The Villain Professor's Second Chance

When my eyes returned to Lorik, I found him studying me with an intensity I hadn't expected. He looked like he wanted to speak, to say something that might ground us or give a sense of hope. But in the end, he just exhaled and nodded. Whatever words he had, he kept inside, perhaps not wanting to feed a false sense of optimism. We'd come this far on clarity, and clarity told us we were in danger.

The cold pressed in, and I felt a low ache in my muscles from the night's battles. Yet I forced myself not to show it. That wasn't my way. Instead, I slipped the Gravekeeper's token into a safe pocket in my coat, ensuring it was close at hand if we needed it. My mind reeled through a dozen scenarios—what to do if we were ambushed again, which routes to take if forced to detour, how to deal with Lorik's injuries if they worsened. But outwardly, I remained composed. Always remain composed. It's what's kept me alive this long.

I stepped away from the grave on which Lorik had been leaning. The ground squelched softly beneath my boots, damp from lingering dew. In the distance, the faintest glow of dawn threatened the horizon, but it could have been an illusion. Time felt warped already, and my senses were on high alert. For all I knew, we were hours from sunrise, or dawn might have already passed. The feeling of being untethered to the normal flow of time gnawed at the edges of my mind. Perhaps it was the effect of the token, or the presence of the Tapestry's looming imbalance. Experience tales at My Virtual Library Empire

Lorik took a step forward, wincing as he did so. We exchanged a brief look, and in his eyes, I saw a reflection of my own determination. Fear underlaid it, but so did resolve. He wouldn't collapse on me. Not here. Not now. He was too stubborn for that.

Without another word, I turned toward the edge of the graveyard, my coat swishing softly against my legs as I moved. The breeze caught strands of my hair, and the chill in the air felt like a forewarning of more violent storms ahead. Over the crumbling stone wall that bordered the cemetery, I glimpsed the darkness beyond, the trees rising like black silhouettes. That was our path. Beyond it lay House Valen, or what remained, and somewhere beneath that ruin was the Resonance Site.

I didn't look back at Lorik when I spoke again, but I knew he was listening. "Every second we waste, the distance between us and whoever's pulling the strings gets smaller."

He stood there, still leaning slightly, but I heard him huff a quiet laugh, one without mirth. Then he pushed himself off the gravestone fully, letting his arm drop from his ribs. He tested his footing, rolling his shoulders as if steeling himself for the next trial.

He didn't argue. He knew I was right.

____

Chancellor Lisanor's chambers were dimly lit, with only a few flickering sconces casting long shadows across an obsidian table polished to a mirror sheen. The chamber itself sat deep within Magic Tower University, isolated from the bustling corridors where apprentice mages and researchers went about their nightly routines. In these hidden depths, matters of true consequence were settled away from prying eyes.

Tension laced the air like a razor-sharp wire, a humming threat that made every breath feel measured and precarious. Around the table, the Council gathered: a half-dozen figures draped in dark robes, each bearing subtle insignias that hinted at their backgrounds—some from distant principalities, others from old and illustrious bloodlines within the kingdom. Their expressions varied from grim resolve to cold calculation. Rumors had already reached them: rumors of Draven Arcanum von Drakhan, a professor once considered the Tower's pride, now dangerously teetering on the edge of outright treachery.

At one end of the table sat Chancellor Lisanor, poised with perfect composure. Her dark hair was wound into a severe coil at the nape of her neck, and her features were as sharp as any blade. She waited, silent, allowing the moment to breathe before the meeting truly began. A golden brooch pinned to her robe displayed the Tower's emblem—an open book circled by runic script—but aside from that small flash of color, she wore the same solemn blacks and grays as the rest of the Council. A battered enforcer stood before them, his posture more rigid than the battered state of his body suggested. One arm was wrapped tight in bandages, caked with dried blood that stained the cloth a muddy crimson. His face was bruised and swollen on one side, and a faint trickle of sweat lined his brow.

He cleared his throat, voice trembling only slightly. "Draven Arcanum von Drakhan," he began, forcing each syllable out. "He escaped our ambush. Killed two of our men outright. Stole something from the library—an artifact we still haven't fully identified. And…" He paused, swallowing hard, as though even uttering the next words brought him discomfort. "He's working with Lorik the Unbound."

A hush fell. Some of the Council members exchanged wary glances. Others remained stoic, though the flicker in their eyes betrayed a spark of apprehension. The name Lorik was enough to stir a sense of alarm; the scholar was infamous for delving into forbidden corners of magic, places even the most ambitious researchers avoided.

One Councilor, an older man with a scar running down one side of his face, shifted in his seat. The scar supposedly came from a confrontation with a rogue summoner decades ago, though no one had ever confirmed the rumor. "Draven assisting Lorik," he muttered. "I didn't think I'd live to see the day."

Lisanor's expression remained unreadable. She brought her hands together on the table, the faint click of jeweled rings against her skin the only sound in the silence. "Do we have any indication of his intent?" she asked, her voice measured, as though merely inquiring about an overdue library book.

The enforcer hesitated, his gaze darting to the shadowed corners of the room, as if expecting something to leap out. Or perhaps he was remembering the ambush, the lethal efficiency with which Draven had dispatched his comrades. "He was… methodical," the enforcer said at last. "Calculated. He took out our men without wasted movement. No hesitation, no real mercy—except he left one of us alive, presumably to report back. That wasn't an accident. He wanted us to know."

At that, Lisanor's lips curved just slightly, an almost imperceptible movement. "He wanted us to know," she repeated under her breath, as if turning the phrase over in her mind. Then, a quiet murmur: "He's sending a message."

A councilor on her left—a woman draped in a charcoal-gray robe—exhaled, folding her arms beneath her sleeves. "It's a wonder he bothered sending a message at all. Draven is no fool, we know that much. If he truly intended to vanish, he could have left the corpses of all our men and slipped away without a trace. The fact that he spared even one speaks volumes."

"Yes," said another Council member, this one with a distinctive silver torc at his neck signifying some ancient vow or lineage. "He's cunning, patient. He wants us to move, to react. This might be a trap."