The silence that followed the departure of the Shadow Mage was heavier than the battle itself. It was a suffocating, dense silence, broken only by the settling of dust and the wet, ragged breathing of the survivors.
Eon stood amidst the aftermath of the intense battle, the place that was supposed to be the birthplace of a revolution, now reduced to a slaughterhouse. His ribs screamed with every shallow intake of breath, and his head was aching from just thinking about the result of his victory.
But he couldn't rest. Not yet.
He limped across the bloodstained stone, his blue eyes fixing on a figure kneeling in the dirt near the entrance.
It was Verra.
The elf woman was hunched over, her forehead pressed against the cold ground. In her arms, she cradled the body of Loreth. The young elf girl, who had charged the mages with nothing but a rusted sword and desperate courage, looked almost peaceful now, save for the terrible hole in her stomach where the white mage's earth-bullet had ended her life. Her severed hand was still griping the rusted sword.
Verra wasn't crying. She was making a low, keening sound, a vibration of pure grief that seemed to come from the marrow of her bones.
Eon stopped beside her. He looked down at Loreth, remembering the spark in her eyes when she had firstlearned they would be free, from now on, the way she had believed in his vision of a better future.
'I failed her,' Jin-ho thought, the guilt tasting like bile.' I promised protection, but instead I gave her a grave.' His eyes had tears formed.
But he forcefully pushed the guilt down. Guilt was a luxury for the living. Verra didn't need his pity; she needed a reason to keep breathing.
"Verra," Eon said. His voice was rough, stripped of all softness.
Verra didn't move. She just pulled her daughter's body closer, shielding her from the world.
Eon knelt down, ignoring the sharp stab of pain in his chest. He reached out and placed a hand on Verra's shoulder. He didn't offer comfort. He offered grip.
"Rise," he commanded.
Verra slowly lifted her head. Her eyes were red-rimmed, hollowed out by loss. She looked at Eon as if she didn't recognize him, or perhaps as if she hated him for being alive while her daughter was not.
"She is gone," Verra whispered, her voice cracking. "My Loreth... she is just... gone."
"Yes," Eon said, his voice cold and hard as iron. "She is gone. The humans took her. Just as they had taken your freedom. Just as they tried to take this home."
He squeezed her shoulder, his fingers digging in. "But look around you, Verra. Look at the bodies of the mages. Look at the mercenaries lying in their own blood. We bled, yes. But we made them bleed more."
Verra looked at the corpse of the white mage Loreth had killed, the man whose throat she had torn out with her final breath.
"Her death," Eon said, leaning in close, his amber eyes burning into hers, "will not be a footnote in a tragedy. It will be the foundation of a war."
Verra's breath hitched hearing the word WAR. A flicker of something dark ignited in her dull eyes.
"We have an army to build," Eon whispered, the promise hanging in the air like a blade. "And we have a revenge to take. If you stay here in the dirt, her sacrifice means nothing. But if you rise... if you stand with me... we will make sure that every drop of Elven blood spilled will be paid for a thousand times over."
Verra stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, she looked down at her daughter. She brushed a stray lock of hair from Loreth's pale forehead.
With a trembling breath, Verra shifted her weight. She didn't let go of Loreth. Instead, she gathered the girl into her arms, her muscles straining, and but she stood up.
She was no longer just a grieving mother. She was a vessel for retribution as of this moment.
"We will make them pay," Verra rasped.
"Yes," Eon agreed, standing up with her. "We will."
Verra turned and began the long walk toward the main house, carrying her daughter's body with a dignity that silenced the other elves. They parted ways for her, bowing their heads in reverence as she passed.
Once she was gone, the reality of the situation crashed back down on Eon.
"Clear the area," Eon ordered, turning to Elsa and the others. His voice was faint, losing its power as the adrenaline faded. "We need to clean this up. Every trace. If the Denares's official army comes back... they cannot find this."
The cleanup was a grim, mechanical affair.
The surviving elves, despite their injuries and exhaustion, moved with a desperate efficiency. They dragged the bodies of the mercenaries and the mages into the deep woods behind the forge room, burying them in unmarked graves where the roots of the ancient oaks would drink their blood.
The stone floor of the forge was scrubbed with sand and water, turning the puddles pink before they were swept away. The broken gates were propped up, temporarily fixed to look merely damaged rather than destroyed.
Eon didn't participate in the heavy lifting; he physically couldn't. He leaned against a wall, directing the flow, his mind working through the fog of pain.
"What about him?" Elsa asked quietly, pointing to the gruesome remains of Darius.
