The Villain Professor's Second Chance
Chapter 768 - 768: Lines That Don't Erase (End)

Frost cracked over the blackened soil like spider-webs on glass. Dawn bled through the valley fog in thin, exhausted stripes, its watery light stumbling over soot-smeared stone and cinder-clotted grass. A weak sun tried to ignite the horizon—it only made the ash glint like dull iron shavings.

The pulses came again.

Wump.

A slow amber flare pushed up from the fissures, staining the fog the color of old honey. It lasted the space of two heartbeats, then ebbed, leaving the ground to shiver and settle. Forty-seven seconds later it would come again; everyone had counted enough cycles to sense the rhythm without watches.

Draven stood motionless at the ridge lip, arms folded beneath his cloak. Frost crystals clung to the leather straps at his shoulders, but none melted against his skin. His eyes, silver and sharp, tracked the glow as it seeped along the cracks—mapping spread, angle, cadence, like a musician listening for a motif.

Beside him, Korin stifled a yawn. The boy's lantern jerked in his hands, violet flame inside flicking in sympathy to each underground beat—as though the glass cage were a heart unwillingly synced to a larger one. Korin swallowed and rubbed sleep grit from the corners of his eyes, trying to look older than fourteen.

A scout approached, logbook trembling in numb fingers. "Interval was fifty-three seconds at midnight," he said, voice turning white in the cold. He didn't look at Draven directly; few did for long. "Now forty-seven."

Draven didn't glance over. "Seven-second acceleration across six hours." His tone held no edge, just numbers. "We have thirty-two hours before the wave fronts reach the delta. Less, if the substrate weakens."

The scout's Adam's apple bobbed. "Sir, if it hits the river—"

"The delta towns pull every bucket, every goatskin, from that water," Draven finished, still watching the valley. "Children will drink yesterday's deaths and tomorrow's nightmares. Their own names will bleed out before sunrise."

The man sucked in a shaky breath, bowed, and withdrew. Information delivered, consequence understood.

A faint crunch of ice behind him signaled Korin's roll-call. The boy's small voice ticked through names, each answered in hoarse tones until one fell to silence. No one repeated it. A thin piece of firewood was produced, the missing scout's name scratched with a dagger tip, and the sliver wedged upright at the edge of the nearest fissure. The frost had not claimed it yet; soon sun or pulse-heat would char it into illegibility. Somehow that felt fitting.

Draven flexed his shoulder—not in discomfort, but to verify the tape binding his ribs still sat flush. Movement economical: down, back, test, done. Then he lifted a hand and flicked two fingers—a wordless order. Sylvanna's dark silhouette detached from a stand of torn aspens and paced toward him, boots brushing ashen snow. Her braid fluttered like ink in water.

They began a perimeter loop, the scouts dividing to other arcs. Dead leaves whispered beneath each step, brittle as shed scales.

She let the silence breathe. Twice she opened her mouth, twice she swallowed the impulse. Finally, at a bend where the wind carried camp smoke away, she spoke—quiet as a confession.

"Syalra Vaelin'Fa."

The syllables glimmered in the frozen air, with the hesitance of someone testing the strength of a bridge by tapping a toe against the planks. She rolled them again, savoring the unfamiliar lilt. "Syal-ra," she repeated, as if tasting a secret fruit. "Vaelin'Fa."

Draven's pace never altered.

"I tried saying it by the fire," she went on. "The scouts pretended to sleep, but I saw them wince when the vowels cracked. My own tongue forgot how to shape it." She offered a rueful half-smile that never quite reached her eyes.

The wind shifted, carrying the metallic stink of burnt sap. Draven's cloak stirred. He paused, the movement so abrupt Sylvanna nearly collided with his shoulder. He didn't face her—just waited.

"When?" she asked, voice soft but steeled with demand. "When did you know the name belonged to me?"

A breath of silence. Then another.

Draven's eyes held on the valley, measuring another pulse as if that alone anchored him. At the crest of the flare he spoke, each word clipped like a surgeon's stitch.

"Six days past. In the Deepshade. A white-haired elf guarding a shrine tree."

Sylvanna's brows knit. Deepshade was three ridges east—he hadn't mentioned any detour.

"She carried a newborn," Draven continued. "Eyes storm-gray. Skin winter-pale. She offered the child, said, 'Hide her from the hunting crowns. You'll know her by the name she never speaks.' " His jaw angled, as if gauging her reaction. "I sheltered the babe. Hours later you loosed your first full storm-arrow at the grove. Same eyes. Same hesitation before control."

