Chapter 20: The Rising Tide
The forest roared to life, its voice a symphony of vengeance.
Liora led the charge, her frost tipped spear catching the pale light and throwing it back like a shard of ice forged in fury. Her breath came in sharp, steady bursts, the cold air clouding around her as she pushed forward, her movements unwavering. Behind her came the others, Illara, Jara, and the remnants of Seeker’s and Illara units.
Their charge wasn’t elegant, but it was relentless. They were not soldiers now. They were a tide, crashing, consuming, unyielding.
Liora’s voice rang out, fierce and raw, rising above the chaos. It wasn’t a cry of victory or a call to arms. It was something more primal, more desperate, a sound pulled from the depths of loss.
“Seeker!”
The edges of the forest surged with them, the trees responding to the anguish in their cries. Vines writhed and lashed out like living whips, snapping shields from hands and dragging warriors screaming into the shadows. Roots burst from the frozen ground, splintering shields and buckling armor with deafening cracks.
An Elven archer raised his bow, his hands trembling as he aimed at the oncoming wave. A root twisted upward, coiling around his legs with brutal speed. He loosed the arrow, but it went wide, his scream cutting through the air as he was yanked into the forest’s hungry maw.
Another Elf, younger, braver, raised his sword and charged. He made it three steps before a vine tipped with jagged thorns impaled him through the chest. His body shuddered as blood spilled from the wound, steaming in the frigid air. He fell to his knees, his breath fogging one last time before the vines dragged him into the snow.
Liora’s spear struck with the fury of winter itself, driving into the chest of a Wild Elf warrior. Frost spread from the wound in a shimmering web, climbing across his armor, freezing the breath in his lungs. His eyes widened in shock, his mouth opening as if to speak, but no words came. Liora twisted the spear free, and he fell, a frozen monument to her rage.
Another Elf rushed her, a curved blade slashing toward her neck. Liora sidestepped, her movements quick and precise, her spear already snapping upward. The frost coated weapon caught the Elf beneath the chin, driving through with a sickening crunch. She yanked it free and spun, the frost trailing behind her like a veil of death.
She didn’t pause, didn’t falter. Her face was a mask of unrelenting determination, but her eyes, her eyes betrayed her.
Beneath the fury, there was grief.
Grief that burned, that consumed, that demanded blood in its wake.
“Push them back!” she shouted, her voice raw and breaking, but no less commanding.
Her words carried across the battlefield, reaching those who followed her. Illara, her sword igniting with flame as she cleaved through the Elves’ ranks. Jara, her hands trembling but steady as she called the forest to strike again and again. And the others, broken, battered, but unyielding, answering her call.
“For Seeker!” Liora cried, her voice a spear of its own, piercing the chaos.
The words ignited something in those behind her. Grief gave way to fury. Fury gave way to action.
The Elves wavered, their perfect lines bending under the weight of the onslaught.
Jara stood near the edge of the forest, her hands outstretched, her face pale and streaked with tears. Her voice was low, steady, as she murmured words that seemed to resonate with the very ground beneath her feet.
The forest answered her call.
Vines lashed out like whips, tearing through Elven lines with brutal efficiency. Roots erupted from the ground, splintering shields and toppling warriors. The Elves tried to regroup, but the ground itself betrayed them, shifting beneath their feet as branches descended from above like falling spears.
An Elven commander barked orders, his voice sharp and commanding, but a thick root twisted around his legs, yanking him into the air. He screamed as the forest consumed him, his cries muffled by the groaning of trees.
Jara’s face was wet with silent tears, her grief radiating in waves that seemed to fuel the forest’s fury.
At the center of the battlefield, Seeker’s unit, the ones who had fought alongside him from the beginning, the gladiators and freed slaves, stood frozen. The sight of Seeker’s broken body beneath Karnath’s feet had stripped them of movement, their weapons hanging limply at their sides.
