The Villain Professor's Second Chance

"They will come harder this time."

"Then hold harder," Draven returned. "Timing is everything." He snapped the charcoal in half, as if to underscore that times could break.

From a pouch he produced polished manacles of silver and black electrum, runes pulsing inside the links like heartbeat worms. He placed them, one by one, before each commander. "Lightning-binding fetters. Wear them or you fight alone."

Azra rotated hers in the lantern light, whistling low at the craftsmanship. Helyra fastened hers immediately, jaw set. Edrik hesitated only a second longer, then locked the band around his wrist with a quiet click. Alder followed suit last, the cuff clamping over his linen sleeve with a metallic finality.

Draven watched the last clasp close, satisfied. "You lose the manacle, you lose your mind—literally. Memory leeching will strip every strategy you ever learned. Keep them tight."

Vaelira spread her palms flat on the table. "And coordination?"

"Synchronize on flare signals," Draven answered. "Sky-blue for breach, crimson for fallback, silver for success. Anything else, improvise." He eyed each face around the table, searching for the smallest flicker of uncertainty. There was plenty—but they were ready to spend courage like coin.

Azra drummed fingers on the map. "Supplies?"

"Minimal." Draven's gaze flicked to Sylvanna. "Speed outvalues steel."

A low cough from Alder. "And civilian panic?" The Justiciar's voice had the brittle edge of a man terrified of the answer.

Draven's reply dropped like cold iron. "Collateral is not a consideration."

Alder's jaw tightened; he exhaled through his nose—resistance acknowledged, overridden.

Sylvanna shifted on the stretcher, drawing their attention. She swung her legs to the floor, testing newfound balance. Sparks fizzed at her heels, then faded under the mercury's hush. "Ember's ready," she said. A tremor wavered in her words, but her eyes burned steady. "We dive within the hour."

Azra saluted with her grease-stained fingers. "I'll rig the charges. Raëdrithar hasn't flown at full load since the crash, but my odds are better in the sky than on the ground."

Edrik's expression softened—just a fraction—as he met Sylvanna's gaze. "May the Four Currents guide your wings."

She managed a crooked smile. "Guide your shield, Captain."

Across the blackened table, Draven's charcoal circled the aqueduct lines with calm precision. From the splintered rafters above, grit drifted down in lazy spirals, settling into the ink like black snow. The map looked suddenly fragile—thin parchment asked to carry the weight of cities and countless souls.

Captain Alder's eyes tracked the slow dark ring, and a vein pulsed at his temple.

"That will drown the River Quarter," he said, voice low but edged with steel.

Draven's charcoal stopped. He didn't glance up; he only spoke, as if reciting a fact from an unchangeable ledger.

"Yes. It will."

The words hovered, cold and absolute. A breath seemed to pass through the room, as though every lung emptied at once. Helyra's sextant clicked shut; Azra's grease-smudged thumb stilled on the map border. Somewhere outside, a distant wave slapped the cliffs, the sound muffled by fog.

Alder's shoulders squared. Responsibility—not acceptance—settled onto him like fresh mail. He bowed his head by a brittle fraction.

"So be it."

Draven lifted his gaze at last. A single heartbeat of eye contact passed between them: duty meeting duty, no comfort offered, none sought. Then he continued.

"Shield Line Ironbark," he said, tapping the plateau sketch. "Vaelira. Edrik. Mixed ranks, pike front, archers staggered in threes. The Brine-Wraiths will rebound—larger forms, heavier echo density. You hold, or nothing else we decide matters."

Vaelira inclined her head, the gesture razor-sharp. Edrik gave a silent salute, fist to scarred breastplate. The small motions rippled confidence through the others; even Alder's jaw unclenched a shade.

From a felt pouch, Draven poured out the lightning-binding manacles—eight hoops of silver-on-black electrum. Runes already glimmered along their edges, faint blue pulsations like caged fireflies. He slid one toward every commander.

"Wear these," he said. "Memory leeching begins at first contact. The fetters will ground you."

He paused, letting silence press the sentence into marrow.

"Lose the band, you lose your mind."

