Alfred, ever efficient and silent, stepped forward from the darkness. His sharp eyes scanned the scene, taking in the unconscious forms of the defeated professors. Without waiting for instruction, he moved swiftly to Selric, who was groaning in pain but still semi-conscious. With a swift, calculated strike to the side of Selric's neck, Alfred knocked him out cold.
He repeated the action with the others, his movents so smooth that it seed more like an art than a necessity.
As he worked, Alfred spoke, his tone as calm and asured as always. "I'll make sure they don't stir until the appropriate ti." He pulled out the specialized ropes that the Drakhan knights carried, ropes enchanted specifically for criminals with high magical ability. The ropes shimred faintly in the dim light of the chamber, woven with protective runes designed to suppress any attempt at magic.
thodically, Alfred bound each of the professors, his hands moving with precision. "These will hold them. They won't be able to use their magic while they're tied," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. Draven watched in silence, his eyes calculating as he observed the proceedings, always several steps ahead in his mind.
The undead goblin king lood nearby, its grotesque form a nacing sentinel. Draven gestured toward the creature. "Have the goblin king guard them. I'll have the knights take care of transporting them afterward."
Garren, the captain of the Drakhan knights, gave a quick nod and ordered his n to secure the area. The knights moved with disciplined efficiency, positioning themselves in a protective formation around the professors. The room that had once been a battleground now felt more like a secure outpost.
Draven's cold, analytical gaze shifted toward his students—Amberine, Elara, and Maris—who stood silently, their faces still marked with exhaustion and disbelief. His eyes lingered on them for a mont, calculating, observing. He could see the strain in their expressions, the weariness in their postures.
It wasn't just the physical exhaustion from the battle, but the emotional weight of facing down their forr ntors. They had held up well, but cracks were beginning to show.
With a wave of his hand, the water pen floated gracefully into the air. Its beautifully engraved runes shimred in the dim light, casting a serene, blue-green glow. The pen glided toward them, its energy radiating a calm, soothing presence. Amberine's eyes widened, and for a mont, she tensed, wondering what was coming.
She half-expected Draven to reprimand them harshly for being outmatched by such powerful foes. Was he going to call them weak? Was this just another test?
But as the pen hovered above them, its light intensified, and the floor beneath the three girls glowed with a soft, greenish-blue hue. A circle of runes ford around them, pulsating with gentle energy. Elara was the first to recognize it.
"It's Sylvara's Grace…" Elara whispered, her usually indifferent tone laced with surprise.
Sylvara's Grace was no ordinary magic. It was an ancient and rare healing spell, used only by the most skilled elven healers and druids, a secret passed down through the ages. Known for its incredible ability to not only nd physical wounds but to restore one's inner vitality, it was a magic that went beyond simple healing.
The energy it summoned reached deep into the core of its recipient, repairing the body and refreshing the spirit in equal asure. It was a magic that soothed not only the skin and bones but the very soul, making it revered across the realms.
But it was also notoriously difficult to master. Sylvara's Grace required imnse precision and control. The caster had to weave delicate strands of magic, attuning them to the natural energies of life itself. It wasn't about brute force or sheer power, but a quiet, patient understanding of how life and magic flowed together.
Only those with a deep connection to nature, or who had spent decades refining their craft, could hope to cast it successfully.
To see it perford here, so effortlessly, left Elara in awe. The spell was so rare that even in her family, with all their arcane knowledge and the prestige of their lineage, it was sothing spoken of in reverence. Elves spent centuries perfecting the use of Sylvara's Grace, yet here was Draven, a human, casting it as though it was second nature.
Amberine, though not as knowledgeable in such magic, could feel the soothing warmth of the spell seeping into her body. The exhaustion from the battle, the tension in her muscles, the lingering aches from where she'd been struck—it all began to lt away. Her mind, clouded by the stress and adrenaline of the fight, cleared. It was like waking up from a deep, peaceful slumber, refreshed and whole.
