The Villain Professor's Second Chance-Chapter 708: The Elven War Prep (1)

The Chamber of Woven Judgment breathed around her— a long, patient inhalation that made the membranes beneath every boot flex like thin ice on a thawing pond. Translucent light rolled upward through those roots in irregular surges, casting brief flares across the elders' faces and turning their eyes into reflective pools. Each ripple seemed to weigh whoever stood above it, assigning an unseen measure of worth.

Sylvanna took a step forward, feeling that light climb her boots, her calves, her spine, as if the tree itself were taking her pulse. The hush pressed against her eardrums; no cough, no rustle of parchment, not even the creak of ancient joints broke the atmosphere. When her fingertip brushed the string of her bow—for reassurance, not threat—the faint scrape sounded indecently loud.

She let her gaze drift over the council circle. To the left sat Elder Lievalan of the Barkwardens, skin the color of fresh-cracked walnut, every wrinkle etched like growth rings. His robe carried a shoulder clasp carved from living spruce, the wood still sprouting pale needles that twitched whenever he thought too hard. Next to him, Moon-Seer Ysselen wore white so bright it seemed silver, but a closer look showed the fabric was woven from shaved root fibers bleached by moonstone exposure. Her eyes, palest jade, fixed on Sylvanna like cold lanterns.

Between those giants of lineage stood scribes—half-elves in soft grey. They were careful not to lean into the light; even their quills moved with shy economy, as though each stroke must justify the space they occupied. One—barely older than twenty summers—held her slate so close to her chest it could have been a shield. Sylvanna offered the girl a small, quick smile. The half-elf's cheeks colored, but she did not look away.

A faint click—like claws on glass—made Sylvanna glance up. High in the supporting branches crouched one of the Ashleaf Sentinels, armor mottled green and argent. His longbow rested across his thighs; three feathered shafts lay within reach, their heads coated in faintly shimmering resin. The precaution was routine, she reminded herself, yet the sight braided a strand of tension down her back.

Beneath the platform—below even the open lattice of walkway that circled the hall—Raëdrithar's presence pulsed in rhythm with her own heart. She pictured him coiled on that broad perch of knotted roots, storm-blue fur brushing living wood. Every breath would set small sparks dancing over his shoulders, tiny white filaments that burned out before they could harm the vines. That private thunder comforted her; it told her that whatever ritual or rhetoric unfurled above, she was not alone in the heartbeat beneath it.

A dignitary cleared his throat. Sound snapped through the hush like a brittle twig. Warwarden Maerith stepped forward, midnight armor whispering where leaf-plates overlapped. A single vine threaded his chest-piece, the thorns polished and wicked. He carried, not a scroll, but a spear-haft of living ash—a symbol of urgency.

"Spryghold has fallen," he announced. The words held no tremor, no softness. They were placed in the air like stones dropped into a well.

A shimmer ran around the ring as elders shifted—some in grief, others in anger, one or two in grim vindication that their warnings had come true. Lievalan's spruce clasp shed a flurry of needles that drifted to the floor and dissolved into dust. Moon-Seer Ysselen closed her eyes, and the root membranes under her chair dimmed in sympathy.

Debate thickened instantly. Voices overlapped, each cadenced with centuries of authority:

"Raise a ward of lunar bark around the southern pylons!"

"Bleed the sap-tithe and awaken the Iron-Roots—let the old guardians stand."

"Sacrifice is required. The grove spirits answer only to loss."

Their phrases collided, branched, re-knotted. A few half-elf scribes struggled to keep pace, charcoal sticks squeaking across bark-paper.

Sylvanna listened, heart tight. Every strategy sounded dug from an ossified playbook—reliable in a gentler age, useless against an enemy wielding chain-golems and corrupted blink-stags. She stared at Vaelira, seeking an ally.

The princess remained silent. Her armor—moss-iron worked into overlapping scales—caught the pulsing floor-light, throwing it back as subdued glints. Arms folded, she studied the arguing elders with hawk stillness, gaze darting like a surgeon measuring where best to cut. If frustration stirred beneath her calm, only the faint white flex of a jaw muscle betrayed it.

Words continued to pile up—each elder planting their solution like a banner. Yet nothing took root. If anything, the proposals strangled each other, tendrils of caution choking daring, tradition crushing innovation. A low throb of doubt wound through the hall, picking at Sylvanna's composure.

The chamber's membranes brightened—an announcement woven in light. Feet shuffled, voices tapered. The doorway behind her whispered open.

Bootsteps. Slow, deliberate, echoing slightly—just enough to show the newcomer chose not to soften his arrival. Sylvanna's pulse jerked; she did not turn. The elders, however, angled in near-unison, like sunflowers tracking a cloud-covered sun.

Draven stepped into view, cloak tails brushing the glowing floor. Golden pollen dusted the dark fabric—telltale sign he'd been out among high windpaths where the most ancient boughs shed memories as fragrant dust. Sprays of the stuff glittered as he moved, tiny motes orbiting him like shy fireflies.

