Chronicles of the Warden

RIDGEMONT CITY, THE FLIPSIDE

14:45

Kappa Phi Laurel didn’t just throw parties. They treated partying the way engineers treated micro‑tolerances and lawyers treated billable hours: with absolute dedication.

Every freshman at Willowhall U knew it. The Laurel girls had the best house, the best parties, and invitations to events most students only heard about afterwards. Their social calendar was the stuff of campus legend.

The Solstice Sorority Shakedown sat right at the top of the list.

And it always came out swinging.

Music surged across the hillside estate, heavy bass shaking the trees. Laughter drifted over the infinity pool. Expensive sunglasses, designer swimwear, and half‑finished cocktails stretched as far as the eye could see.

Stretched out on a lounger one of the girls adjusted her sparkly purple bikini. Another leaned over to laugh at something her friend showed her on her phone, oversized sunglasses pushed onto her forehead. A third sat on the edge of the pool, rubbing sunblock into the tips of her pointed ears.

“God, Stephanie!” complained the one in the purple bikini. “You are such a buzzkill!”

“Listen, Tiffany. You want sunburn on your ears, fine. That’s your choice. I’m a Light Elf. We burn easily, and I don’t want to, so just leave me alone, okay? Jeez! And anyway, shouldn’t you be calling Tarkis? The Marauders have a game today, don’t they? He’s the starting QB.”

Tiffany rolled her eyes with the kind of force only a Sorority Queen could manage.

“Don’t even. Tark and I are not talking right now. You know I saw him flirting with that nymph girl on the cheer squad? Can you believe that? I’m, like, right there, and he’s getting all touchy‑feely with little Miss Juniper or whatever.”

What followed was a scoff more eloquent than a 50,000‑word essay—which, incidentally, Tiffany could have written with her eyes closed.

Kappa Phi Laurel had very strict academic performance criteria.

Stephanie’s eyes narrowed. “Are you sure you aren’t just projecting? Tark doesn’t seem the kind of guy to do that.” Stephanie was a psych major. She’d spent three semesters learning how people lied to themselves, and Tiffany was currently providing enough practical experience to qualify for a doctorate.

“I am not projecting, okay? I saw what I saw.”

“Which was?”

“He was stroking her arm!”

Stephanie sighed. “Tiff.”

“What?”

“Call him.”

Tiffany groaned dramatically and flopped backwards onto her towel. “No.”

“Call him.”

“No.”

Tiffany was pre‑med, dammit. She wasn’t going to be pushed around—

Setphanie gave her The Look.

Tiffany had never been able to beat The Look. She tried. She really did, but…

“UGGHHH! Why do you always do this?”

“Encourage basic communication?” Stephanie shrugged, completely unbothered. “No idea. Maybe because healthy relationships are important?”

The girl with the sunglasses joined in. “Tiff, stop being dramatic. Call him right now, or I swear I will throw you in that pool myself.”

Aimie was captain of the track team. She was also a Blood Elf. She treated nearly everything in life like a competition she intended to win.

She also had ways of making people listen.

Tiffany sat upright, crossing her arms and pouting like only an elf could. “I am NOT dramatic.”

“Tiff, you got a ninety-seven on your biochem exam yesterday. You can survive one awkward phone call.”

“I’m not—”

“CALL HIM. CALL HIM. CALL HIM.”

Aimie started the chant. The other girls took it up in seconds.

Tiffany huffed and snatched up her phone, scowling at the group at large as she stalked away. The girls cheered.

Nobody noticed the movement beyond the property wall.

A shadow shifted among the trees. Watching. Waiting.

This faun was not the friendly pipe‑playing creature from children’s books. There was no mischievous twinkle in his eyes, no playful smirk, no whimsical skip in his step. There was nothing cheery about him at all.

His limbs were too long, too lean, his teeth too sharp. Dark fur covered powerful, goat‑like legs ending in black cloven hooves. Twisted horns curled back from a face that would have made a priest cross himself. This was the kind of faun that reminded people why the devil was always depicted as a goat man.

The faun watched Tiffany move away from the group. Alone. His eyes were blood‑red and slit‑pupilled, glinting with hunger and a deep, violent kind of lust. He sniffed the air, the scent of the Dusk Elf carrying on the breeze. A grin spread slowly across his face.

