The dawn broke, pale and timid, over the Martissant camp. The slanting light caught the wisps of mist still clinging to the ground, like shreds of the nightmare night. The camp awoke in a dull ache. Soldiers went about mechanical tasks, eyes shadowed and hollowed out by the previous day's battle. Near the fires, healers busied themselves around the wounded, their expert hands changing bandages, offering soothing herbal teas. The world, indeed, did not revolve around the main characters. It continued its slow, inexorable rotation, indifferent to individual dramas, driven by the simple need to survive another day.

In her tent, Elisa was preparing. She had accepted the mission. The idea of saving Maggie had become an obsession, a fixed point in the chaos of her mind. She ran her fingers through her hair, which had grown, now extending past the lobes of her pointed ears. It reminded her of a time she preferred to forget, a life from before. With a small, sharp knife, she cut it short, with a decisive, almost violent gesture. The golden strands fell at her feet like withered grass. Then, she put on her reinforced leather armor, piece by piece. Every tightened strap, every adjusted buckle was a promise, a commitment to her captured friend. She was closing herself off from the world, forging a carapace for the mission ahead.

It was then that the noises outside changed. First a shout, then several. Hurried footsteps, the metallic clatter of weapons seized in haste. Elisa frowned but did not interrupt her routine. Who would be mad enough to attack or infiltrate here, at the heart of their base, where the Count himself was staying? It had to be a false alarm, a frightened animal, a nervous patrol.

But the voices grew more numerous, more aggressive. It wasn't the chaos of an attack, but the concentrated rumble of a hostile crowd. And suddenly, the memory returned to her, lightning-fast and icy. The plain of Karthak. A single man, Arven, changing the course of a battle. Caution tightened her throat. If such power existed, who could say what another was capable of?

Driven by a new instinct, she pushed aside the tent flap and stepped out.

The light of the rising sun flooded her, dazzling after the gloom of her tent. She blinked, raising a hand to shield her eyes. Indistinct forms were stirring near the camp's main entrance, a compact mass of Martissant soldiers forming a threatening semicircle. At the center, two figures seemed to be weathering the invectives without responding with violence. They looked... lost.

Driven by a curiosity stronger than her mistrust, Elisa moved forward. She gently pushed aside the soldiers, slipping between iron-clad shoulders. The men, recognizing the "vector," instinctively made a little room for her, their hostile gazes still fixed on the intruders.

And time froze.

The entire camp faded away. The murmurs, the shouts, the smell of soup and blood – everything dissolved into absolute silence. There was only them. Him.

Dylan. He was there, standing in the middle of this chaos, somewhat haggard, his clothes in tatters and covered in mud, but alive. His gaze swept the crowd, lost, and then... he saw her.

When their eyes met, it was as if an electric current crossed the space between them. For Elisa, it was a silent detonation that shattered the carapace she had just built. For Dylan, it was a gulp of pure air after being buried alive. Life, raw and wild, returned all at once.

So, she ran.

It wasn't a thought-out move, but a visceral, unreasoned impulse. She crossed the last meters separating them and threw herself into his arms, with a force that almost made them both stagger. Her hands gripped his dirty coat, burying her face in his neck. Then, lifting her head, she kissed him.

It wasn't a tender kiss, but a kiss from a castaway clinging to wreckage, an act of pure affirmation in the face of a world that promised only death. It was brutal, sincere, and terribly disturbing in this place of mourning and strategy.

When their lips parted, the world returned with a roar. The soldiers remained open-mouthed, bewildered by this explosion of humanity.

Dylan, a little short of breath, his cheeks slightly flushed beneath the grime, looked at her with his eyes that had always seen beyond her own fears. He gave a small, awkward, wry smile and murmured, his hoarse voice breaking the spell:

"Wait, wait Lise… I don't remember the last time I brushed my teeth."

The phrase, so trivial, so perfectly *him*, shattered the tension like a soap bubble. Elisa let out a sob that turned into laughter, a strange, hoarse sound she hadn't heard in months.

Behind them, Julius, who had observed the scene with his usual phlegm, rolled his eyes and let out a deep, exasperated sigh.

"You always ruin the atmosphere, damn it!" he grumbled, catching Elisa's gaze over his friend's shoulder.

And in that brief moment, amid the ruins of their defeat, a small, tenacious flame rekindled. It wasn't hope yet, but it was a reason to fight that went beyond the strategies of Counts and the hunger of ancient entities. It was simple, messy, and profoundly, terribly human.