Gale stood with bloodied knives in his hands, his face pale, his eyes wide and unseeing. Sarra clutched her bow, her knuckles white, her lips moving in a silent prayer. Harken’s absence was a wound they had only begun to feel, and now this, Seeker, their stormbearer, their leader, reduced to a broken heap.
It was Marlen who moved first.
The flames in his hands sputtered weakly at first, his mana drained from the battle, but his eyes burned with something brighter, something raw and unrelenting. He stepped forward, his voice rising in a hoarse shout.
“For Seeker!”
The cry shook the others from their stupor. Gale’s knives flashed in his hands as he surged forward, his face twisted in a snarl. Sarra loosed an arrow that found its mark in an Elven warrior’s throat. Marlen’s flames grew brighter, licking up his arms as he hurled a fireball into the Elves’ ranks.
One by one, they joined him, their grief giving way to fury, their hesitation melting beneath the heat of vengeance.
Amid the chaos, Karnath stood tall, his twin axes glinting in the firelight. Blood dripped from their edges, pooling around Seeker’s broken body.
Seeker lay still, his armor cracked, his spear lying just out of reach. His chest rose and fell faintly, each breath shallow and labored. His shadow eyes flickered, the glow in them dimming as the battle raged on around him.
Karnath grinned, his golden eyes gleaming with feral satisfaction.
“This is your hero?” he snarled, his voice carrying over the battlefield. “This is your storm?” He pressed a boot against Seeker’s chest, grinding him into the blood soaked ground. “Pathetic.”
The Wild Elf turned his gaze to the oncoming humans, his grin widening. “Come, then!” he roared, raising his axes high. “Let’s see if you’re braver than this wretch at my feet!”
The air around them seemed to shift, the forest’s groaning growing louder as if in protest.
And beneath Karnath’s boot, Seeker’s fingers twitched.
The air around Seeker began to shift.
The acrid tang of blood and ash faded, replaced by something sharp and electric. A faint hum resonated in the ground beneath him, unnoticed amidst the chaos of the battlefield. The sky above churned, dark clouds twisting as if drawn to the storm within him.
Karnath had moved on, his axes flashing as he roared into the fray. He met Liora’s charge head on, his strikes brutal and unyielding, intent on breaking the line of Seeker’s unit. Freed slaves and hardened gladiators rallied behind her, but grief still weighed heavy on them. Even their fury faltered under Karnath’s relentless assault.
The Wild Elf leader grinned savagely as he drove his axe into the earth, sending a shockwave that staggered those around him. “Your storm is gone!” Karnath bellowed, his voice thick with scorn. “You fight for a corpse!”
But behind him, something shifted.
Seeker’s fingers twitched.
The faint movement sent a ripple through the snow around him, the frost melting in slow, deliberate circles. The crackling stormlight along his veins brightened, each flicker stronger than the last.
He pushed himself to his knees, his breath sharp and ragged, his armor cracked and bloodstained. Every movement was an effort, each one heavier than the last, but he rose. Slowly, deliberately, he rose.
The battlefield stilled for a moment.
Liora froze mid thrust, her frost tipped spear dripping with blood. Illara turned, her flames guttering for a heartbeat as her wide eyes locked on him. Even Karnath faltered, his golden eyes narrowing as he glanced back.
The Elves stared in disbelief.
And with every passing second, Seeker grew stronger.
The storm inside him surged, crackling through his veins and radiating out into the air around him. It danced along the shaft of his spear as he reached for it, but he didn’t lift it. The power humming through his body made the weapon seem... unnecessary.
Seeker raised his head, his storm lit eyes burning brighter than the battlefield fires. His voice carried over the din, low and steady, yet commanding enough to slice through the chaos.
“You’ve fought for the right to live,” Seeker said, his voice growing stronger with each word. “You’ve bled for scraps and nobles. But I didn’t bring you here to die for them and their cruelty.”
His shadowed gaze swept over his people, the darkness in his eyes reflecting the fire rising in theirs.
