The Villain Professor's Second Chance

Sylvanna pressed deeper into the gloaming, shoulders hunched against a wind that never quite materialised yet found every seam in her cloak to whisper its chill. Lightning answered each nervous breath in muted pulses, tiny veins of silver crawling across the rune at her collarbone before guttering out. The flashes were feeble compared with the storm she normally carried, but in this tainted pocket of forest the very air seemed to drink mana, leaving only the after-taste of ozone on her tongue.

Raëdrithar padded ahead, paws impossibly silent for a creature his size. When his claws touched a knuckled root, sparks crackled, and the root flinched like burned skin. Sylvanna watched the recoil with a pang of sympathy—this wood was alive, and everything alive here hurt. Fungus-bloated trunks shed flakes that drifted like grey snow, sticking to her gauntlets with an acidic sizzle. It took effort not to wipe them away and reveal the tremor in her fingers.

A branch snapped somewhere to the right—sharp, deliberate. She halted, palm lifting. Raëdrithar's hackles rose, antlers humming with caged lightning. The mist parted just enough to reveal a shape scurrying behind a thorn hedge: nothing more than a hare, half its fur sloughed away, eyes milky with rot. The animal stared at her for a beat, then toppled without a sound, unmoving. Sylvanna swallowed back nausea. Even the small things die wrong out here.

Her thoughts churned with Draven's name. She pictured him alone, twin blades carving through blackened roots, face expressionless as ever. Did the corruption corrode him the way it corroded this soil? She feared it did—the forest merely wept; Draven bled in silence.

A low rumble thrummed through Raëdrithar's chest. He angled his head left, silver eye glinting. Sylvanna followed his gaze to a sliver of track churned by recent passage: boot prints, heavy and disciplined, marching two abreast. Shackled impressions overlapped—smaller, staggered. Prisoners. She knelt, letting fingertips hover above the indentations. Still crisp at the edges: the company had passed minutes ago.

"Slavers," she whispered. Raëdrithar huffed in agreement, nostrils flaring as he drew in the scent of cold iron and wet leather. Lightning danced between his antler tines like impatient fireflies. Sylvanna closed her eyes and inhaled. On the exhale she found calm—not by banishing fear, but by leashing it. "He'll have gone after them. He never leaves chains uncut."

She rose, rolling her shoulders until sinews loosened. The bow at her back hummed in recognition, string tasting the charged air. She loosed one deep breath, then tapped Raëdrithar's flank. "Silent. We shadow him."

Guardian and tamer melted into the fog.

_____

The slaver column trudged through a hollow where rain pooled ankle-deep. Draven observed them from his perch high in a tangle of pine limbs, cloak dripping black rivulets that vanished into his boots. He catalogued: twenty-two armed, eleven of those crossbows—two not yet cocked, likely lax discipline. Heavy infantry wore outdated plate, vulnerable at hip joints; skirmishers carried shortswords coated in the same resin he'd tasted on earlier Reaper blades. Their leader, the woman with the poleaxe, carried herself with the loose confidence of someone who'd never met an equal opponent. That would change soon.

Chains clinked. Draven's gaze shifted to the captives. Seven elves, five adults, two children. Ankles bound to a single length of steel, wrists cuffed behind backs. Rune-brands crawled across the metal—pain triggers keyed to the slavers' gauntlets. Crude but effective.

Raindrops pattered on his hood, a steady metronome. He used the rhythm to regulate breath, heart, thought. Timing mattered. He pictured trajectories: knife to first scout, drop angle seven feet, velocity moderate to pierce trachea not spine—silence vital. Shadow to second scout, use trunk for cover, slice hamstring then throat, catch body, lower slowly. Repeat.

Lightning flared somewhere north. He felt rather than saw Sylvanna's presence brush against the edge of his awareness like the whisper of distant thunder. Good. Backup, even uninvited, rebalanced odds and allowed for contingencies.

A breath. He dropped.

The knife seated itself in the first scout's throat with a soft click, breaking through cartilage like wet parchment. Draven's boots kissed moss, knees bending to absorb force. His free hand caught the limp body, lowering it noiselessly. Rain masked the sigh of spent lungs.

A second blade appeared in his grip as if conjured. Two strides, one pivot: the chain between captives hissed under steel that cut exactly through a weak link between runes. Elven eyes widened; a sharp shake of his head commanded silence. "Run. North. Quickly." They obeyed, bare feet splashing, the youngest stumbling until a taller captive hauled her upright.

