The Villain Professor's Second Chance-Chapter 742: Iron Blazing towards The Leaves (5)

"Tipping is gravity's work," he said. "I provide the angle."

He tapped three red circles. "These are pressure valves. Smash them and the slave routes choke." His finger slid to a line of black squares. "These are rumor wells. Feed them and panic overflows." Finally, he tapped Ironleaf itself, now ringed by orange. "This is a torch. Let it burn bright enough that every chained heart can see the sparks."

A long breath left Sylvanna, half awe, half reluctance. "It's more than rescue, isn't it? You intend them to suffer first."

The mist cooled as the words fell. Draven rolled the stylus between thumb and knuckle, considering. "Suffering breaks the body," he said. "Hope breaks the chains." He did not soften the statement with apology. War was a kiln; only the clay that survived fire became stone.

A distant crash echoed from Ironleaf—another tower giving way. Sparks fountained up, brief artificial stars against the cloud ceiling. Sylvanna shivered. She did not ask again.

Draven lifted his left hand. The runes embroidered into his glove flared. Shadows along the pines thickened, peeled from bark, and knitted themselves into lean figures—wraiths, each no taller than a man's waist, each holding the suggestion of a hooked claw. They awaited instruction with the stillness of drawn arrows.

"Spread the whispers," Draven commanded. His tone barely rippled the hush, yet the wraiths reacted instantly, flowing outward across leaf-litter like spilled ink seeking cracks. "Tell them the Silent Hunter walks the night, and no shackle holds while my blades are sharp."

The creatures slithered downslope—one toward a logging road, another toward a creek trail used by smugglers, the rest vanishing between trees. A faint chill remained, as if they had carried away warmth. Draven watched until the last shadow dissolved, then folded the map with meticulous care and slid it into an oiled satchel.

Ironleaf crackled in the distance. Somewhere an alarm horn blared, thin and frantic, then died midsyllable—as though someone had crushed the bell of the instrument with bare hands. Draven's mouth twitched, half smile, half reflex check of emotion. His stillness felt predatory—hawk poised above a field mouse, choosing not to strike yet because fear must ripen.

Sylvanna finally relaxed the tension in her bow, letting the string hum softly. "What of the freed slaves?" she asked. "They need food, medicine, passage. Hope alone doesn't fill a stomach."

"They will receive supplies," Draven said, already factoring wagon weights, herb bundles, clandestine donors bribed by coin or threat. "But not comfort. Not yet." He turned his back on the burning fortress, gaze sweeping the forest southward. "Comfort breeds complacency."

Sylvanna bit her lip, uncertain whether to push further. In the end, she nodded. She had seen what he could do to those who wasted breath on debate.

Rain began, light at first, sifting through mist in silver skeins. Draven angled his head, gauging how long before the downpour smothered Ironleaf's lesser fires. Time enough. He tapped Sylvanna's shoulder and strode into the gloom, boots whispering over moss. She followed, half-relieved, half-worried that no one else could parse the lattice of war residing behind those calm, merciless eyes.

_____

Far below that ridge, Captain Maelis Reave drove her wolf-riders deeper into the Cedar Run under the same newborn rain. Droplets clung to wolf pelts, turning the cloaks a mottled grey that blended with trunks and rock. The forest hush was almost reverent—a cathedral built of needles and fog.

Reave rode at point astride Shade-Mane, a stallion bred from northern dire wolves and mountain coursers, its shoulders rippling lean power. She smelled smoke long before she saw the first orange glow between trees. "Steady," she hissed, raising a clenched fist. The column halted in perfect silence, mounts pawing soft earth instead of stone.

Something prickled across her nape—wolf sense, battle sense—it felt like a knife held near skin without yet touching. She narrowed her eyes and scanned the darkness ahead. A flicker of torchlight bounced erratically, then vanished. No marching feet. No clank of armor. Wrong.

She signalled two scouts forward, fingers slicing downward. They vanished, grey cloaks lost against the understory. A minute crawled past. Only the rain's hush and occasional drip from cedar boughs accompanied breathing.

Reave exhaled once, fogging the air. Instinct said pivot. Orders said advance. She clicked her tongue; Shade-Mane stepped forward, hooves avoiding damp brush. Behind her, the riders followed, spears angled low, bows strung.

The torchlight reappeared, closer, illuminating a scene of carnage—a patrol wagon upended in a ditch, its axles snapped. One horse lay disemboweled, steam curling from the wound. Human bodies flanked the wreck, armor peeled open like fruit, faces frozen in surprise. Deep claw furrows scored the wood and steel alike.

