The Villain Professor's Second Chance

"Yes."

Weight slammed into the word—more than memory, more than confession. Recognition glimmered in Velthiri's eyes; she did not need explanations. Pain had dialects. Those who had tasted certain flavours of it could hear kinship in a flat reply.

One heartbeat stretched into three. Luminous spores drifted down like tiny stars, settling on bow limbs, on Draven's coat shoulders, melting to sparks where they touched Sylvanna's copper hair. At last Velthiri turned, the motion precise enough to qualify as verdict.

"One dusk and dawn," she pronounced. "Nothing more. Not yet."

No cheers, no arrows loosed in relief. Only a collective exhale from archers who eased their draw an inch, remaining ready because centuries of caution did not fall in a single negotiation.

An escort—four guards ahead, two behind—motioned them forward. Draven read their formation: respectful distance, lanes of fire unobstructed, curved route that passed under three overhead platforms armed with slings and nettle darts. Competent.

They ascended a spiralling walkway. Sylvanna's boots whispered over root and lichen, hers a half-beat behind his. She kept her eyes forward, but he sensed the questions caged behind her measured breathing. Why allow this? How thin is their patience? He would answer later—when walls themselves didn't listen.

Their destination perched halfway up the trunk of a triple-braided elder. The platform curved like a shell supported by three ancient limbs. Bark formed walls alive enough to ripple when Draven's weight shifted across the threshold, as though tasting him. Gaps between panels offered slices of moonlight and provided the watchers outside an unobstructed view; privacy was suggested, not delivered.

A table occupied the centre—no seams, grown rather than built. Two shallow cups rested upon it, each filled with liquid so clear it caught every glow in the room. Springwater tea, according to elven custom, though the surface swirled with vaporous runes too faint to parse.

Draven took the nearer seat without waiting. Sylvanna remained standing, her bow finally easing off her shoulder, though her fingers stayed close to the grip.

A rustle at the doorway announced Velthiri once more, accompanied by a pair of robed aides whose faces bore the unreadable calm of scholars. She gestured to the cups. "Welcome, then, travellers." The title tasted like caution wrapped in courtesy. "Drink, and let the forest see you."

Draven wrapped calloused fingers around the first cup. The water held a faint aroma—something like pine resin steeped with crushed mint. He raised it, incline of his wrist exact. Sightlines from the door shifted: the guards measuring tension in his knuckles, the aides watching for tremor. He drank, neither sip nor gulp—three steady swallows that left the cup half-empty.

As he set it down, ripples rolled outward. The liquid's surface caught a flicker of violet, faint enough one might doubt it was real. Then the glow deepened, blooming like ink in cold milk until the cup burned with a dusky amethyst light. Gasps stirred at the doorway. One aide's lips parted in a whisper of prayer.

Draven's eyes narrowed a fraction. Violet—unknown, maybe unsettling. But he kept his face unreadable. He rested both palms on the table, signalling the test was theirs to interpret.

Sylvanna stepped forward. Velthiri's gaze pinned her in place. The second cup waited—steam curling like ghostly vines. Sylvanna hesitated, weighing secrets against hospitality. Draven did not glance at her; he trusted the calculus running behind her amber eyes.

She lifted the vessel. The rim kissed her lips—cool, metallic bark, not clay. She tipped it. One swallow, a pause, another. She returned the cup, bare inches from the first.

A breathless silence.

Icy blue seeped through the water, almost crystalline. A soft chime emanated from the cup itself, like frost cracking across a winter lake. One guard at the entrance stiffened; the taller aide placed a calming hand upon his shoulder.

Velthiri studied the twin glows—violet and ice-blue—reflecting in her frost eyes. Thoughts moved behind her expression, too quick to catch. She inclined her head. "The forest sees."

Draven waited. Questions would come. But the immediate test—whatever subtle enchantment nested in that tea—was done. Whether the colours condemned or merely intrigued remained to be uncovered.

He said nothing. Just placed the cup back.

Sylvanna lifted the cup, the rim trembling a fraction against her lower lip. The liquid's surface caught the lantern-glow, and for an instant Draven—watching from a stillness so practiced it felt like armor—read a flicker of reluctance in her eyes. She feared tests that smelled of pedigree; beasttamers rarely passed such judgments unharmed. But she drank. Two deliberate swallows, as though refusing to let the water rush her heartbeat.

The change was immediate. Frost-blue light feathered through the cup, starting at the meniscus and sinking in delicate branches until the entire bowl shone like trapped winter. A hush swept the doorway. One elder, half hidden beneath a hood woven from raven feathers, shifted his weight. The motion was slight—heel pressed down, spine bracing—but the tension rolled across the chamber like a dropped stone in still water.

Draven noted everything: the elder's left hand tightening on a bracelet of thorn-carved beads; the guard beside him leaning five millimeters forward, just enough to widen the sliver between bowstring and cheek. He filed each response in the column marked Suspicion: moderate, contained.

The bark walls rustled as Velthiri entered, robes trailing a faint trace of cedar. She paused in the archway, eyes reflecting twin pools of light—violet in one, ice-blue in the other. Her gaze lingered on the cups for an extra heartbeat before she addressed the raven-hooded elder at her side. "You are not enemies," she declared, voice pitched low but carrying. "But they are not what they claim."

The elder's brows lifted like gray wings. "They passed?"

"Enough," Velthiri answered. No triumph curled her lips, no warmth softened her stance. She looked carved from winter bark—alive, yet with sap that ran slow. "We test," she added, tone sharpening, "not just with truth. But with silence."

Draven absorbed the nuance: Silence is a language here; we listened, and they noticed. A subtle victory. Not trust, but a hinge on which trust might someday swing.

Twilight seeped through the lattice roof, turning the green-gold lanterns to bruised amber. Elven sentries exchanged brief signals, and soon Draven felt the summons ripple across the settlement—a collective inhale that meant the next threshold awaited.

They led him to a platform perched beyond the last ring of dwellings, where the forest thickened into old growth uninterested in company. Moss muted every footstep; even the guards' presence seemed borrowed, as though the trees would reclaim the space once the foreigners left. At the platform's end a single tree curled around itself three times, forming a natural arch. From that arch hung the bell.

It was fashioned of dull gray stone, matte as river pebbles, yet veins of silver quartz spider-webbed across its surface. Where a clapper should swing, there was only emptiness—a hollow heart waiting for wind that seldom reached this deep. Air smelled of lichen and distant rain.

Velthiri stood beneath the bell, shoulders squared. "This was carved when Ithen Elh'Varal disappeared," she said. Her breath misted faintly; the temperature here seemed colder than in Verenthal proper. "No body. No song. Just silence."

Draven measured the bell's shape. Cylindrical, slightly tapered toward the mouth. Silent by intent, yet the quartz would resonate if struck with the right frequency—likely why it remained out of reach. "Years?" he asked.

"Two hundred." Velthiri's answer carried no exaggeration. Elves counted centuries like other races counted winters.

"I see." He studied the arch's grain, reading ancient chisel marks now softened by moss. "You want me to find her."