The second scout rounded a stump, mouth opening. Draven's left sword flashed, edge shallow enough to spare voice chords until spine parted. He caught the man's collar, guided him down. A muffled gurgle and then stillness.

The column had not yet noticed—the rain, the fog, his economy of sound all conspiring. He moved, ghost-fast. Third scout orbited left flank. Draven slipped behind, blade entering beneath rib six, angling up into lung. A hand clamped the man's jaw, stifling the reflex scream. Body folded; Draven propped it against a tree, already turning toward the fourth.

A hiss of alarm cut the hush. One skirmisher spotted freed prisoners darting into trees. Draven accelerated, cloak snapping. The fourth scout spun, crossbow half-raised, eyes saucer-wide. Too late. Steel met sternum, hilt kissed chainmail. The scout convulsed and fell before the bolt left the groove.

The camp erupted. Orders barked. The poleaxe leader whipped her weapon round, eyes searching gloom.

From a vantage opposite the clearing, Sylvanna nocked an arrow crackling with pale arcs. Raëdrithar crouched beside her, muscles coiled. She watched Draven flow between adversaries, the economy of his strikes terrifying in its silence. A kill counted only if blade met vital point and the target did not fall loudly. Anything less was sloppy.

"He's thinning them," she breathed. Raëdrithar's ear twitched, acknowledging. Lightning raced her bowstring, eager. But she held. Draven counted variables; she would not add uncertainty until necessary.

In the open, the leader bellowed, "Form wedge! Protect the brands!" Infantry stamped forward, shields locking into a jagged shell. Two spell-casters at the rear slapped palms together; a shimmering crimson barrier oozed into existence, half-dome humming like a wasp hive.

Draven adjusted trajectory mid-stride, verifying barrier density with one experimental knife-throw that fizzled against the surface. He filed data: matrix unstable at vertices—good. He pivoted, vanished behind a trunk.

Skirmishers advanced to flank, blades drawn. Sylvanna exhaled, drew.

Her arrow streaked, splitting mist in a white-blue contrail. It punched through the nearest spell-caster's shoulder, embedding in chest. Lightning detonated outward, frying nerves; the caster spasmed, barrier flickering. Raëdrithar surged, breaking cover. His charge was silent save a low crackle that rolled across the ground. He hit the shield line like living thunder, paws raking metal, antlers smashing two helmets together with bone-shattering crunches.

Chaos eroded formation discipline. Draven slipped through the gap created by guardian impact, blades blooming red and silver. He severed the second caster's fingers—chants died mid-glyph. Barrier collapsed.

Infantry tried to rally. One raised mace high; Sylvanna's second arrow speared the gap under the arm, stopping the swing cold. Draven exploited the opening, kneeing the soldier off balance before gutting him with a smooth upward slice.

The poleaxe captain roared, swinging the haft in a brutal arc. Draven ducked, letting the blade sing overhead. He rolled, coming up inside her reach; his left sword hooked the axe's bottom spike, yanking weapon and wielder off-center. His right blade stabbed for throat, but rune-etched gorget deflected. Sparks flew. He withdrew, resetting.

Sylvanna advanced, firing twice in quick succession, forcing the captain to pivot shieldside, exposing flank. Draven lunged—pommel to knee joint. Metal bent inward; the captain snarled, dropping to one leg.

Raëdrithar snapped jaws around a skirmisher, flinging the rag-doll corpse into two more. Bodies scattered.

Within seconds, resistance evaporated. Those still breathing fled into trees, weapons abandoned.

Draven turned on the captain, sword tip glowing with borrowed lightning residue. Rain washed blood from his cheek in thin rivulets. "Drop it," he said, voice like sleet.

The captain stared, chest heaving. She looked to the forest—no allies there. Her poleaxe clanged to ground.

Sylvanna approached, lowering bow but keeping arrow nocked. "Chains first," she instructed. Draven nodded, flicking a dagger that severed the brand gauntlet from captain's wrist. The metal thunked onto mud, runes dimming.

Captives free, enemy routed, silence reclaimed the hollow. Raindrops drummed. The freed elves huddled, staring at Draven with wide gratitude and fear mixed. He ignored them, scanning treeline for secondary threats.

Sylvanna exhaled shakily, energy ebbing. Lightning along her skin dimmed to faint tracers. She walked to Draven's side, voice low. "You were supposed to wait."

"I was supposed to stop chains," he corrected, tone flat.

Her jaw tensed, but relief softened the rebuke. "Next time, whistle or something."