again.

Oh no.

This was it. He heard about this.

But he had definitely underestimated them when they said they would send in the gorgeous ones.

Because they really did. And if these weren’t the best-looking ones yet, then wow, even he’d have to be amazed.

Leto’s smile could probably disarm armies. The elf’s cheekbones alone could slice steel. And behind him? More of the same. Each elf somehow more blinding than the last.

Riley’s brain shorted. Words tried to form, but his tongue refused to cooperate. His professional aide mask wobbled dangerously, threatening to slip right off as he realized—

He was swamped.

A whole army of radiant faces beaming politely at him, waiting for him to respond, while his mortal soul scrambled to remember how to breathe.

This was a coordinated attack.