“I brought you here to live! To rise! To show them all what happens when they try to break us!”
The words hit like a thunderclap.
Marlen’s flames burned brighter, licking up his arms as he hurled a fireball that exploded in the midst of the Elven ranks. Gale’s knives gleamed in the pale light as he struck with renewed fury, his face set in a snarl. Sarra loosed an arrow, its frost coated tip piercing an Elven commander’s throat, sending him crumpling to the ground.
Behind them, the freed slaves roared, their voices raw and unrelenting. Their charge surged forward, slamming into the Elves with a force that broke lines and scattered warriors like leaves in a storm.
The forest itself seemed to respond. Vines lashed out with greater fury, roots splitting the earth as if echoing the humans’ defiance.
The Elves hesitated. Disbelief rippled through their ranks as they watched the figure standing amidst the chaos, glowing with power that defied reason.
And then Seeker began to rise.
The storm around him lifted him into the air, arcs of lightning crackling from his body and searing the ground beneath. The hum of power grew louder, resonating through the battlefield, shaking the earth and the hearts of those who watched.
Karnath turned fully now, his axes raised, his grin faltering. “Impossible,” he snarled, his golden eyes narrowing. “You cannot—”
Seeker didn’t answer.
He moved.
It wasn’t a charge. It was something more primal, more unstoppable. The air screamed as he surged forward, a streak of lightning crashing toward Karnath.
The Wild Elf’s glyphs flared in response, the golden light around his armor shimmering as his wards activated. But the storm tore through them like brittle glass, shattering their protection with a sound like breaking thunder.
Karnath swung his axes in desperation, the blades sparking as they collided with the storm around Seeker. But it wasn’t enough.
Seeker didn’t stop.
He struck Karnath head on, his body a blur of light and power, and the Wild Elf’s armor buckled, his body crumpling under the force. Bones shattered. Flesh ripped. Karnath’s roar turned into a gurgling gasp as the storm consumed him, ripping through him and leaving nothing but broken remnants in its wake.
The battlefield fell silent for a heartbeat, the humans staring in awe, the Elves frozen in shock.
And then, from the treeline, the forest itself seemed to spit out Sylvara’s severed head. It rolled to a stop at the feet of the Elves, her silver eyes now dull, her perfect features marred with blood and dirt.
The humans roared.
The Elves broke.
With renewed fury, the humans surged forward, slamming into the Elven flanks with a force that was unstoppable. Freed slaves, gladiators, knights, and soldiers, all moved as one, their grief and anger transforming into raw, unyielding strength.
The Elves, so precise, so disciplined, faltered. Their disbelief turned to panic as their lines collapsed, their leaders cut down.
And above it all, Seeker stood, the storm radiating from him like a second dawn.
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The tide had turned.
And it would not stop.
---
The line had been buckling.
Count Davir felt it in every fiber of his being, the exhaustion in the voices of his captains, the ragged breaths of his soldiers, the way the shields shook when struck. The High Elves had pushed them relentlessly, their disciplined precision and magic tearing through human ranks like a blade through cloth.
The Count swung his blade again, the motion heavy and desperate. His sword bit into an advancing Wild Elf’s shoulder, severing muscle and bone. The warrior crumpled at his feet, but Davir’s arm ached with the weight of the blow. Blood smeared his face, dripping into his eyes as he shouted orders over the din of the battlefield.
“Hold the line! Shields up! Steady!”
Beside him, Venn fought with a cold efficiency, his every movement precise. The emissary’s blade darted forward, plunging into the throat of a Dark Elf who had materialized too close, her daggers falling from limp fingers. Venn stepped over the body, his eyes scanning the chaos with sharp calculation.
“Archers, loose!” he commanded, his voice cutting through the clamor. Behind them, a ragged volley of arrows arced into the air, though fewer than before. They had lost too many.
The High Elves pressed harder, their golden-hued armor gleaming even through the soot and blood. Their mages unleashed controlled blasts of fire and lightning, forcing gaps into the line that their swordsmen exploited mercilessly.