She was perfect. Tall and limber, with sun‑kissed caramel skin, the effortless beauty only elves seemed to possess, and long, long legs.

He watched her drift closer, hooves shifting silently in the loam. Two more steps and she’d be inside the treeline. One more and he wouldn’t even need to lunge — he could simply reach.

She took another step…

Then she stopped.

The faun’s lip curled back from yellowed teeth. So close.

He sank lower into the brush, hooves digging furrows into the dirt, and waited.

Tiffany planted herself a good six feet shy of the wall, scowling down at her phone, silver eyes burning a hole through the screen—or, more specifically, through the contact name currently receiving the full force of her considerable elven wrath.

💖 TARKY 💖

She hesitated a little more, then sighed with the force of four generations of Dusk Elf majesty, her thumb hitting the name.

The phone rang. And rang. And ra—

“Hey, Tiff.”

Tarkis had a voice like gravel being ground by a baritone singer. It never failed to give her goosebumps.

Stupid charming orc with your stupid charming voice.

She steadfastly refused to fall for it. “…Took you long enough.”

The faun watched from the bushes, triangular teeth bared in frustration. She was so near. Just two more steps and he would have had her.

One lunge. That was all it would take.

He could snatch her up, one hand over her mouth to muffle her scream, toss her over the shoulder, and vanish into the forest. They’d be down in his burrow before anyone even noticed she was gone.

Shifting on his hooves, he readied himself, feeling his muscles bunch as he prepared to spring.

One.

Two.

Thr—

THUNK.

Something struck the faun squarely in the side of the head. The creature jerked violently and whirled around. Lying on the grass was a clear plastic cup with a domed lid and a large blue straw sticking out of it.

There was a NineMart logo on the side.

There were traces of blue slushie in it.

A voice called from somewhere above him.

“Okay, I have notes. One: if you’re gonna hide in the bushes like a creep, maybe cut out the mouth breathing. Two: if you want a date that badly, maybe try developing a personality.”

A man lounged on a thick branch overhead like he was waiting for a bus, legs swinging casually. He wore a long black coat reinforced with silver pauldrons and forearm plates, the tails hanging over the branch beneath him. Black and silver body armour met black trousers tucked neatly into armoured knee‑high boots, and an arming sword rested across his back, the hilt visible above one shoulder. A silver Kimber 2K11 sat in a holster on his right thigh.

He looked completely at ease up there. Utterly unconcerned by the fact he was currently sitting twenty feet above a predatory faun.

His tousled white‑blond hair looked like it had lost a fight with a hurricane. Violet eyes peered over the rims of purple aviators, gleaming with mischief. A permanent five‑o’clock shadow framed a crooked smirk that radiated poor decisions and absolute confidence in them.

A silver owl amulet hung from his neck.

The faun hissed as he saw it. “Warden.”

The man flashed a crooked smile and hopped down from the branch, landing with a light thump. “Hey. Nice to finally put a face to the heavy breathing.”

The faun growled. “You interrupt the hunt, Warden.”

“Yup. Sorry not sorry. I mean, it is kind of my job. So—you planning on coming quietly, or do we have to make this messy?”

The only answer was a bearing of fangs.

“Right.”

The sword slid free with a rasp, glinting in the sunlight.

The faun recoiled instinctively. Antellium steel and silver alloy—he could feel the cold burn of the blade from here.

“For the record, we don’t have to do it this way. Just want to let you know that. If you choose to waive your right to life, that’s entirely on you.”

The faun lunged. One moment he was standing ten feet away; the next, he was a blur of fur, horns and claws.

The Warden twisted aside, boots digging into the earth as the faun thundered past. The creature wheeled instantly, hooves skidding, head lowered as it charged back like a linebacker.

The sword flashed.

For a split second, the faun didn’t understand what had happened. Then something hit the dirt beside him. His horn.

Pain exploded through his skull. He screamed, rage and pain mixing into a white‑hot surge of hate, then hunched up and hit the Warden like a freight train through a garden shed.