He carried no weapon openly—his blades slept at his back as ever—but in one hand he held folded root-scrolls bound with a thread that shimmered storm-grey. In the other, a crystal disc the size of his palm glowed with slow-moving script. The elders' eyes narrowed. Mystic devices rarely entered council chambers unless introduced by titled archivists. Here was an outsider bringing them unannounced.

Draven gave none of them time to object. Without bow, nod, or declarative greeting, he strode to the exact center of the circle—the heart where all proposals should converge. Roots brightened under his soles, reading foreign lineage yet not daring to refuse passage; something in his aura circumvented their defenses, as though he carried an older password than any sigil.

He knelt—briefly—not in respect but to set his materials. Scrolls unfurled across the membrane floor, their living fibers latching to the wood and displaying sculpted topography of ridges, rivers, and choke points. The crystal disc he laid atop a junction; at a tap, it projected a lattice of light—thin lines arcing out to overlay the map, forming moving symbols: red motes for enemy battalions, cobalt for proposed elven units. A breath later the lattice began to update, pulse by pulse, reflecting information no scout had yet delivered here.

The first whispers crawled from the gallery edges:

"Outsider."

"Tool of another crown."

"No oathbinder mark."

And with those words still trembling in the air, Draven lifted his head—face calm as frost stone—and the quiet before the next heartbeat felt like the forest inhaling, bracing for thunder.

Draven unfolded the map in a single, unhurried motion, the stiff root-paper sighing as it flattened. Sap-lines embedded in the parchment woke the instant they sensed open air, glowing like fireflies beneath thin ice. He didn't bother to acknowledge the collective lean of a hundred curious bodies; his focus belonged to the geometry spreading before him.

The crystal disk met the center of the chart with a muted click. Light rippled from the contact—first a clear ring, then branching currents that threaded every etched valley and ridge. Sylvanna watched rivers form beneath her boots, flickers of bright amber racing along imagined waterways before fading at the borders: a living map pulsing with its own heartbeat.

"Wards will fail without storm anchors," Draven said.

He spoke in Trade, but each syllable fell with a clipped precision that cut through residual murmur. The amber lines shifted at his words, re-coloring to smoky blue near Spryghold's stylized icon. Tiny glyphs pulsed there—a pictograph of a shattered ward circle. A soft gasp came from Moon-Seer Ysselen; her hand rose, fingers fluttering, then lowered again when she realized her emotion had slipped free.

"Their scouts ride corrupted blink-stags," he continued. His finger drifted south, tracing an overgrown ridge. At the disk's silent command, new images coalesced: skeletal stag silhouettes, their eyes pits of red ember. Each icon winked once, then vanished, reappearing a breath later two hands' breadth away—faster than any model should render. "You can't trap what moves without shadow."

An elder in a robe of bright bark jerked forward, eyes darting after the flickers. "What witchery animates your diagram?" he asked, voice too high to pass for calm.

"Telemetry," Draven replied, not looking up. "Tethered to thaumic buoys I placed along the Windspine three nights ago. They now relay movement every twenty heartbeats." A pause—he lifted his gaze just enough for the faintest glint of challenge. "Unless someone here preferred I operated blind."

Lievalan grunted, but offered no rebuttal.

On the outer ring a half-elf scribe dropped her charcoal. The stick hit the glassy floor, bounced with a clatter that made her wince. She stooped, cheeks flaming, but nobody spared her more than a glance. All attentions were pinned on Draven's flood of new data.

"You propose rituals," Draven went on, "yet your enemy deploys engines."

At that word, the crystal disk pulsed crimson. Spryghold's icon spiraled outward, morphing into the faint silhouette of a squat tower bristling with metal spines. Pistons thumped inside the illusion, beating a rhythm that made Sylvanna's ribs feel hollow. An older battle-master spat in disgust.

"Engines powered by what?" the bark-robed elder demanded. "The Quor priests never mastered soul-forging."

"Necro-algid furnaces," Draven answered. "They siphon cold sap from murdered groves, refine it into abyssal ether, and feed it to chain-golems. The process is ruinous, but efficient."

The description struck the chamber like a slap. Elder Ysselen closed her eyes again, lips trembling around a silent prayer. Even the Ashleaf Sentinel perched overhead shifted his weight, one gloved hand tightening on bowstave.

"They build siege patterns before we finish prayers," Draven summed, voice dropping to a scalpel's whisper. He tapped the red cluster hovering beyond a mountain pass; the motes trembled as though sensing his displeasure. "This," he said, "is not conquest. It's reclamation. Elarith Quor moves with purpose."

Across from him, the general wrapped in blackwood thorns let his cloak fall open, revealing ceremonial scars jagged across one breast. "You presume much for someone without roots in this forest."

The insult glided through the air, wrapped in politeness sharp enough to cut. Heads turned, testing Draven's response.

He gave it, not in Trade, but in High Elharn.