A sergeant fell, his face half-melted by a firebolt, his shield clattering to the ground. A young soldier screamed as a High Elf’s blade slipped between the seams of his armor, his cry gurgling as blood poured from his lips.
The Count cursed, rallying his men with grim determination. “We hold, or we die! There is no…”
The ground shuddered.
At first, Davir thought it was another spell, another cruel display of Elven mastery. But then he saw it.
The tide.
It came from the right flank, a mass of humanity surging forward like a storm unleashed. He caught glimpses of them through the chaos, humans charging with reckless abandon, their weapons flashing, their voices raw with fury.
And at the forefront, a figure bathed in light.
The Count blinked, blood running into his eyes. It couldn’t be.
But it was.
The Elves hesitated. Their perfect lines faltered, and Count felt the shift immediately. The relentless pressure on his soldiers’ shields eased, the Elves turning their heads toward the right flank as shouts rippled through their ranks.
“Seeker,” Venn murmured, his voice unreadable.
Davir seized the moment. “They’re breaking!” he roared, his sword raised high. “Push forward! Take the advantage! Archers, keep them pinned! Infantry, with me!”
The soldiers rallied, their battered shields locking into place as they surged forward. Blood streaked faces turned from despair to grim resolve as the Count led them into the fray.
The Elves’ siege equipment stood tall, menacing constructs of wood and steel that had rained destruction upon the human ranks for hours. Catapults launched boulders wreathed in fire, battering shields and crushing bodies, while ballistae fired bolts that tore through ranks like spears through parchment.
But then it came.
A streak of silver light shot through the battlefield, moving too fast to be anything human. It hit the first catapult with the force of a thunderclap, the massive construct splintering into fragments that rained down upon the Elves manning it.
The second machine met a similar fate. The streak slammed into it like a meteor, tearing it apart as though a giant’s hands had ripped the wood and steel asunder. The remaining siege crews hesitated, their hands trembling as they turned to flee, only to be cut down by the advancing tide of humans.
Venn’s eyes narrowed, his grip tightening on his sword as he watched the silver streak move through the Elven lines. It was no longer just a figure. It was a force, unstoppable, unrelenting.
The battlefield was chaos.
The Count’s soldiers surged forward, cutting down Elves who had turned to face the incoming tide from the right flank. Blood slicked the ground, mingling with the churned snow as bodies fell in heaps.
A High Elf mage raised his staff, the runes along its length flaring with golden light. But before he could complete his spell, a fireball exploded against him, consuming him in flames. The humans pushed through the gap, their swords and spears finding gaps in Elven armor.
Dark Elves darted through the lines, their daggers flashing as they struck down soldiers. But even they faltered, their movements slower as panic spread through the ranks.
And the Wild Elves, once savage and unrelenting, now hesitated, their war cries muted.
The Count cleaved through an Elven swordsman, his blade streaked with blood. His chest heaved as he turned to Venn. “Do you see it? They’re breaking!”
Venn didn’t respond. His gaze was locked on the right flank, where the tide had become an unstoppable wave.
The Elves hesitated.
The humans roared.
And the battlefield turned.
The air inside the Elven command tent was heavy, thick with the unspoken weight of failure. The distant roar of the battlefield, once a steady rhythm of victory, had turned chaotic, disjointed. It was no longer the confident march of their forces cutting through disorganized human rabble. It was something else, a tide turning, a storm unleashed.
Thalindor, High Strategist of the Elves, stood at the head of the war table, his silver hair tied back tightly, his golden armor still pristine despite the chaos outside. His calm was practiced, his movements deliberate as he studied the tactical markers on the map before him. Around him, his captains waited in uneasy silence, their faces pale despite their composed expressions.
“We’ve lost the right flank,” one captain said, breaking the quiet. His voice was low but strained, his hands gripping the edges of the table. “Slave leader.”