Draven, as always, was silent as he cast the spell. His water pen hovered above the girls, glowing faintly as the runes etched into its surface pulsed with energy. The magic encircled them in a soft, greenish-blue glow, and as the light touched their skin, they felt the restoration of their strength.
Maris, too, was speechless as the lingering pains from her own battle faded, her breath evening out, her hands no longer trembling.
It was not just their bodies that were being healed. The spell reached deeper, soothing the emotional fatigue, the ntal strain that had weighed on them since they had first entered the tower. The sense of clarity that followed was almost overwhelming. Amberine felt the flas of her temper subside, Ifrit's fire within her cald, no longer raging uncontrolled.
Elara closed her eyes, letting the magic wash over her, her mind already analyzing the spell. She could feel the intricacies of it, the careful balance of energy and intention that Draven had woven into every thread. It was breathtaking, really, to see soone not of elven blood wield such magic with ease.
The grace and control he exhibited made it clear that this was not sothing he had learned casually. It was a mastery that few could ever achieve.
And with it, he had healed not only them, but his knights as well. Without a word, without any need for acknowledgnt, Draven had cast the sa spell over the Drakhan soldiers. They, too, rose to their feet, their wounds closed, their strength restored. To him, it was simply part of the plan—ensuring that his forces were in fighting shape, nothing more, nothing less.
There was no flourish, no need for praise. It was just the calculated, effective nature of Draven's every move.
Amberine, Elara, and Maris exchanged glances, their thoughts racing. What kind of man was Draven, to wield such magic, to be capable of so much yet remain so detached?
Amberine's heart pounded as she watched him, her mind racing with conflicting emotions. This man—this cold, calculating figure—was the sa one who had saved her before. Not just here in the tower, but at the royal banquet, when she had been on the verge of death. She hadn't realized it at first, but now, seeing him here again, she couldn't deny it.
It was him.
The figure that had appeared out of nowhere during the demonic attack, when chaos had consud the banquet hall. She had been overwheld, outmatched, and the flas that normally danced at her fingertips had flickered weakly in the face of such monstrous power. She had been ready to die. But then, he had appeared.
He had cut through the demons with the sa ruthless efficiency, his pens moving in deadly arcs, leaving destruction in their wake. She had barely registered what was happening before he had saved her, pulling her back from the brink of death.
But why? Why was it always him?
Amberine's fists clenched at her sides. There was more to this man than just a professor, more than just a mage who taught them how to control their magic. He was cold, distant, almost inhuman in the way he handled everything. And yet, every ti she had co close to death, every ti her life had been on the line… it was always Draven who had appeared.
Elara, too, was watching him closely, her thoughts mirroring Amberine's. She rembered the night of the banquet as well. She had been more composed than Amberine, her water magic holding back the demonic onslaught, but even she had been shaken by the sheer force of the attack.
And yet, in that mont of weakness, Draven had appeared like a force of nature, tearing through the demons without so much as a second thought. His actions had saved her life, though he had never taken credit for it, never even acknowledged the fact that he had intervened.
Amberine bit her lip, her heart racing. This man… this man that she was now certain had killed her father, had saved her life more than once. The thought made her stomach twist in knots. How could he have done both? How could the man who had destroyed her family also be the one to rescue her ti and ti again?
She couldn't stand it anymore. The question burned in her throat, choking her until she could no longer keep it inside. She had to know.
Before she could stop herself, she spoke, her voice trembling with a mixture of anger and uncertainty. "Professor…"
Draven turned, his sharp eyes locking onto her. Amberine's breath caught in her throat, but she pushed forward, her hands trembling as she t his cold, calculating gaze.
"Are you the one… who killed my father?"
The chamber fell into a suffocating silence, the weight of her question hanging in the air like a blade. Amberine's heart pounded, her breath shallow as she waited for his answer, her entire body tense with anticipation and dread.
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