The impact knocked a grunt out of the Warden, his ribs compressing as the creature enveloped him in a bear hug. The sword thumped to the soil, disappearing into the undergrowth as the faun drove forward, crashing through the tree line and shattering the glass railing around the pool deck.

The noise carried over the music. It got the girls attention.

The splash as the Warden and the faun crashed into the pool sent the entire party into chaos. Water shot twenty feet into the air. The girls screamed, some flailing as they struggled to get out of the water, others grabbing friends and leaping off loungers.

Below the surface, things had turned nasty.

With his sword gone and his hands pinned, the Warden had only one option.

Leaning in, he opened his mouth and bit down hard on the faun’s nose. Cartilage crunched, blood jetted out, and the creature bellowed, voice muted by water and bubbles. He let go of the Warden, shoving himself back and out of danger.

Mistake.

The Warden reached under his coat and produced a vicious‑looking kukri.

Antellium steel and silver alloy, partial serrations along the spine.

Before the faun could retreat, he pinned the creature against the poolside.

The knife flashed. The silver alloy burned as it buried itself to the hilt in the faun’s gut. The creature howled a silent storm of bubbles. The Warden wasn’t done. The blade flashed again. Once. Twice. Three times.

The monster folded, dark blood curling around it in crimson ribbons.

The Warden watched the corpse float to the surface, then kicked upwards, following it. Breaking the surface with a gasp, he stroked for the side, coughing and spitting.

“Great.” His arm hit the decking with a wet slap. “Now I’m gonna smell like wet goat for a week.” His other arm slapped down beside it, and he hauled himself up.

There was a discarded phone lying by his boot. He was dripping on it.

“Whoops.” Scraping his hair back, he bent and scooped it up. “Hey, does this belong to anyone?”

Silence.

Then: “Oh my God.”

The words came out in a breathless rush.

The Warden turned.

Tiffany stood at the edge of the pool, silver eyes gone wide. “…No way.”

One second ago she’d been arguing with Tarkis. Now the most famous Warden in the city was standing six feet away from her, holding Lyana’s phone.

The Warden swallowed. He knew what was coming.

“Guys, it’s him! It’s the Warden! IT’S LITERALLY HIM!!” Tiffany’s squeal broke the dam.

“CALLUM RAINE?!”

“OH MY GOD!”

“IT IS HIM!”

“GET YOUR PHONE!”

A dozen girls rushed forward and, in seconds, the defender of Ridgemont City was encircled. Besieged by a horde of fans all asking the same thing: OMG, Warden, can I get a selfie? With a few extras thrown in for variety: Warden, did you really fight the Blood Moon Pack? Warden, did you really get punched into the harbour by a frost giant? Warden, is it true you’re single?

To his credit, Callum tried to keep things in perspective.

“Girls!” he shouted over the clamour. “Hold up! Can we maybe address the murder‑goat first? And then can someone help me find my sword? And maybe a towel?”

Nobody listened.

A phone appeared beside his face. Then another. Then another.

“Oh my God, this is going on Glintstagram right now.”

“Tag me!”

“I’m trying! Ophelia, stop pushing!”

In the centre of this chaos, Callum felt his inside pocket vibrate. Shaking water off his hand, he drew out his own phone. The fluffy fox profile photo told him all he needed to know.

“Hey, Chief.”

“Callum.” Akiko Watanabe did not sound impressed. She did not sound angry.

Those would have implied she did not know Callum Raine.

Unfortunately for her, the chief of the Ridgemont City Police Department knew him all too well.

“Why is #RidgemontWarden trending? Again?”

Callum looked around at the crowd. “Uh… Things got a little complicated.”

“Complicated?”

“In my defence, the stalker turned out to be a murder‑goat.”

There was a beat.

“A what?”

“Murder‑goat.”

Watanabe took a deep breath, with the smooth efficiency of a well‑practised emergency procedure. “I sent you to investigate girls complaining about a stalker. Why am I looking at a livestream of you dripping water and a dead faun floating in a sorority house pool?”

“Honestly, Chief?” Callum looked around at the clamouring sorority girls, the shattered glass, the floating corpse, and the dozens of phones pointed at him. “Today was actually pretty good for a Friday.”