Thalindor’s gaze flicked up sharply, his golden eyes narrowing. “The abomination lives?”
The captain hesitated, then nodded. “Not just alive. He is... something more. Karnath is…”
“Gone,” another interjected, her tone clipped, biting. Her armor bore fresh dents, the edge of her blade still dark with blood. “His glyphs meant nothing. He was ripped apart.”
The murmurs rose then, soft but edged with disbelief. Karnath, primal, indomitable, the Wild Elf who had turned countless tides, was dead. Not felled in a duel, not by cunning strategy, but obliterated, his body scattered like ash in the wind.
Thalindor’s fingers tightened around the edge of the table. “Silence.”
The murmurs ceased instantly, the captains straightening. The air remained tense, charged with emotions none dared speak aloud.
“It is a stain,” said Ellarion, the Grand Magus of the Elves, his voice calm but his eyes betraying a flicker of anguish. He stood tall, his cloak of trailing behind him as he stepped forward. “This defeat will echo through the centuries.”
“A stain, yes,” Thalindor replied, his voice smooth, composed. “But not the end.”
One of the younger commanders bristled. “We lost to animals,” he spat, his tone breaking through his mask of poise. “Farmers, slaves, rabble. They tore through our lines as though we were nothing. Karnath, Sylvara..”
Thalindor’s sharp gaze turned on him, silencing the outburst.
The captains exchanged uneasy glances. None dared challenge him.
“Do not misunderstand,” Thalindor said, his tone unwavering. “We are not beaten. Not truly. But the field is lost, and with it, most of our forces.” He straightened, his expression unyielding. “We will retreat. We will regroup. We will return.”
Outside the command tent, the battlefield raged on, but it was no longer a clash of equals. The Elven army had fractured, their once perfect lines reduced to scattered pockets of resistance. The humans roared as they surged forward, their vengeance a wave that consumed everything in its path.
“Order the horns to sound,” Thalindor said, his voice steady. “Begin the retreat. The survivors will withdraw to the southern ridges.”
Captain hesitated, his elegant features tight with something between disbelief and shame. “A retreat will mark us, Lord. The courts will remember.”
“They will remember regardless,” he said simply. His golden eyes met hiss, firm and unyielding. “Better they remember survivors than fools who refused to bow to necessity.”
The tent fell silent again, the captains exchanging looks of muted agreement.
“It is no small thing to lose so much to creatures so beneath us,” Ellarion murmured, his voice quieter now.
Thalindor turned to him, his expression unreadable. “Perhaps that is the lesson we take from this. That our place is no longer unquestioned. But today, Ellarion, we survive.”
The horns rang out across the battlefield, a sound long associated with Elven discipline and order. But today, it carried a different weight, a signal of retreat, of loss.
The remaining Elves moved with precision, their formations reassembling even under the weight of their failure. They marched with their heads high, their movements graceful despite their wounds and weariness.
To the humans, it was infuriating, how their enemies could retreat with such poise, as if they hadn’t just been broken. To the Elves, it was their last act of defiance.
As Thalindor mounted his silver steed, he cast one last look over the battlefield. Flames rose from the human lines, the forest still twisting in unnatural ways as the tide of vengeance consumed his forces. His gaze lingered on the shattered remains of Karnath’s line, on the discarded banners that now lay trampled in the snow.
He straightened his shoulders. The shame of this day would follow them for centuries, but he would ensure it did not break him.
“Move,” he ordered, his voice calm but carrying the weight of finality.
The Elves marched south, their heads high, their expressions carefully composed. But in their hearts, shame and disbelief churned, the weight of failure pressing heavier with every step.
Behind them, the battlefield roared with the sound of their enemies’ triumph.
---
The air inside the tent felt stifling, the heat of bodies and the weight of unspoken words pressing against the canvas walls. Count Davir sat at the head of the table, his armor cleaned but still bearing the dents and scratches of the day’s battle. He leaned back in his chair, a goblet of wine in hand, his voice loud and commanding as he recounted the day’s events.