Eon looked at the twisted corpse of the Marquess. "Wrap him in a tarp. Put him in the ice cellar. We can't bury a noble like a common bandit. We might need... the body... for evidence later." Or for something else. Eon wasn't sure yet. He just knew he couldn't leave a member of a Marquess family rotting in the garden.
As the elves worked, a shout came from the main house.
"Eon! Over here!"
It was Liam. Eon pushed himself off the wall and stumbled toward the mansion.
They found them in one of the guest rooms on the first floor. The door had been barricaded from the outside. When Liam kicked it in, they found Countess Teressa and three of the younger maids slumped on the floor, unconscious.
"Are they dead?" Eon asked, his heart skipping a beat.
Liam checked Teressa's pulse. "No. Just sleeping. It smells like... ether? Or a sleep spell."
"The mercenaries," Eon muttered. "They knocked them out so they wouldn't get in the way. Or to save them for later."
He looked at Teressa's peaceful face. She had no idea that so much happened when she was unconscious, that her home had been a war zone.
"Let them sleep," Eon said, rubbing his temples. "They are safer in their dreams right now. Move them to their beds. When they wake up... I willexplain them myself."
By the time the sun began to dip below the horizon, the estate was eerily quiet. The mercenaries were gone, those who had survived the initial skirmish had fled the moment the Lead Shadow Mage vanished. They were hired blades, loyal only to coin and survival. Without a leader, they had scattered like rats.
The immediate danger was over. But the exhaustion was absolute.
Eon limped into the main dining hall. It had been converted into a makeshift infirmary and barracks. The grand table was pushed to the side, and mattresses and blankets were spread across the floor.
Almost every elf was there. They lay in huddled groups, seeking comfort in numbers. The air smelled of sweat, antiseptic herbs, and old blood.
Eon collapsed onto a pile of cushions near the head of the room. His legs simply stopped working. He lay on his back, staring up at the chandelier, watching it sway slightly in the draft.
"Hans," Eon croaked.
The old butler appeared instantly at his side. Hans looked terrible, his pristine uniform was dusty, and his face was grey with fatigue, maybe mana exhaustion, but he was still standing.
"I am here, Master Eon," Hans said softly.
"The alchemy ingredients," Eon whispered. "And the herbs. Marigold. Spirit Grass. Anything you have."
"Sir, you need to rest," Hans protested gently.
"Bring them," Eon ordered, though it sounded more like a plea. "They are hurt. I need to make some potions."
Hans hesitated, then bowed. He returned moments later with a small wooden chest filled with dried herbs and vials of water.
Eon tried to sit up. He tried to summon his mana to activate the Alchemy skill. He reached for a sprig of Spirit Grass, his fingers trembling.
Use alchemy skill 'Y', he commanded mentally.
Nothing happened.
Use alchemy skill 'Y'.
A sharp, blinding pain shot through his skull. It felt like a nail being driven into his brain.
[Warning: Mana Depletion Critical.]
[Cannot activate Skill: Alchemy.]
[Current Mana: 20/13,000.]
The blue screen flickered in his vision, mocking him.
Eon's hand dropped. The herb fell from his fingers.
"I can't," he whispered, his voice breaking with frustration. "I... I can't do it."
He looked around the room. He saw Liam nursing a broken arm. He saw elves with deep cuts and burns. He wanted to heal them. He needed to heal them. That was his role. That was his power.
But he was empty.
"Rest, Master Eon," Hans said, placing a warm blanket over Eon's shaking body. "You have done enough for today. The potions can wait until morning. We are alive. That is the only medicine we need tonight."
Eon didn't have the strength to argue. The darkness was creeping in at the edges of his vision, not the cold darkness of the shadow magic, but the heavy, warm darkness of sleep.
He turned his head to the side.
Lying next to him, curled into a tight, fetal ball, was Elora. She was staring at nothing, her eyes wide and glassy. She hadn't spoken a word since she was thrown. The trauma of the day had locked her inside her own mind.
And just beyond her, two spaces away, was Verra.
The mother lay on her back, her arms crossed over her chest. Her eyes were closed, but her face was set in a grim, stony expression. Even in sleep, she looked like she was fighting a war.
Eon watched them, the broken sister and the grieving mother. The victims of a game played by powerful men in shadows.
'I will fix this, I have to,' Eon thought, his consciousness fading rapidly. 'I will get stronger. I will build the army. And every one of them will pay for what they have done.'
His eyes grew too heavy to keep open.
'And then... we hunt.'
With that final, vengeful thought, Eon surrendered to the void. The dining room, filled with the breathing of the broken and the brave, fell into a restless, healing silence.
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