The Villain Professor's Second Chance-Chapter 710: The Elven War Prep (End)

Virellionn.

Breaker of Oaths.

She had been one of them once—an heiress of the crescent-towered courts of Elarith Quor, a child who'd grown up tracing the moon-rift sigils on terrace balustrades and listening to harp lessons carried on jasmine wind. Now that same bloodline draped her shoulders in boneplate and iron thorns, and the night itself bent away from her like grass before a wildfire. General. Breaker of Oaths. Virellionn.

The realization slammed into Sylvanna's chest with such force she nearly gagged on the thick dream-air. That face—the cut of cheekbones, the slanted amber eyes—could have been her own reflection if hatred were a sculptor. Every choice Sylvanna had ducked or repented seemed carven in Virellionn's armor like tally marks.

She jerked backward from Raëdrithar's glowing antlers, breath ripping free in a half-sob. The vision ghosted from her retinas in ragged shards of crimson and emberlight but left the taste of scorched sap in her mouth.

Branches overhead trembled, shaking silver dewflakes onto the moss platform. Dawnglow crept up the trunks, gentle and indifferent. Sylvanna pushed stiff fingers through wind-snarled hair. She should have felt grateful for morning's hush, yet her pulse hammered loud enough she was sure the tree could hear.

Below, the war camp stirred. Horns called low—three notes descending like a sigh—summoning scouts and quartermasters to the mustering glade. Armor buckles clinked. Cooking fires hissed as damp logs caught. Even the half-elf porters moved with unusual swiftness, as though sensing history's wheel grinding closer.

A single thud shook the observation root. Raëdrithar had risen to his full height, storm-blue fur bristling. He peered down with one luminous eye. Concern poured across the bond, a warm tide that eased some of the icy ache in Sylvanna's ribs.

"I'm whole," she whispered, resting a palm against the curve of his jaw. Static danced along her skin but didn't bite. "Just… shaken."

The Guardian's antlers dimmed to a steady azure pulse, accepting her answer, though unease lingered behind the glow. She felt it—a distant echo of the twisted Guardian's energy, like a thunderhead simmering on the horizon.

Bootsteps scraped bark behind her. Vaelira appeared, already helmed, cheek plates etched in patterns that caught sunrise. "Council wants scouts moving in ten," she said, voice clipped but softer than usual. Her slate eyes searched Sylvanna's face—more physician than commander. "You look as if you touched a live leyline."

"Vision," Sylvanna replied. Honesty weighed less than lies today. "We'll talk after we're moving."

Vaelira hesitated—just a flicker—but she respected battle order. One curt nod, then she strode off, cloak snapping like an impatient banner.

_____

The march began under a canopy that seemed to lean away from them, branches creaking as if the trees distrusted their own defenders. Damp air tasted of mushrooms and old secrets. Sylvanna's armor felt heavier than the day before; every carved glyph along the chestplate glowed faint, sensing Raëdrithar's proximity. She tightened the strap across her sternum and fell in behind Vaelira's vanguard.

Scouts melted into the underbrush—Ashleafs moving with the hush of smoke, Vine Vanguard troopers aloft on thick lateral branches, leaving only a flutter of leaves as evidence. Moonflame Sentries took rearguard, torches snuffed, the faint alchemical glitter on their cloaks winking like fireflies in shadows.

Draven arrived last, as though time itself obeyed his itinerary. He adjusted a steel-laced bracer, eyes scanning formations with that chilling speed Sylvanna had come to recognize: one heartbeat to note gaps, a second to predict how many would die if those gaps went unpatched. He nodded to her—acknowledgment, no softness—and slid into column as though stepping into a diagram nobody else could see.

Sylvanna allowed herself one glance back toward the distant council terraces. Elders watched, robed silhouettes against rivers of morning light—mute, cosmic judges whose verdicts were carved in how little they trusted outsiders. She held their gaze for a breath, then turned her back on their quiet condemnation. Let them record deeds, not doubts.

By midday the trees changed flavor. Bark darkened to sooty gray. Leaves sagged, edges curled with a rust-red blight. Each gust of wind carried a faint metallic whine, as though some hidden harp string vibrated in protest. Whispergrove.

Raëdrithar's heartbeat accelerated in Sylvanna's chest. She flexed her bow hand, checking the draw strength. Ahead, Vaelira raised one gauntleted fist—the silent signal to slow. Scouts dropped from perches like seeds, reporting in hushed bursts.

Sylvanna edged closer. Draven was already crouched at the path's verge, fingertips brushing damp ferns. She knelt beside him. Where sunlight should lance through gaps, only murk remained—shadows stretched too long, refusing to belong to any trunk. Fern fronds quivered although no breeze stirred.

