The Martissant camp looked like a wounded giant, breathing with difficulty under a leaden sky. The fires burned low, as if ashamed of their own light. The air, once charged with the martial brilliance and ozone of the Awakened, was now heavy with muffled groans, bitter antiseptics, and cold ashes. Elisa stood near the entrance of the makeshift infirmary, her arms wrapped around herself, as if to ward off a cold no one else could feel.

She didn't hear pain—it came to her as vibration in the essence, a sharp dissonance flickering at the edge of her awareness. Every bit of suffering, every fear, every drop of despair seeped into the ground and flowed, like a black stream, toward the forest. Toward the Mouth.

She closed her eyes for a moment, fighting against the distant echo of a dark and ancient satisfaction that resonated beneath the camp's misery.

A movement at the edge of the camp caught her eye. A silhouette approached, moving with the exhausted stiffness of someone who had seen hell and returned only out of stubborn will. Zirel. His scout uniform was torn, stained with dried blood, soot, and far worse. His face—usually so expressive in its impassivity—was a mask of stone. He carried not only fatigue, but the weight of a cataclysmic failure.

He walked straight toward the command tent, ignoring the hopeful eyes that rose to meet him and shattered against his bent back. Elisa watched him, her heart tightening. She didn't need to hear to know. Maggie wasn't with him.

Moments later, voices rose from the Count's tent—at first low, then sharper, cutting through the air.

"One man?" Valerius's voice was a muffled roar, incredulous. "You expect us to believe that one of their generals did all this?"

Elisa moved closer, silent as a shadow, and positioned herself outside the half-open entrance. Inside, Zirel stood stiff as a post, facing the Count, Valerius, and Lady Anya. The Count sat with his fingers interlaced, his face a calm lake masking a volcano of concern.

"Not a man, General," Zirel corrected, his voice hoarse but steady. "A force. Arven. He didn't even raise a hand. He looked at Valerius's charge and spoke. One word. Just one. And the ground exploded beneath our riders. It wasn't fire magic like the others use. It was… something else. Pure essence—channeled and focused with surgical precision. He tore reality open at a single point, and the violence of the tear did the rest."

He went on to describe the counterattack that followed—swift and merciless—the enemy troops of Pilaf galvanized by that display of power. He spoke of Maggie's fall, her desperate uncontrolled explosion, her capture.

"Rhelas died trying to save her," Zirel said, his words dropping like stones into the stunned silence. "A silence arrow. He didn't even finish his illusion. Tonar…" his voice faltered slightly. "Tonar held out to the end. Took at least ten blows before he fell. They left him for dead. I brought him back when night fell."

The news of Rhelas's death struck like a bomb. Even Valerius seemed shaken. The Commander of the Awakened had been a cornerstone—an irreplaceable asset whose loss they could only now begin to measure.

"And Maggie?" asked the Count, his voice dangerously calm.

"Captured," Zirel replied. "Arven had her taken. He wanted her alive."

A heavy silence followed, broken only by the faint scratching of a stylus on parchment—Lady Anya's notes. She finally looked up.

"This defeat isn't tactical," she said coolly. "It's psychological. They've shown us they have a weapon we can't counter. Arven. His very name will become a weapon. The next time our troops see him, they'll retreat before he even acts."

"We must strike back!" Valerius thundered, slamming his fist on the table. "Immediately! Before they consolidate!"

"With what?" Anya raised an eyebrow. "Your 'Hammer' is broken. Our Awakened are in mourning and leaderless. We've lost the center. We're on the defensive."

That was the moment when the room's attention shifted—almost instinctively—toward Elisa, standing in the doorway. She could feel their gazes on her: the Count's calculating one, Valerius's furious despair, Anya's cold analysis.

She was no longer just a survivor, a carrier. In their defeat, she was becoming something else—a symbol, a twisted hope, perhaps even a weapon.

The Count stood.

"The situation has changed," he declared. "We can no longer afford to wage war by the old rules. Pilaf has shown his true face—a face that doesn't just seek victory, but annihilation."

His eyes fixed on Elisa. "We must adapt. And to do that, we must understand what we truly possess."

