Half-Elf Magic (Part 2) Complete
Orolbai’s very presence had sparked curiosity in him.
Put aside every other thought and what drew the eye was his half-elf blood. A second-generation offspring born from an elf and a human. The very image of a romantic fairy tale protagonist—except this was no fairy tale. It was the steppe itself.
‘If it had only been some other man, I could have simply called him strange and moved on.’
From Vesta’s perspective, though, that was easier said than done. He had not yet formed any plans, but if he and the Khan became connected, their future children would inherit the same half-elf heritage. And Orolbai was already holding children who looked like his own.
The sight of those faces blooming with laughter painted a picture of a household bathed in warmth. The shepherd’s lined features softened further, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening into something almost paternal.
‘Half-elves lose the ability to wield fire?’
If that were true, even the Khan—ruler of the tribe—would never have been able to claim a husband so easily. A future heir who excelled in every other way would still receive cold stares, and a permanent disqualification would arise that could never be overcome. It was hardly surprising that the tribe’s own people would oppose the match at the first opportunity.
“Strange that the tribe’s reaction has been so reasonable… I should have listened to Master longer. I ought to ask someone else about this someday.”
The answer stood right beside him, yet Vesta felt a sudden reluctance. After all, this was a sensitive topic.
Yet Orolbai had been nothing but kind. An outsider had appeared calling himself Consort, and the shepherd had welcomed him with genuine warmth. He showed no trace of awkwardness when it came to the Khan’s authority. Instead, he simply felt like a good-hearted uncle.
Every time he addressed Vesta, the word “Consort” rolled off his tongue like a caress.
“‘I won’t stop you from calling me that,’” Vesta replied with sincerity, “‘but I’m still only a candidate.’”
He meant it. Orolbai, however, did not seem to share the same view.
“If the Khan truly decides something, it usually comes to pass.”
“You believe I will marry the Khan?”
“To be honest… yes.”
“‘Hmm. I don’t even know why I was chosen.’”
In Vesta’s world, marriage was alliance. An alliance, not a promise, but a heavy contract in which both parties risked everything. ‘The Khan would gain nothing from me.’ The young Khan who ruled the grasslands could offer little—and perhaps nothing at all. There was no reason to even attempt it.
“The Khan is not swayed by material things. She must have seen something special in you.”
“‘Even I don’t understand it.’”
“Sometimes not knowing your own strengths is the most attractive part of you.”
That was hard to swallow. Vesta had never believed he possessed any special allure.
“‘Whatever my thoughts may be, to any third party you seem to have caught a stroke of extraordinary luck.’”
Orolbai spoke as if he were being perfectly sincere.
“The Khan’s beauty and courage are known across the entire steppe. Even caravans from the desert send letters of invitation.”
At first the tale had surprised Vesta, but now it no longer did. It made perfect sense.
“‘Why… me?’” He tapped his forehead with his knuckles and turned to Orolbai. “‘Am I truly going to marry the Khan?’”
“‘Who can say for certain? I myself would not dare to guess.’”
“‘Is that so?’”
“‘There is one more thing.’”
‘The atmosphere has changed.’
The shepherd’s face, which had been so kindly, briefly revealed a rougher side.
“‘My dear Consort, you must first live a full year without any mishaps.’”
An elder’s counsel, born of a lifetime spent on the open plains.
“‘The steppe is not a conquered land. Unforeseen things happen here. Always prepare yourself. That is how you survive.’”
Orolbai pointed in a certain direction.
Vesta’s expression hardened.
“‘Werewolves?’”
“‘Indeed.’”
They stood with the wind at their backs, waiting for prey. No scent trailed behind them. That alone told Vesta they were masterful hunters.
As the men drew closer, another surprise appeared. ‘They are smaller than I expected. The hides on display in the Khan’s tent were much larger.’
“‘Once every werewolf was that size. After elves and orcs took their land, they shrank and grew dull-witted. The old legends of men and wolves walking side by side were nothing but stories.’”
“‘Now even their blood has mixed with dog—most of them look like this.’”
“‘Then they are no different from ordinary wolves.’”
An ordinary eye would never have spotted them.
“‘Werewolves have longer legs than wolves. Unlike wolves, they use their front paws almost as well as bears.’”
“‘But they don’t stand on two legs.’”
