Rashan sat quietly at his desk, the soft scratch of paper filling the comfortable silence beneath the steady, amber glow of the lantern. His notes lay scattered, half-formed ideas and tactical scribbles spread loosely across the wooden surface. Adrien reclined across from him, his chair tipped slightly back, his single hand idly turning the battered metal flask he always carried but never drank from.
Their conversation drifted lazily, slipping back toward the morning's sparring match—a pure test of martial skill, no magic, no tricks. Rashan's muscles still ached faintly, a satisfying reminder of his achievement: for the first time, he'd managed a true stalemate. Adrien was still formidable despite having lost an arm long ago, and Rashan could only imagine how dangerous the man must have been in his prime. Even now, all Rashan knew was that the Altmer had been responsible for his teacher's harshest wounds. Neither Adrien nor Rashan's father had ever offered details; some secrets were buried deeper than others.
Their quiet banter shifted naturally toward mysticism, Rashan softly countering Adrien's dry observations on mana flow and arcane structure, when the door abruptly swung inward.
Gorak stood rigidly framed in the doorway, broad shoulders blocking the lanternlight from outside. The painted tusks on his ANBU mask gleamed harshly in shadow. When the Orc spoke, his voice was tight and grim.
"Devan is back," Gorak reported bluntly. "The others are missing—and Devan needs medical attention."
Rashan moved swiftly into the fort's main chamber, his footfalls echoing sharply against the stone walls. The air was heavy, thick with a nauseating, metallic scent that tightened his throat. The ANBU stood silent around the central table, their masks blank but bodies tense, uncertain. Gorak stepped forward immediately, voice low, roughened by urgency.
"He barely dragged himself to our gates before collapsing," the Orc said bluntly. "He passed out immediately."
"Shit," Rashan hissed, pushing his way forward. "Everyone back away—now."
As the ANBU gave space, Rashan's gaze fell on Devan. He lay sprawled across the sturdy wooden surface, limbs trembling erratically, breaths shallow and wet. The elf's armor appeared darkened and singed, yet largely intact—an unsettling contradiction given the catastrophic damage underneath.
Beneath the blackened leather, Devan's flesh had been savagely cooked, the intense magical heat somehow bypassing armor to boil the skin beneath. Angry, swollen blisters the size of Rashan's palm rose grotesquely along his torso, rupturing and seeping fluid tinted crimson and sickly yellow. Long ribbons of melted skin peeled away like softened wax, sticking stubbornly to the armor, revealing raw, glistening muscle fibers beneath, twitching helplessly with each shuddering breath.
The sheer severity was unsettling—even terrifying—considering Devan was a dark elf, naturally resistant to fire. Whatever magic had struck him must have been hellishly intense, sustained beyond endurance, overwhelming his innate defenses and searing him from the inside out. Rashan had never before seen burn wounds so cruelly precise, so relentlessly destructive.
Deeper still, beneath the burns, lay injuries inflicted by another violent form of torment. Jagged, spiderwebbed lines radiated outward across his chest, the unmistakable evidence of lightning's touch. The electrical surge had torn through flesh, branching and splitting skin open like cracked porcelain, veins ruptured in dark, angry bruises beneath translucent patches of shredded tissue. These lightning scars interwove sickeningly with the burns, creating a horrific mosaic of elemental cruelty.
Intermixed with flame and lightning, Rashan saw yet another injury—patches of skin ghostly pale and waxen, rimmed with dark purples and blacks, unmistakable frostbite. The magical cold had frozen the flesh deeply enough to kill tissue, leaving skin numb and lifeless, edges rotting slowly into the living layers around them. Rashan realized grimly that each area represented an attempt at lethal efficiency—fire, shock, ice—every element deployed mercilessly to end Devan's life.
Devan's breathing was shallow and ragged, eyes fluttering desperately beneath lids half-crusted with dried blood and soot. His mouth opened weakly, the elf choking faintly on wet, labored breaths. His consciousness ebbed in and out, muscles twitching involuntarily from residual shock damage, body trembling violently as shock slowly took hold.
Rashan felt a cold, twisting knot of anger and disbelief deep in his gut, tempered only by respect for the elf's resilience. To endure even one such attack was extraordinary. But Devan had somehow survived a sustained assault from multiple powerful mages, each intent on his destruction.
Just how many damned mages had he fought to end up like this?
L
Rashan didn't hesitate, moving swiftly to Devan's side—not driven by compassion or panic, but cold necessity. He didn't need Devan to survive; he needed answers. Information was everything now, and the dark elf held the key.
Ideally, Rashan would have placed him into a deep, chemically induced coma—a unique potion he'd personally formulated for cases like this. Other healers simply dulled pain, using mild herbs or basic numbing agents, but Rashan's method was more decisive: it rendered the patient entirely unconscious, blocking trauma-induced panic responses and ensuring stability. Yet, a coma was useless right now. He needed Devan awake, coherent, able to speak.
Restoration magic typically encouraged the body's natural healing processes, gently guiding tissues toward renewal. But Rashan understood something most healers avoided—if pushed beyond careful control, restoration could aggressively overstimulate nerve endings and tissues, permanently destroying them rather than repairing. It was not common practice, nor was it without consequence. Rashan was not healing Devan; he was deliberately burning out nerve endings and forcing the wounded flesh to die completely. This violent overstimulation prevented the flesh from ever regenerating naturally, effectively making future healing impossible without drastic interventions such as grafts or alchemical reconstruction. It was an ugly, ruthless approach, and Rashan used it without hesitation.
