The Villain Professor's Second Chance-Chapter 696: Dialogue With The Elves (End)

"Right," Sylara muttered. "Obvious. Like breathing water."

A hint of mirth quirked the corner of his mouth—gone before it could count as a smile. "Breathing water only kills you if you forget to filter."

She scrunched her nose. "You're impossible."

"And you're mobile again," he countered, not unkind.

She couldn't argue. Colour seeped back into her cheeks; even vision brightened, as though someone had wiped dew from a lens. Around them, the elves resumed their languid motions—passing dishes, emptying cups—yet their quiet conversation now carried a different cadence. Many sets of evergreen eyes tracked the pair with open curiosity, no longer veiled behind polite disinterest.

A lorekeeper on Draven's right leaned closer to his companion, whisper-signing with quick flicks of slender fingers. Sylara caught only fragments: strength-beyond-skin, traveler-of-gaps. Not insults, but far from complacent praise.

"Great," she murmured. "Now they're probably guessing which star-demon you grafted into your ribcage."

"Let them guess," Draven said. He reached for a spoon carved from translucent root, lifted a portion of the stew, and tasted. The gesture seemed ordinary until Sylara noticed an entire row of wardancers pivot their focus to that single movement, as though spoon technique revealed the metaphysics of his soul.

One of them—a tall female with braid rings that caught torchlight—tilted her head in faint challenge. Sylara half expected Draven to respond with a cold stare. Instead he ignored the provocation entirely, watching the steam curl from the stew as if charting weather patterns. The dismissal carried its own power; the wardancer's lashes lowered, expression unreadable.

Sylara allowed herself a longer look at the wardancers' garb: overlapping scales of leaf leather dyed midnight, twinned daggers resting at opposite hips. No scabbards—just sheaths of living bark that adjusted to their gait. Beautiful craftsmanship, lethal intent. She wondered how quickly they could clear the distance if Draven's anchoring slipped and her knees gave out. Quicker than she could notch an arrow, certainly.

Her hand drifted to the side pouch where a tranquilizer dart waited—habit, not intent—but Draven's low voice arrested the motion.

"Eat," he said, without turning. "Fuel steadies mana."

Sylara glanced at her abandoned bowl. Broth still steamed, carrying hints of rosemary pine. She lifted it with steadier fingers, sipped. Warmth chased the last cold knots from her stomach. She took another spoonful, then another, realizing somewhere in the third bite that she was famished. Hunger, masked by panic, returned with a growl loud enough for the nearest lorekeeper to raise an eyebrow. She pretended not to notice.

"What else do you see?" Draven asked quietly, as if inviting a field report.

Sylara chewed a sliver of root, scanning the glade with newly calm eyes. "Two healers behind Velthiri," she murmured. "Their robes glow along seam threads—sunleaf extract? Good for trapping infection auras. The table centerpieces aren't decoration; low-profile urns venting something spicy. My guess—incense to discourage scrying."

Draven hummed approval. "And?" frёeωebɳovel.com

She risked another sweep. "Only one unarmed elf—elder male at nine o'clock. Either he's trust-marked or lethal barehanded. Probably both." She paused, swallowed, then added, "Everyone is positioned so we're never less than three paces from a caster."

"Correct," Draven confirmed. He finally looked her way—just a flick of slate-gray eyes, but enough. "Keep cataloguing. Anxiety fades when you name the currents."

Sylara nodded. He was right; observation replaced uncertainty. The tremor might return, but for now awareness reigned. She ate another spoonful, slower, savoring the aromatic broth that, moments ago, would have turned her stomach.

Across the clearing, Velthiri conversed with two silver-haired elders. Her gaze cut to Draven more than once, then to Sylara, then back. The priestess' posture remained tall, but the stiffness in her shoulders hinted at deliberation—perhaps evaluating whether the strange pair shared enough in common to justify the evening's risk.