“We broke them,” the Count proclaimed, his tone grandiose. “A victory for Torvald and for humanity! The Elves will remember this day for centuries as the moment they faltered before our strength.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and self-congratulatory. Some of the nobles around the table nodded, but the gestures were half hearted, their faces pale and drawn from the day’s bloodshed.
Seeker stood at the edge of the room, silent and still, his armor battered and stained, his presence as quiet as a thundercloud waiting to break. He said nothing as the Count’s voice rose again, each boast louder than the last.
Illara shifted her stance, her gaze flicking toward Seeker. Her fingers tapped idly on the hilt of her sword, her face a mask of careful neutrality. Beside her, Venn’s cold eyes turned toward Seeker as well, their sharpness speaking volumes without words.
Seeker didn’t flinch, his dark eyes fixed on the table.
The Count straightened, setting his goblet down with a loud clink. “But there is still work to be done,” he said, his voice firm. “The battlefield must be cleared. Graves dug for our fallen, and the Elves...” His lips curled into a faint sneer. “The Elves will be burned. Their arrogance will return to ash.”
His gaze swept the room before landing on Seeker.
“Your unit will handle it,” the Count said, his tone leaving no room for debate. “You’ve proven yourselves capable, this task is no different than any other.”
Seeker’s head tilted slightly, his voice quiet but sharp. “They are not slaves anymore.”
The Count’s smile didn’t falter, but his tone grew colder. “Of course not. Torvald is empty of slaves now, isn’t it? Or perhaps, stormbearer, you’d prefer to see them returned to their chains?” His words cut, their barbed edge deliberate. “Only soldiers remain now. And like good soldiers, they follow orders.”
For a moment, the tent grew silent.
Lightning crackled faintly over Seeker’s fingers, a quiet hum of energy that sent a ripple of tension through the room.
Illara’s hand brushed against his arm, a soft, steadying touch. He exhaled slowly, the storm within him pulling back, though the glow in his eyes lingered for a heartbeat longer.
“It will be done,” Seeker said, his voice low and measured.
The Count nodded, his satisfaction evident. “Good. Dismissed.”
The sharp scent of smoke and blood met Seeker as he stepped into the cold night. His unit stood near the edge of the camp, their faces a mix of weariness and resignation. They straightened as he approached, their eyes searching his face for direction.
Seeker stopped, his gaze sweeping over them. His voice was quiet, but it carried.
“We bury the fallen,” he said. “And we burn the rest.” His jaw tightened. “It will be done.”
There was no argument, no hesitation. The men and women nodded, their silence heavier than words.
Seeker turned toward the battlefield, the storm inside him still simmering. But before he could take a step, a familiar voice called out behind him.
Behind him, the quiet crunch of boots on snow announced Venn’s approach. The emissary’s presence was as deliberate as his movements, each step a calculated echo of his measured nature.
“Seeker,” Venn said, his voice low but clear.
Seeker didn’t turn at first, his shoulders taut, his hands flexing at his sides as if he were still gripping his spear. “What is it?”
Venn stepped closer, his arms crossed behind his back. The faint light of nearby fires glinted off the polished silver trim of his coat, but his face remained shrouded in shadow.
“A conversation,” Venn said simply. “One that should have happened before now, but the battlefield waits for no man.”
Seeker turned slowly, his dark gaze meeting Venn’s cold, calculating eyes. “You’ve never struck me as someone who speaks without reason.”
Venn allowed a faint smile. “You’re not wrong.”
Venn studied Seeker for a moment, his expression unreadable, the faint glow of nearby fires casting sharp lines across his face. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his posture rigid but not tense, as though holding himself together through sheer force of will. After a measured breath, he began.
“My time is nearing its end,” Venn said, his voice as even and unflinching as the man himself. “Magic is a wondrous thing, Seeker. It can build kingdoms, destroy armies, and extend lives. But it is not without cost.”