Gathering the restoration magic sharply at his fingertips, Rashan pressed it forcefully into Devan's scorched torso. The wounded skin responded immediately, twisting and shriveling as nerves overloaded and snapped beneath the brutal magical assault. The flesh blackened visibly, curling into dead, brittle patches of numbness that would never heal again. Pain vanished not because Rashan healed it, but because he'd permanently destroyed the body's ability to feel or repair that pain. Devan's chest became a ruined landscape, numb and permanently scarred.
But pain was a barrier, and barriers could not be allowed.
Once the nerves and tissue were adequately destroyed, Rashan withdrew a vial filled with a vivid crimson liquid—an aggressive stimulant of his own design. Crafted to rapidly flood the bloodstream with adrenaline and powerful stimulants, the potion would violently jerk Devan's heart rate upward, forcibly kicking him back into consciousness regardless of exhaustion or shock.
Rashan uncorked the vial, pouring the liquid into Devan's mouth and sharply signaling to the ANBU around him. "Hold him."
Immediately, two ANBU stepped forward, Gorak among them, gripping Devan's shoulders and limbs tightly, pinning him firmly against the wooden table.
Five seconds passed. Then ten. Then fifteen.
Devan's eyes flew open with a ragged gasp, body jerking violently against the hands restraining him. Every muscle contracted simultaneously, veins bulging in his neck and jaw locking painfully tight.
"Calm down," Rashan ordered sharply, leaning directly over the struggling elf, forcing eye contact. "You're safe—you're among friends."
Devan's gaze darted wildly, barely focusing, the agony still vivid despite the adrenaline-fueled alertness. Sweat streamed down his soot-streaked face, expression contorted in confusion and residual panic.
"Look at me," Rashan said, voice firm and cold, cutting through Devan's haze. "What happened?"
Devan stared at him, trembling violently, muscles locked rigid from the potion's brutal kick.
Devan finally spoke, voice rasping painfully through ruined lungs, each syllable a brutal, agonized effort. "Glass armor…outnumbered…cornered us…"
He coughed violently, spasms shaking his battered body, and Rashan instinctively gripped the elf's shoulder, steadying him. Blood flecked Devan's lips, dripping darkly from his chin, eyes wide with desperate urgency.
"Cassia got caught first…if not—" Devan's voice fractured, body seizing violently as agony stole his breath, yet he clawed back to consciousness with stubborn determination, forcing the words through clenched teeth.
"Arannis…gave me an opening…barely escaped…"
Rashan's jaw tightened, an icy dread twisting in his gut. "Where?" he pressed urgently, voice low but sharp, focused. "Devan, tell me exactly where it happened."
Devan coughed again, harder this time, his chest hitching as thick, dark blood spilled from his mouth, splattering in sickening globs onto Rashan's hand. Rashan's pulse hammered in his ears—internal bleeding. The realization struck him hard, a weight settling like lead in his stomach. He could've saved Devan, stabilized him properly, but there was no time—not if he wanted any chance at bringing back Cassia and Arannis.
Steeling his heart, Rashan forced himself forward. He couldn't afford hesitation, not now. He'd fix this—one way or another.
"At…the bend," Devan rasped, words barely audible, fading rapidly. "Tango…target…"
Rashan nodded sharply, recognizing it instantly. It had been one of the points discussed earlier, a possible ambush location predicted during their briefing. Their Akir'r allies hadn't offered specifics, forcing Rashan to guess which Dominion supply route would trigger a counterattack.
"When, Devan?" Rashan leaned closer, eyes fierce, demanding answers with every fiber of his being. "Exactly when did it happen?"
Time mattered. Gods, how it mattered.
Devan's eyelids fluttered shut, breaths becoming shallower, weaker. Rashan felt a sudden surge of panic, an unfamiliar ache in his chest. Devan couldn't slip away yet—not until he gave him this answer.
"Late day…caught…before sun…before…" Devan's voice died abruptly, head lolling to the side, consciousness slipping away as his breath rattled ominously in his throat.
Rashan straightened slowly, his pulse thundering as he exchanged a silent, grim look with Adrien. The Breton wore a rare look of deep concern, his single hand tightening involuntarily. "Glass armor," Adrien murmured softly, the words heavy and grave. "Only a handful of elite High Elves wear it—and if it's who I think it is, we've got a big fucking problem."
Rashan's mouth curled into a cold, bitter smirk, defiance gleaming sharply in his eyes. "Normal people might have a big fucking problem," he replied, his voice steady and ice-cold.
But beneath his bravado, his heart felt heavy, burdened by the cost of his choices. Rashan forced himself to focus, locking away his doubts. He had to reach the ambush site before sunrise—his current deathsave would expire exactly twenty-four hours from the last dawn. Sprinting hard, he'd have perhaps an hour to scout the site thoroughly, find Cassia and Arannis's trail, and learn exactly what happened.
Then, Rashan thought grimly, eyes narrowing with steely resolve, he himself would have to die.