One by one, clasps clicked closed. The sound echoed like nails tapping into a coffin lid. Azra winced as the metal bit skin; Helyra traced a thumb over the glyphs, whispering a prayer to the starlit depths. Alder fastened his with rigid care, lips moving in a soldier's silent oath.

Draven's own manacle locked last. He rotated his wrist, testing the hinge. The rune-pulse changed tempo to match his heart—assurance that the circuit was closed, that his mind belonged solely to him.

"We strike before dawn," he said. "No pauses. A stall in any front collapses the other two."

He scanned their faces—creases of fatigue, glints of fear, slivers of resolve.

"If hesitation wins," he finished, "you die."

The meeting fractured in a hush of scraping chairs, rustling parchment, hurried footfalls. Orders had to become motion, motion had to become readiness. Ash-laden air flowed in behind each departing shape like water filling sudden voids.

Draven turned to follow—then froze. A tremor of movement flickered at the edge of his vision: three silhouettes by the supply stacks, heads bowed close. The tallest—Brann, former Justiciar turned near-ally—darted glances around the ruin, voice slicing through cracks in the timber wall.

"…deliver him to Orvath. He'll spare us. Only chance. No more graves."

Draven's pulse did not quicken, but his eyes sharpened. A young scout, scarcely older than sixteen, crouched in the aisle, overhearing. Terror rounded the boy's pupils until only crescents of color remained. He backed away, feet soft but urgent, then vanished into the hall to seek Vaelira.

Draven turned, coat whispering, and stepped into the corridor after him.

The camp's lamps had been trimmed low to conserve oil, leaving gullies of shadow between tents. Traveling through them felt like wading a shallow river of smoke—each breath tasted of soot and cold brine. Brann's faction moved as soon as the last lantern watch changed: three men in borrowed rebel coats, knives tucked flat against forearms. They skirted a tethered line of pack mules, careful not to jingle harness rings.

Their target: the powder store—barrels of salvaged blasting salt and resin-soaked kindling stacked beneath a canvas awning. A single torch could turn a corner of camp into roaring chaos, and chaos, they believed, would be cover enough to snatch Draven.

One conspirator struck flint. Sparks spat onto greasecloth. Flame blossomed orange and hopeful.

At the opposite end of the lane, a trumpet of alarm cut the hush—the scout, breathless, shouting for command. Vaelira's shadow broke from the officers' row, sword already clearing the scabbard. Edrik followed, gauntlet adjusting, face dark with understanding.

Fire licked up the first canvas post.

Vaelira's stride did not falter. She crossed distance with the swift economy of a dueling master, pivoted, and drew the blade across the throat of the torchbearer in a single seamless arc. Blood sprayed, hissing into the fire, dimming it for the briefest instant.

The second conspirator lunged at Edrik, dagger high. Edrik caught the attacker's wrist, twisted; bone snapped like dry pine. The dagger clattered. A mailed fist followed, dropping the man unconscious at Edrik's feet.

Brann surged past the powder, eyes wild—straight toward Draven, who stood framed by the wavering glow. The former prisoner's knife gleamed, thrusting low for belly flesh.

Draven's left hand lifted not in panic but in decision. A rune, dormant until that moment, sprinted from his palm: scarlet threads looping in the air, winding toward Brann's chest quicker than a thought. It wrapped the attacker in incandescent coils. Brann froze mid-step, muscles locking as though welded. His breath rasped to a halt.

"You won't find favor with Orvath," Draven said, his voice quiet yet vast. He reached out, pressed two fingers against Brann's open palm. The burning sigil etched itself there, sizzling flesh. "This mark compels truth. Lie, and salt will fill your lungs."

Brann's eyes watered, but not from pain—rage burned brighter. Yet he remained standing, body caught by the rune's unseen chains.

Draven lowered his hand. "Live," he added, almost clinically. "Fear is longer-lasting than death."

Vaelira kicked dirt over the remaining flames. Edrik and two guards hauled the unconscious conspirators to a makeshift cell trench, iron loops hammering shut. The camp hissed like a kettle then, tension venting in curses and sighs, but the lines held.