CHAPTER 286: AFTERMATH (2)

The light had changed again.

It wasn’t warmer. Or brighter.

Just... heavier.

A pressure beneath the ribs. The kind of weight that told you someone else was watching. Someone powerful. Someone old.

Eldrin turned his head just enough to see the shadows move.

Not a soldier.

Not one of his people.

The man who stepped into the ruined courtyard didn’t need to be introduced.

He wore no crest. No sigil.

But the wind shifted as he walked.

And the trees bent ever so slightly in his direction — like even the forest remembered who he was.

Vaelion Silverleaf.

The High King of Sylvarion.

Elf. Monarch. Cold as the steel that lined his ceremonial bracers.

Eldrin hadn’t seen him in over a decade.

And certainly not like this, descending alone, quiet, the faint pulse of high-level wind mana rippling in his wake with each step. No guards. No banner. Just the wind.

’Why is he here?’

Eldrin didn’t speak.

Couldn’t, really.

The effort of dragging himself this far had drained whatever scraps of fire still smoldered under his skin.

His arm, the missing one, pulsed with phantom heat.

Blood still pooled under his side.

But Vaelion said nothing at first.

He just stood over him, hair silver-white and drawn back in a tight braid, circlet of emerald metal half-tarnished from years of war. His longcoat was forest green, lined with a dull gold threading, the colors of the inner circle of Sylvarion.

His gaze swept the courtyard. The corpses. The melted marble. The smell.

Then his eyes dropped to Eldrin.

And narrowed.

A pause.

Then: "You’re bleeding."

His voice hadn’t changed. Deep, slow, perfectly even.

Eldrin coughed once. "Sharp as ever."

Vaelion didn’t smile.

He crouched beside him. Not in a rush. Not like he cared. But he moved with the kind of clinical precision that told you he’d been in too many battlefields to flinch at the sight of a dying man.

His hand hovered above the wound, not divine, not healing, but steady. Wind affinity flickered around his fingers, slowing the airflow around Eldrin’s side to reduce the blood loss.

"That arm won’t grow back," he said bluntly.

"I figured."

"It was the sword art," Vaelion added. "The one your father kept sealed."

Eldrin’s jaw twitched. "You remember that?"

"I remember everything."

A beat.

The silence wasn’t cold.

Just vast.

Like there were a thousand things unsaid between them and neither of them cared to sort through the wreckage to find the ones worth saying.

Eldrin broke it first.

"You came alone?"

"No."

"Then where—"

"Scouting the perimeter," Vaelion said. "Your defenses are gone."

"I noticed."

Another pause.

A breeze stirred what was left of the banners above them. One dropped, finally, and landed in the blood.

Vaelion didn’t look at it.

"Why are you here," Eldrin asked finally, voice quieter now.

"Because of the thing that just left your skies cracked open," Vaelion replied.

He didn’t sound angry. He didn’t sound concerned.

Just observant.

Like he was talking about the weather.

"Was it a summoning?" he added.

"Yes."

"Controlled?"

"No."

Vaelion tilted his head slightly, the braid over his shoulder catching the light like a blade.

"And your wife?"

"Taken."

Vaelion didn’t blink.

"And your son?"

Eldrin’s jaw clenched. "He doesn’t know yet."

"He will."

Eldrin forced himself to sit up more fully, a hiss of pain at his ribs. His shoulder throbbed.

Vaelion didn’t help him up.

He didn’t offer support.

He just waited.

After a moment, he said, "You’re not dead yet. That’s something."

Eldrin barked a half-laugh. "High praise."

"I don’t waste praise," Vaelion replied. "And I don’t come for funerals."

The wind around him shifted again, subtle. Intentional.

A swirl of mana stirred the dust and dried blood, sweeping it gently off Eldrin’s back as he rose slowly to one knee. Not standing yet, but no longer prone.

"Maeven?" Vaelion asked.

Eldrin nodded. "And another. Something far worse."

"I felt it."

"You weren’t the only one," Eldrin muttered. "But you’re the only one who showed up."

Vaelion didn’t answer right away.

Then, at last: "Where did they take her?"

Eldrin looked toward the mountain ridge, far beyond the trees. The sky still looked wrong there. Cloudless. Pressed flat.

"I don’t know," he said.

Vaelion exhaled slowly.

Wind spun again around him, this time curling tighter.

"You won’t be able to follow them in this state," he said flatly.

"No."

"Then get up."

"I’m trying."

"Try harder."

Eldrin let out a breath through gritted teeth.

’Bastard hasn’t changed at all.’

But he pushed.

He forced his good arm to brace against his knee, leg trembling as he finally, finally, pushed upright. The world tilted. His vision blackened at the edges. But he didn’t fall.

Vaelion didn’t reach to catch him.

He just waited until the wobble faded.

Then turned toward the trees.

"My camp’s not far," he said. "You’ll walk."

"I just lost an arm."

"You didn’t lose your legs."

Eldrin grunted. "You talk to all your allies like this?"

"You’re not an ally. You’re family."

And with that, Vaelion Silverleaf walked.

No dramatic pause. No backwards glance.

Just the wind behind him, and Eldrin limping after.

Bleeding, yes.

Shattered, yes.

But alive.

Barely.

And that would have to be enough.

—

The canvas flap twitched in the wind, cracking faintly against the frame like it was just as impatient as he was. Lindarion stood outside the war tent, arms crossed, boots grinding into the churned-up mud. His coat was half-unbuttoned, damp with old blood, newer ash, and sweat.

He wasn’t cold.

But something beneath his ribs was burning anyway.

They hadn’t let him in.

Not even Jaren.

"You’re too close to it," Jaren had said. "Too much on your plate. Let the warleaders handle this."

Let them handle it.

Right. Just like they’d "handled" Caldris. Just like they’d "handled" the mutants and the tunnels and the screaming that hadn’t stopped since the fall.

Lindarion’s jaw locked tighter.

Ashwing flicked his tail in mild agitation from where he perched on a wooden post nearby, wings tucked close to his sides.

"They’re still talking," the little dragon muttered. "That’s the third time someone’s come and gone. Maybe they’re drawing pictures in there."