Sylvanna stopped walking. Her breath plumed in quick bursts. "You never told me."

"No." The single syllable made of stone.

Her gloved hands curled. "Stolen history, Draven. You locked it in your pocket like a dagger. I had—have—a life stitched from broken clues. And you—"

He faced her. The dawn limned frost on his lashes, but his gaze was all winter thorn. "Had I shouted it across the fire ring, you'd have carried a target as bright as that lantern. Orvath gathers trophies. The king buys them. Either would pay for Syalra Vaelin'Fa."

"And you?" She jabbed a finger at his chest. "What did you make of me? A curiosity? A living experiment to prove your calculations?"

Draven's lips twitched—not quite anger, not quite apology. "You became necessary."

Lightning sparked at the braid scrolling over her shoulder. Raëdrithar, sensing her mood, rustled in the shadow of a blasted fir, feathers ticking with static. "Necessary," she echoed, tasting the word like poison. "As a weapon."

"As an ally with options," he corrected. "Storm gift. Beast craft. Choice. Martyrs don't choose."

Her nostrils flared. "You assume fate is a knife. It could be a quill, if someone dared write instead of cut."

Another pulse quivered underfoot, coloring their boots amber. Sylvanna's anger shivered with the light, turning something in her expression fragile. "I dream of a lullaby, Draven. Snow-bright hair brushing my cheek. But the face fades quicker each night. What do you know of that?"

He took half a step closer, voice dropping. "I know memory burns hotter the harder you clutch it." He glanced toward Korin's lantern, then back. "And I know forgetting can kill slower than swords."

Their breath mingled—a ghost of frost between them.

"You could have told me," she said, the fury gone, leaving an ache.

"I could have," he allowed. "After the pulses stop, I still might."

Her laugh cracked, brittle. "Promises from a man who primes contingencies before sunrise."

He didn't deny it. Instead he reached inside his cloak, produced the braid-charm wrapped in oilskin. With a flick, he laid it across her palm. "I repair what I break. Keep it near the wound you reclaim."

She stared—first at the charm, then at him. Moon-silver threads winked between darker strands, sparking faintly as they touched her glove. Her throat worked. "For a cold man, you deal in strange currencies."

"Results outlast apologies."

The words drifted behind him, brittle as frost, and Draven was already moving away—three measured paces that printed his boots into the snow like cold punctuation marks. Ash hissed beneath each step, steam curling around his calves. A fresh gust unfurled the hem of his cloak and sent it snapping, a black knife slicing through the pallid air.

Sylvanna stood rooted while the amber flare drained from the fractures below, leaving only the bruised glow of first daylight. The hush felt enormous, stretched taut between them like skin on a war-drum. She could taste iron on the wind—distant sap fires, ghost smoke, maybe the memory of blood.

Her fingers tightened around the braid-charm. The storm-metal threads within the weave pulsed hot against her palm, echoing the rhythm of the valley. Forty-seven seconds. The throb seemed to migrate into her bones, thumping there until she felt hollowed out, full of nothing but someone else's heartbeat.

Draven did not glance back, yet she felt him catalogue everything: her breathing rate, the tremor she disguised by shifting her weight, the way Raëdrithar's pinions bristled in sympathetic static behind her shoulder. He would already be re-mapping contingencies—how many minutes until the next land-slip, which trail offered the cleanest retreat, how many pulse cycles before frost reclaim­­ed the ridge and their tracks vanished.

She unclasped the charm, fingernails fumbling at the tiny hook. Strands of onyx hair slipped free, tickling her cheek. She began weaving the braid anew, drawing it tighter this time, as if the constriction might anchor the name still buzzing at the edge of her teeth.

"Then swear it."

The command emerged quieter than she intended, but the cold carried it to him intact.

Draven halted mid-step. A single snowflake landed on his cloak's collar and held there, a pinprick of perfect symmetry doomed to melt. When he pivoted, it dissolved, water darkening the leather. His eyes reflected the copper dawn, making them look severe and ancient. He blinked once—a rare, startled flicker, as though her words tapped a pressure point he hadn't expected.

"Swear you'll avenge my mother," she pressed, swallowing the quake in her voice. "Swear you'll end what started beneath this valley."