Seeker’s brow furrowed, his storm-lit eyes narrowing as he studied the older man. “What are you saying?”
Venn’s gaze shifted slightly, his sharp, calculating eyes softening by the faintest margin. “The same accident that scarred my daughter, that marked her as... unfit in the eyes of men, also cursed me. It left my body weakened, my life shortened. That time is nearly gone.”
The admission hung in the air, the weight of it pressing against the quiet tension between them. Seeker said nothing, but his fists unclenched slightly, the faint hum of stormlight around him dimming as he watched Venn with a piercing, guarded gaze.
“You see,” Venn continued, his voice steady, though something deeper flickered beneath the surface, regret, or perhaps resignation. “I didn’t come to this war simply to serve your Archduke. That was only part of it.”
Venn’s gaze turned toward the dark horizon, where the fires of the battlefield burned low. His voice softened, touched by a faint, almost imperceptible warmth.
“The Archduke and I... we were squires together, once, in the same court. Two boys from different kingdoms, tied together by duty and ambition. We bled together, trained together, and shared dreams of the men we’d become.” A faint smile ghosted his lips. “He sought a court affairs. I sought knowledge. And in time, our paths diverged. But there is a bond that grows in youth, Seeker, one that even the years cannot sever.”
He paused, as though caught in a memory, before exhaling softly. “When his lands faced this threat, I came. Not just out of necessity, but because of that bond. And because…” He hesitated, his gaze flicking back to Seeker, sharp and unyielding. “Because I needed something in return.”
Seeker tilted his head slightly, his voice low. “You came here for more than this war.”
Venn nodded. “I came hoping to find something for my daughter. A future. A chance. She will inherit my title, become Countess of a county far to the south, where the sea gives and takes, and the winters are gentle. But she cannot hold that title alone, not in this world.”
“You’re a storm, Seeker,” Venn said, his voice steady, deliberate. “Not just because of what you are, but because of what you’ve survived. My daughter needs that. Someone with strength, not just to fight her battles, but to walk beside her, to endure the winds of this world and still stand tall.”
Seeker’s eyes narrowed, his posture stiffening. “You want me to marry her?”
Venn’s faint smile returned, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ve no illusions about the nature of this request. It’s not born of sentiment. It’s born of practicality. You’re not a noble. Not yet. But as her husband, you would be. It would give you protection for your people, your unit, those who look to you for leadership. You would no longer be the man nobles scoff at or seek to break. You would be one of them.”
Seeker’s jaw tightened, the stormlight flickering faintly in his eyes. “And what does your daughter think of this?”
Venn’s expression softened, just slightly. “She is not a child to be bartered. Her mind is sharp, and her will is strong. She knows the world she faces, and she knows her options. You’re not an obligation to her, Seeker. You’re a chance. A chance to choose strength over fear. And if I’m not mistaken, you understand that better than most.”
For a long moment, Seeker said nothing. His gaze drifted past Venn, toward the flickering fires and the shadows of his unit moving among the dead.
“You think this is the answer?” Seeker asked finally, his voice low. “That a title will protect them? That a name will keep them safe from men like the Count and Duke?”
“I think it gives you tools,” Venn replied, his voice calm but firm. “A chance to build something more than vengeance and survival. A foundation. A future.”
Seeker’s hands clenched at his sides, faint arcs of lightning crackling over his knuckles. But then he exhaled slowly, the stormlight dimming as he turned back to Venn.
“I don’t know your daughter,” Seeker said, his voice measured. “But I’ll do it.”
Venn’s sharp eyes studied him for a moment, as though searching for cracks in his resolve. Then he nodded, his expression unreadable.
“Good,” he said simply. “We have little time before Archduke arrives, Seeker. Use it wisely.”
Venn turned and walked away, his silhouette fading into the shadows. Seeker stood alone, the weight of the conversation settling over him like the first rumble of an approaching storm.
And somewhere, far to the south, the winds of change began to stir.