Elisa held his gaze, a chill running down her spine. She knew what he meant. They would stop protecting her. They would use her. Force her to connect with the thing in the forest—the black structure—to draw from it a power that could rival Arven's.

As she turned to leave the tent, her eyes met Zirel's. In his gaze, she saw neither hope nor greed, but grim understanding—and a silent warning. They had lost a battle, a leader, and their restraint. The next step would lead them into far darker realms than the battlefield of Karthak.

And she, Elisa, would be their unwilling guide.

⸻

The Count's tent had become the frozen heart of the camp, a place where even the air seemed to solidify under the weight of defeat. Elisa stood still, fists clenched, nails biting into her palms. The news of Maggie's capture echoed through her like a funeral bell, stirring an older, deeper ache.

A memory surfaced—hot and vivid—cutting through the cold stillness of the present.

The suffocating heat of summer, the smell of smoke and fear. Her village, familiar faces twisted by terror and superstition. A mere second-rank awakened beast, bristling with spines, had crushed their hopes of survival. In desperation, they offered her and other young girls to the creature—believing it the best chance for their own lives.

Then, two silhouettes appeared in that slaughterhouse—a vile, filthy place that would have been her grave. By the time the fourth girl was devoured before her eyes, Elisa no longer felt fear, only acceptance that her turn would come soon.

And that was when Maggie and Dylan saved her, in exchange for guiding them out of the forest.

That memory burned away her hesitation. Fear, distrust of the Count, horror of her own power—none of it mattered anymore.

The Count, Lady Anya, and Valerius were still debating—voices low, tense. Words like hostage, negotiation, suicidal rescue mission floated in the air.

Elisa took a step forward. The sound of her boots against the hard earth seemed unnaturally loud, silencing the murmurs.

"My Lord," she said, her voice steadier than she expected.

All eyes turned to her. The Count raised a questioning eyebrow.

"You spoke of understanding what you have. Of adapting," she continued, meeting his gaze. "Maggie is my friend. They won't keep her."

Valerius snorted. "And what do you suggest, little one? A prayer?"

Elisa ignored him. She raised a hand, palm down. On the table, a heavy metal cup used to mark positions on the map began to tremble. No one touched it. Then, with a faint scrape, it lifted off the wood—hovering a few centimeters above it, vibrating with silent energy.

Telekinesis. Not a loud or showy power like fire or illusion. A discreet force—fundamental—the link between will and matter.

"They have their weapon," Elisa murmured, her eyes glinting with focused light. The cup began to rotate slowly in the air. "Use yours."

The Count watched her, the politician's mask slipping just enough to reveal keen interest. He saw beyond the display. He saw potential—a key that could open locks, disarm guards, perhaps even interfere with essence itself.

"You're offering yourself to the Crown's service? Of your own will?" he asked, each word deliberate.

Elisa lowered her hand. The cup descended softly, without a sound, back to its exact place. The silence that followed was more eloquent than thunder.

"I'm offering to save my friend," she corrected. "If my power can help, it's yours. But I won't be a tool like the others. I want to be in the field. I want to be part of the plan."

It was a tremendous risk. To offer herself like that was to become vulnerable—to open herself to the Count's schemes. But the image of Maggie, alone and chained in the enemy camp, was stronger than any fear.

Lady Anya studied Elisa with new respect. "A capacity for remote manipulation… That changes a great many parameters for infiltration."

Zirel, silent until then, caught Elisa's eyes. He didn't smile, but the faintest nod told her she had his support. He understood what she was ready to do.

The Count stood, his decision made.

"Very well," he said. "We'll organize an operation to retrieve Captain Maggie. And you, Elisa, will be its keystone. Together, we'll discover what you can truly do."

Elisa felt a storm of fear and resolve surge within her. She had crossed a line of no return. She had awakened her own power—not under duress, but by choice—to save a friend.

But as she left the tent, the wind carried a faint murmur to her ears—an echo from the black forest. A taste of hungry satisfaction.

She shivered. In seeking to save Maggie, had she merely given that ancient hunger a new and delicious way to manifest? The price of this rescue, she feared now, would be far higher than she had ever imagined.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.