A lithe youth approached with a basket of seed-cakes, kneeling before Sylara first. His eyes were a softer green than most—almost mossy. He offered the cakes with a respectful dip of his chin. Sylara managed a smile. "Thank you," she whispered.

He didn't answer vocally, but pressed two fingers to his brow—a gesture she recognized from trade manuals: may your path grow roots. She copied the motion, earning a ghost of a smile before he glided on to Draven.

The youth extended the basket. Draven selected a single cake, but instead of placing it on his barkplate he held it a moment, studying the spiral pattern etched in seeds. "Careful designs," he said, tone conversational but carrying. "Each line a blessing?"

The youth's cheeks colored—either pride or shock that the outsider guessed correctly—and he bowed deeper before retreating.

Sylara leaned close once he'd gone. "You just earned us extra scrutiny," she whispered. "Complimenting their artistry is like sniffing someone's diary."

"Observation," Draven corrected. He broke the cake, steam curling from the center where sweet paste glistened. "Compliments seek return. I offered a fact."

"Semantics."

"Semantics build bridges," he said, and popped a piece into his mouth.

She shook her head, but a grin tugged at one corner. Something about his assuredness, so casual against the weight of a hundred watchful eyes, sharpened her spine. She straightened and tasted her own seed-cake. It was lightly sweet, the paste infused with something citrus-cool that numbed the tip of her tongue in a pleasant way.

An elder pair came closer, passing within arm's length. Their robes rustled like reeds against moving water. One of them paused to replenish a pitcher at Velthiri's side, and Sylara caught a whisper: "…anchor… tidal calm." They weren't talking about the forest; they were talking about Draven. She resisted preening on his behalf. He'd mock her for that later.

From across the firepit, the wardancer with braid rings tried a new tactic—mirroring. She lifted her spoon only when Sylara did, sipped in unison, set the utensil down with identical timing. It might have been intimidation, but looked more like curiosity. Sylara met the woman's eyes and raised one brow. The wardancer inclined her head, tiny smirk acknowledging the unspoken challenge.

The tension that had strangled Sylara minutes ago dispersed into a strange buoyancy. She rolled her shoulders, testing. No tremble. Her mana channels still tasted thick with elven power, but Draven's presence buffered the worst waves. She dared a deeper breath, filling her lungs with pine-ash aroma that once smelled oppressive and now felt nostalgic, though she couldn't say why.

Velthiri finally approached, a slender carafe of silvery barkwine in hand. The conversation around the glade tapered like candles snuffed in sequence. She knelt opposite Draven, eyes on the cup in his hand.

"The forest notes new chords," she said, pouring a thin line of liquid into a carved cup. The wine caught firefly light, swirling starlight flecks in its depths.

Draven inclined his head. "We aim to keep the melody stable."

Velthiri's lips twitched. Perhaps amusement, perhaps skepticism. She offered the cup first to Sylara, who accepted with careful fingers. The vessel felt warm, but not from heat—the wood itself pulsed with a steady heartbeat. She tasted a single sip. Hints of mint frost and honeyed earth bloomed across her tongue, then vanished, as though designed to be remembered instead of savored.

Draven took his portion next. Velthiri waited until both had drunk before settling elegantly onto her mat. The hush fractured; soft talk resumed like a tide rising after an eclipse. Yet the axis of attention clung to their corner.

Sylara dabbed her lips with the back of her glove. "I'm amazed they still feel threatened," she murmured, meaning the elves. "Didn't you just dial the whole forest down a notch?"

"They respect storms most when the sky looks clear," Draven replied. He flicked phantom crumbs from his sleeve. "Control frightens those who mistake stillness for weakness."

He gave the smallest smile—not at her, but at his plate. "Then stop sipping. Let me anchor you."

She almost snapped at him. Almost. But then she felt it—a shift. Not in the world, but in him.

His presence, normally sharp and hard-edged like a man permanently mid-analysis, grew vast. Not heavier. Just… grounded. Like he had decided, just now, to become a mountain.

The tremor in her thigh stopped.

Her breathing slowed.