"This isn't elves," a rider whispered, voice tremoring despite discipline.

"Silence," Reave snapped, heart hammering. Elves did not mutilate metal so cleanly. What claws could shear iron plates? She swung from the saddle, crouched to inspect a corpse. The wound edges were cauterized, yet cold—no ember scorch. Magical, then. She glanced at her riders; several shifted anxiously.

"Spread," she commanded, gesturing with spear tip. "Form crescent. We flush whatever did this."

They moved with admirable speed, wolf-cloaks fanning out. Reave mounted again, but before she could regroup the rank, the mist thickened. Not natural fog—this rolled in with purpose, hugging ground in oily tendrils. Her horse snorted, ears flattening. Riders cursed under breaths.

Shadows inside shadows separated, rising like living cutouts. Their forms lacked detail except for talons glistening darkly. A scream tore from the right flank—a rider yanked bodily from the saddle, spear clattering. Shade-Mane reared; Reave dug heels, controlling him by sheer will.

"Hold the line!" she thundered, voice cracking the silence. But the wraiths were liquid nightmare. They slipped through gaps, claws severing reins, severing throats, extinguishing torch stubs with breaths that smelled of cold earth.

Steel bit only smoke. Reave's spear passed through one assailant, met no resistance, yet agony sliced her thigh as unseen claws raked flesh. Pain flared white. She gritted teeth, slashing back, crimson spearhead drawing a hiss from the darkness—sound but no blood.

Shade-Mane whinnied, eyes rolling. A wraith latched onto the stallion's neck, blackness seeping like ink into grey fur. Muscles convulsed; the proud beast crumpled, nearly pinning Reave. She leapt clear, rolling across wet loam, spear lost.

Half her force was already down—bodies limp, wolves riderless, some twisting in silent death throes. The survivors clustered instinctively, back-to-back, blades flashing. A volley of desperate arrows sailed into the fog, vanishing without cry or impact.

Fear clawed up Reave's spine, meeting rage halfway. "Fall back!" she snarled, voice raw with venom. "Regroup at the ridge!"

She grabbed a young rider by the collar, shoving him toward the rear. The lad's eyes were wide moons of terror. "Move!" she snarled again. He bolted; others followed, stumbling over roots. Reave hobbled after, every heartbeat chanting failure, failure, failure.

Behind them, the mist closed, swallowing screams, leaving only the wet rush of rainfall and the ragged thunder of retreating hooves. Reave refused to look back until she felt open sky above the treeline. Even then, shadow shapes seemed to flicker at periphery, daring her to blink.

"A ghost," she panted to the troops huddling beside her, voices rasping with exhaustion. Rain matted her braids to her cheeks. She spat iron-tainted saliva. "No—a demon. We were sent to hunt prey, but we became the hunted."

_____

Orvath's scrying chamber was a hollow of suspended reflections—a circular vault paneled in polished obsidian and silvered glass that turned every candleflame into a shard of winter sun. Thin braziers burned with smokeless lavender fire, the scent of damask rose and crushed wormwood coiling in sickly-sweet spirals. At the room's center floated the mercury basin, wide as a table yet held aloft by nothing visible, ripples forming and vanishing without cause. The surface answered only to the magister's will.

He stood at its rim in full ceremonial black, the silk so dark it seemed to drink the torchlight, leaving only the pallid contrast of his hands. Those fingers moved like pale spiders, weaving sigils in the air—tight loops, jagged strokes, gestures that ended in sharp flicks. With each motion, an image swam up from the depths: a stockade engulfed by green flame; slavers fleeing through reeds; chains shattered under an invisible hammer. Yet every vision blurred around a single swirling knot of darkness. The moment his will tried to fix the scene, that knot swallowed context, leaving only distortion.

Orvath's jaw flexed. Sweat prickled at his temples, but the beads shone silver, not salt, as the ritual tinctures in his blood found a path to his skin. He did not wipe them away; to break concentration would waste an hour's incantation. Instead, he whispered a harsher cipher, one reserved for disclosing enemy mages, and thrust two fingers into the mercury.

The basin convulsed. Silvery waves rose and fell, and for half a breath the darkness cleared. A figure crystallized—tall, cloak whipping in unnatural wind, eyes like shards of violet glass. Twin blades hung loose in gloved hands, each edge sheathed in flickering, starless fire. The hunter stood upon a ledge above Ironleaf's ruin, posture almost idle. Yet the pose vibrated with quiet command, the arrogance of a predator certain of the next kill.