The Villain Professor's Second Chance

"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." Enjoy new tales from My Virtual Library Empire

"Draven has always been a threat," someone else muttered from near the back of the table—a lean figure who seemed perpetually cloaked in half-shadows, a cowl hiding most of his features. "He should have been removed years ago. If he's aiding Lorik, then it's only a matter of time before he's standing against us."

"Standing against us?" The speaker's counterpart, an older woman with iron-gray hair pinned in a complex braid, raised a brow. "You assume he hasn't already decided that. Draven isn't sentimental. He's strategic. If he thinks we're in his way, he'll remove us without a second thought."

The battered enforcer coughed, drawing a few annoyed glances from the Council members. He ignored them, pressing on. "My men… the ones who survived… said they barely had time to blink. One moment, Draven was just a silhouette in the gloom; the next, two of them were on the ground, gone. He moves like… like nothing I've ever seen. We tried—"

"We don't need every gory detail," the older man with the scar interrupted. His voice carried a certain practiced authority. "The fact is, you failed. And Draven took advantage of it. We should focus on what to do now."

Several heads nodded in agreement. A wave of subdued tension rolled through the room, like a current of fear masked by political stoicism. Even Lisanor's eyes seemed to darken, reflecting some internal calculation as she considered her options.

They all knew Draven's reputation—an unorthodox teacher of arcane combat, rumored to have bested multiple high-ranking mages in duels, a man who could kill without breaking a sweat if the situation demanded it. The real question was: what was his endgame? Why ally with Lorik, a fringe scholar whose thirst for forbidden knowledge had made him a pariah?

Lisanor finally spoke again, voice slicing through the low murmurs. "Send the retrieval unit," she said, her words echoing in the hush. "Capture Draven alive. Kill Lorik if necessary."

As soon as the directive left her lips, the tension in the room seemed to coil tighter, as if every occupant was waiting for the final blow. A retrieval unit meant a specialized team of mage-hunters, trackers, and enforcers trained to subdue even the most powerful renegades. They weren't often used—only when the Tower's authority was truly under threat.

One of the council members, a man with a hawkish nose and a perpetual sneer, leaned forward. A hungry gleam lit his eyes, something that bordered on fascination. "And if capturing him proves… difficult?" he asked. The eagerness in his tone made some of his peers grimace; it was as if the man relished the idea of testing himself against Draven.

Lisanor turned her gaze on him, unblinking, and for a heartbeat the room felt like it had lost its air. Her presence, though quiet, carried a weight that made everyone else seem lesser. "Then we make an example of him," she said simply.

In that moment, the shadows cast by the dim sconces seemed to grow, the entire council chamber taking on a chilling aura. A few of the gathered councilors shifted uneasily, while others nodded in somber agreement. The battered enforcer lowered his gaze, as though privately thanking the gods he wasn't in Draven's position.

A hush settled, deeper than before. That single line from Lisanor had sealed the Tower's intent. There would be no leniency if Draven resisted, no chance for him to talk his way back into the Council's good graces. Regardless of the years he'd spent in service to the Tower, or the brilliance he'd contributed to magical research, he was now an enemy. And the Tower did not tolerate enemies for long.

Someone cleared their throat—an older councilor with a quill pinned behind his ear, possibly a chronicler. "We should also consider the ramifications of crossing Draven. If he truly is as dangerous as we believe, might we be setting ourselves up for a larger conflict?"

The question hung in the air, but Lisanor did not bother replying directly. She simply flicked her gaze to the battered enforcer. "Spread the word: Draven Arcanum von Drakhan is to be taken alive if possible. But if that proves impossible, terminate him without hesitation. Lorik, if captured or found interfering, is expendable. The retrieval unit leaves tonight."

A handful of nods met her orders. No one openly challenged the edict. Far from it: some among them even appeared pleased, as though eager to unleash the Tower's might on a foe they deemed too arrogant. Perhaps they'd been waiting for this moment, a chance to prove the Council's dominance or to watch Draven fall.

Lisanor herself stood, pressing her palms against the table. She looked out across the gathered members, letting the gravity of her words sink in. "We must act swiftly. Draven is not one to be underestimated, but nor can we allow him to roam free with that artifact. Our intelligence suggests it may have ties to Belisarius Drakhan, or possibly the Gravekeepers. The implications of either scenario are dire."

One of the younger councilors raised a hand in a halting gesture. "And the rumors about necromancers at Valen's Reach? Are they to be deprioritized?"

The Chancellor shook her head, curt and dismissive. "We can address the necromancers once this is contained. Draven's flight from the Tower is the immediate threat."

In truth, her words only served to underscore the precarious state of the kingdom's magical affairs. Between rumors of necromancers stirring in abandoned ruins, the whispering threat of Gravekeepers manipulating reality, and Draven's defiance, it seemed as though the Tower was balancing on a knife's edge. One wrong step could send them all plunging into chaos.

A heavy silence reigned as the enforcer, evidently dismissed, bowed his head and walked out. He didn't linger, perhaps grateful to leave the suffocating presence of so many power brokers. In his wake, a hush lingered like an echo, and the Council members took their leave one by one, each lost in private thoughts—calculations about how to handle the threat, personal anxieties about Draven's capabilities, or curiosity about the deeper mysteries that might lurk behind his sudden alliance with Lorik.

Within a few minutes, Lisanor stood alone at the head of the table, arms folded. The sconces' light gave her a stern silhouette that betrayed little of her inner deliberations. She was no fool, and neither were many of the Council members—Draven's unpredictability was the very reason they had tolerated him for so long, hoping to harness his brilliance, mold it to their purposes. But now the leash had snapped, and he was out in the wild, brandishing arcane secrets that even the Tower's archives had barely touched upon.

She closed her eyes for a long moment. In that silence, she might have been praying for success, or for an easy resolution, though it was hard to imagine someone like Lisanor praying for anything. Then, with a measured breath, she turned and walked toward the exit, her robe whispering over the cold stone floor. The retrieval unit had its orders. Draven would either return subdued or not at all.

By the time she reached the tall doors, her mind was set. She would do whatever was necessary to maintain the Tower's authority, keep the kingdom safe from powers beyond mortal reckoning. If Draven insisted on standing in the way—if he chose to test the Tower's absolute resolve—she would be the one to ensure the lesson was learned.

Outside, in the corridor, a junior mage stood at attention, eyes flicking up anxiously at her approach. He straightened. "Chancellor, is there anything—"

She shook her head. "No. Go about your duties."

He nodded, stepping aside in a flurry of robes. Lisanor passed him without another glance, heading down the corridor toward a small, private antechamber where she kept her personal communications. Her thoughts churned: messages to certain informants would need to be sent, additional watchers stationed at possible hideouts. Maybe Draven had old allies or safehouses that needed investigating. If so, she would see to it. There could be no weak links in the net they were about to cast.

And if Draven still thought he could leverage the knowledge he'd taken, or the artifact he'd stolen, to outmaneuver the Council, she would show him otherwise.

In her mind, the final words she had spoken to the Council repeated themselves, as though reaffirming her conviction. She had meant every one of them, no matter the cost:

"Then we make an example of him."