Elisa finally detached herself from Dylan, her cheeks still damp and burning, but a fragile smile trembled on her lips. Her gaze, detaching from him, settled on the giant standing behind. The man was a mountain of muscle and calm, his mere presence seeming to absorb the agitation around them. Before she could even formulate a question, the man bowed slightly, with a surprising grace for his build.

"You must be Lady Elisa, I suppose," he said in a deep, measured voice. "Dylan, my student, has told me much about you. I am Julius. Numerous times he has sung praises of your beauty. For once, he was terribly right."

Dylan shot him a sidelong glance, downright contemptuous. "I'm beginning to understand why Count Pilaf's adjutants were planning to finish you off for good, oh Master. It's your gift for shitty compliments at the worst possible moment."

Elisa felt another laugh escape her, a strange and liberating sound. But it was cut short by a voice that split the crowd like an axe.

"DYLAN!!"

The soldiers immediately parted, opening a path. Zirel stepped forward, his usually impassive scout's face marked by pure astonishment. His piercing eyes scanned Dylan from head to toe, as if inspecting a ghost.

"By all the gods, I thought you were dead, kid." Zirel's voice was low, charged with an incredulity that bordered on accusation.

Dylan threw his arms wide, a theatrical gesture that highlighted his tattered, soiled clothes. Yet, as Elisa had noticed with growing curiosity, the skin visible beneath the tears was strangely smooth, intact, of an almost abnormal clarity that contrasted violently with the ordeal he must have endured. There was no scratch, no bruise, nothing that remotely resembled the stigmata of a fight or incarceration.

"And yet, here I am," he declared, an enigmatic smile on his lips. "Alive and well."

Zirel did not smile. His gaze grew sharper, more suspicious. "You were supposed to be infiltrating Pilaf's ranks. The last report said you'd been identified and captured. The central prison of Pilaf is not a place one escapes from, Dylan. *No one* escapes from it."

Julius intervened, his calm voice serving as a counterweight to the rising tension. "It would seem my student is adept at defying statistics. And for now, the fact that he is alive and here is a godsend, whatever the reason."

But Zirel ignored the remark. He was still staring at Dylan. "How?"

Dylan lowered his arms, his smile fading a little, giving way to a more serious glint in his eyes. "It's a long story, Zirel. A story involving stinking sewers, a guard with a weakness for other men's wives, and incredibly lucky timing." He sketched a new smile, but this time, it didn't quite reach his eyes. "The important thing is that I'm here. And I really want this war to end. So, where's Maggie? I'd like to have a word with the Commander."

A heavy silence fell suddenly. Dylan's smile froze, then vanished completely as he saw the closed expressions on Elisa and Zirel's faces. The lack of an answer was an answer in itself.

"Dylan..." Elisa began, her voice strangled.

Zirel cut her off, more direct, his gaze not leaving the young man's. "The battle of Karthak was a disaster. General Arven of Pilaf broke our charge. Valerius's 'Hammer' was decimated." He paused, letting the weight of the words settle. "Maggie's battalion held fast, even came close to winning. But she was overwhelmed. She was captured."

The words fell like stones. Dylan's feigned lightness vanished, replaced by a sudden pallor. His fists clenched, knuckles white. The image of Maggie, strong and indomitable, in the hands of the enemy... It was inconceivable.

"Captured?" he repeated, his voice now a hoarse thread. His gaze turned to Elisa, seeking confirmation, a denial. In her eyes, he saw only the same pain and a fierce determination. The truth was there, brutal and unavoidable.

"We're mounting an operation to get her back," Elisa stated, finding her voice again. She stood straighter, as if the shock had strengthened her resolve. "I'm part of the team."

Dylan shook his head, a slow movement, as if trying to shake off a nightmare. The information clashed in his mind: his own escape, the rumors heard in Pilaf's dungeons, and now this. The world seemed to be tilting at a crazy speed.

Julius placed a heavy but soothing hand on his student's shoulder. "Breathe, kid. Anger is a bad counselor."

Zirel, after one last searching look at Dylan, nodded toward the center of the camp. "Come with me. To the Count's tent. We can explain everything, and you, you'll tell us everything you saw and heard with Pilaf. Every detail could be crucial."

Dylan closed his eyes for a moment, then reopened them. The flame burning in them now was no longer that of joyful surprise, but that of a cold anger and deep concern. He nodded, a brief gesture.

"Alright," he said simply. "Let's go."

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