“‘When they get close to people, they do. When hunting smaller prey, they walk on all fours like any other animal.’”
“‘Still, they are no easy prey. They have hunted all their lives.’”
Orolbai’s gaze never wavered.
“‘Shall I attack?’”
“‘Not yet. Let them make their decision first.’”
They lurked in the wind like shadows, exchanging signals. Then they moved.
The pack split, racing in different directions. Orolbai reacted instantly. Instead of an arrow, he drew a long leather strap—the sling.
He loaded a stone, spun it once above his head, and let fly.
—!
The stone screamed through the air and shattered the werewolf’s skull at the exact midpoint between break and burst. The creature collapsed without a sound.
‘Amazing.’
A sling was simple enough for anyone to use, yet only those with insane mastery could wield it with perfect accuracy. And Orolbai had achieved that mastery.
“‘It would be a shame to waste an arrow, but I suppose I can’t always hit.’”
He spoke calmly while the men were still falling.
The surviving werewolves howled in fury.
A great dog—the mongrel—charged out, barking, and slammed into them. The werewolves bared their teeth, guarding against both Orolbai and the dog at once. Their posture was fierce, yet defeat was already written in their eyes.
The mongrel was larger than the defeated werewolves and wore a protective collar around the neck—a vital spot. If the werewolves used their front paws, they might kill the dog, but the dog only needed to be held back. Orolbai, the real leader, would finish them.
Orolbai hurled another stone. It struck a werewolf’s hind leg with a pathetic yelp.
He urged his horse forward. The pack scattered. The limping one was caught in his lasso.
The survivors fired arrows, then turned and fled. A complete victory for the shepherd.
The captured werewolf bared its teeth, lips pulled back, but one careless kick from Orolbai sent it yelping and rolling.
When the dust settled, Vesta and the children rushed over.
“‘What do you intend to do with this werewolf?’”
“‘I will kill it here.’”
“‘Can it be tamed?’”
“‘Impossible. The only race that has ever tamed werewolves is the orcs.’”
“‘I heard elves raise their own young.’”
Those were Master’s words.
“‘That is true, but raising and taming are two different things. Even if you raise them from birth, they will one day realize what kind of being they are.’”
“‘Then…?’”
“‘We hunt them. When the time comes, we kill the werewolves and take their hides. In the end, we keep them alive only to kill them.’”
Orolbai looked straight at his own children.
He brought his thick boot down on the creature’s spine.
“‘Like this. Do you understand?’”
Orolbai faithfully followed the steppe’s custom of not spilling blood carelessly. The werewolf thrashed against its muzzle-tied jaws. Orolbai ignored it and pulled the rope tight. The leather creaked, tightened, and the struggling body went limp. The safest way to kill without damaging the pelt.
“‘Next time, I’ll let you do it, Aol. Understand?’”
“‘Yes, Father.’”
The conversation that followed—after choking a werewolf to death—felt strangely intimate.
For a Vesta who had always lived without close family bonds, it looked like the perfect father-and-son scene. A father he could trust, and a son who respected that father. Something he had never known in his own life.
If he married the Khan…
As they walked back, Orolbai spoke again.
“‘These children are not mine by blood. I am a half-elf, after all.’”
In the human world, the word “mule” was used for the offspring of horse and donkey. Mules were useful beasts, yet they could not breed. Could a half-elf produce children?
“‘Then perhaps… no. No.’”
“‘Ah, I see what you mean.’”
“‘I thought a half-elf could have children.’”
Because Master had insisted it was so.
“‘Only half of that is true. The child born between a male elf and a female human is the one who cannot bear offspring.’”
Orolbai gave a bitter smile.
“‘The female elf side possesses a stronger ‘womb of life,’ so it is inevitable.’”
Before Vesta could answer, Orolbai looked at his own children and said,
“‘We have raised these children without a mother for quite some time. They are mine now. Nothing will change that.’”
“‘You overcame it.’”
He spoke proudly.
“‘A father does not dwell on the past.’”
“‘You seem to be living a happy marriage.’”
Orolbai smiled gently.
“‘Yes. But my dear Consort, marry as late as possible.’”
“‘…Really?’”
“‘Remember my words. Hehe!’”
Orolbai looked at him with the eyes of someone who had already stepped into the pit of hell, as if daring him to try.
Exactly that. A wicked, almost playful glint.