"Shadow-ripples," Draven murmured. His breath didn't disturb the fluttering leaves. "Something comes without feet."

The phrase tasted ominous. Sylvanna fitted an arrow, sighting down the shimmering fletch. A hush deeper than natural silence settled—then shattered sideways.

Dryads burst from hollow trunks, bark-skin twisted by corruption, fingers lengthened into spears. Glamour tumbled around them like shredded banners, masking numbers until impact. Sylvanna's first arrow split a dryad's vine-cored throat. The creature folded without sound, but three more replaced it.

Raëdrithar became a living storm. He flowed past Sylvanna in a blue blur, lightning crackling along his shoulders. Silence remained his roar, yet each paw-fall hammered like drums in her bones. Sparks danced across enemy bark, eating rot faster than flames.

Sylvanna spun, nocked, loosed—another arrow, then a third. She chose seams where glamour flickered, tearing illusions to reveal brittled heartwood beneath. Ashleafs dropped from the canopy, short blades flashing silver-green.

A ground tremor silenced the clash. Out of the rotted underbrush lumbered the siege-beast: tusks forged from melted longswords, molten edges dripping iron tears. Its back bristled with half-fused armor plates, runes glowing sickly yellow. Each breath steamed sap and cinders.

Vaelira met it like a songblade given form—curved sword gleaming pale as the first sliver of moonrise. She slid beneath a tusk, carving a spray of molten metal that hissed where it struck moss. The beast reared; vines obeyed her whispered command, snapping taut to pull its foreleg sideways.

Sylvanna switched to broad-head shafts. Two shots sank between plates; the boar-engine shrieked, a sound like anvils screaming. Draven darted in behind it—dual blades flashing once, twice—severing a runic cable along the spine. Ether bled out, painting his gloves with glowing venom, but he didn't flinch.

A hush rolled over the battlefield.

She arrived.

Virellionn stepped into view as though a curtain drew aside—one moment absence, the next presence so dense it bent space. Her aura simmered heat that turned dew to steam, tree-sap to curling smoke trails. The siege-beast halted mid-charge; dryads recoiled.

Her Guardian—a nightmare sculpted from fractured stormlight—ghosted at her flank. Where Raëdrithar's lightning whispered, this creature's crackled and spat, arcs jagged with ire. Raëdrithar halted, ears flicking flat, not fear but wary recognition.

Sylvanna's breath froze. Bonds resonated—a chord plucked between two matched strings. She felt Virellionn's disdain slide along that resonance like a knife along whetstone.

No words passed, yet meaning flooded: betrayal, pity, challenge.

Pressure gathered, crushing air from Sylvanna's lungs. Her rune blazed icy blue; Virellionn's flared ember-red. The invisible blade between them quivered, craving blood.

The Breaker's lips parted just enough for a whisper to seep through thought alone. "You should have stayed lost, sister."

Then she flickered—guardian and rider dissolving into shards of crackling light. Storm howl died as swiftly as it had come. Twisted dryads collapsed into lifeless splinters; the siege-beast sagged as if puppet strings were cut, molten tusks hissing out in black puddles.

Sylvanna's knees yielded. Only Raëdrithar's interposing bulk saved her from the damp ground, his flank pressing like a living wall. She clutched dense fur, breaths ragged, aura humming like overstrained wire.

_____

Campfires spotted the clearing in uneven constellation. Smoke hung low, carrying the smell of boiled knotroot and seared vine-worm. Sylvanna sat on a fallen log, shoulders wrapped in a healer's blanket she hadn't noticed receiving. Embers painted fleeting constellations in the reflection of her eyes.

Draven settled beside her, as unobtrusive as a shadow joining another. He offered a cup—water, not spirits—and waited while she drank. The cup's rim tasted of copper; her hands shook, yet she didn't spill.

"She's like me," she said when breath steadied. The admission tasted bitter and strange.

Draven's nod held neither surprise nor judgment. Crackling firelight etched sharp hollows beneath his cheekbones. "Or who you could have become."

The thought knifed her gut. She studied her palms, still tingling from overdrawn mana, and wondered which small decision, which experiment sold too cheap, might have bent her toward crimson runes.

"Then you know her next step," Draven said, voice low—almost kind if one knew to listen. "Stop it before she takes it."

Simple as a formula, impossible as rewriting fate. Sylvanna tipped her head back. Above, the sky unfurled deep indigo, spattered with rune-stars flickering in patterns she'd never mapped. They pulsed—steady, patient, like hearts of worlds turning beyond comprehension.

Not the last. Perhaps never the last.

She closed her eyes on the chill of impending choices and let Raëdrithar's quiet thunder steady her bones.

But maybe the first to choose.