The Villain Professor's Second Chance-Chapter 741: Iron Blazing towards The Leaves (4)

The corridor stretched darkly before Vostyr, lit only by flickering torch-cages whose orange tongues writhed like the spirits of condemned men. Each time a flame guttered, the stone walls awakened—angles jumped, figures warped, and for a heartbeat the passage seemed a gallery of phantoms. Vostyr ignored the spectacle. He could not afford to see ghosts; he already felt one stalking him from the edge of every thought.

Against his ribs pressed the owl's parchment, folded so small it felt like nothing more than a hard thorn inside layers of lacquered steel. Still, the message pulsed in his mind: I've found you. He would not let it slow him, yet its chill bled through every heartbeat. Discipline must drown dread. Step, breathe, command—rhythm was sovereignty.

His boots—freshly re-shod for silence—clicked anyway. The sound echoed, sharp and sure, snapping off pillars like thrown coins. A patrol deeper in the wing halted at the noise, recognizing his stride, and melted into doorway alcoves. Respect, yes—but also fear. He tasted it like frost on iron, and approved.

Halfway down the hallway, he stopped before an iron-banded door studded with rivets. The torch beside it hissed, throwing sparks that died before they hit the flagstones. Vostyr's gauntleted fist thudded twice, knuckles against oak. Then he barked, "Lieutenant Dravenhall."

The door opened at once. Serik emerged without haste yet wasted no time, a man honed by decades of war to move at the speed of necessity. He wore half-armor over quilted black and carried a plain iron baton—the symbol of hisspecial authority in House Vostyr. Ash shadows slid across his cheekbones, making the lieutenant's grey eyes glint like flint.

"General," Serik said, voice balanced between deference and readiness for orders. His salute snapped so cleanly the lamplight seemed to ring.

Only once the ritual was complete did Vostyr allow his gaze to settle fully on the lieutenant's face. There—a pulse of uncertainty flickered behind the man's frosted composure. Serik had doubt, but discipline kept it leashed. Doubt is healthy, Vostyr reminded himself. Only the reckless are fearless.

"Initiate Cold Shadow Protocol," Vostyr said. The words were a blade sliding free. "Everyone. Chiefs, quartermasters, scribes—no rank immune. Your own aides included."

A ripple passed across Serik's expression—a twitch near the eye, a fractional tightening at the jaw—but his reply came steady. "It will be done, General." He accepted the order as one might accept a live coal: with a wince unseen.

Vostyr's tone sharpened, iron striking iron. "Results by dawn. I want logs cross-checked, patrol logs, courier ledgers. If a pigeon flaps the wrong way, I will know."

Serik inclined his head, shoulders still squared. "Understood." Only then did he sheath the baton through a ring at his side, as if ready for immediate use on recalcitrant captains.

"Good." Vostyr pivoted a half-step, the lamplight catching the deep red sigil at his pauldron. "Send Captain Reave to Cedar Run. Her wolves are to sweep every glade, every root hollow. Hunt the runaways until not one remains to whisper." He let the words hang, a thin frost in the air, then added, quieter: "No witnesses. No stories."

The lieutenant's eyes tightened. He knew what that meant—no child spared, no whimper unheard. Yet he saluted again. Order was order. With a final "By your command," Serik turned smartly, boots beating a curt retreat down the corridor. Vostyr listened until the sound faded, then swung on his heel toward the stairwell.

The narrow spiral rose steeply, carved centuries ago when the keep still reeked of fresh mortar. He climbed without haste, each step a measured exhalation through clenched teeth. On landings where arrow slits bit the wall, wind knifed in, tasting of impending storm. A few drops of rain slapped his cheek, cold as regret, before sliding between the ridges of his scar.

At the top, a weathered door groaned open and the night greeted him—vast, black, alive with distant thunder. The high balcony jutted beneath a crenellated arch. From here the entire inner ward sprawled below like a clockwork diagram built of flesh and iron. Torch lines marched down avenues; soldiers in squared formations drilled even at this hour, discipline glinting with every synchronized turn. Beyond them the kennels boomed as the wolf-riders readied mounts: lean beasts pawing, eager for the night's hunt. Their silver fur shimmered whenever lightning flashed, revealing musculature bred for speed and savagery.

Vostyr rested gloved hands on cold stone. The damp seeped through leather, grounding him. All these lives—cogs in the wheel I forged, he thought, feeling an austere satisfaction slide over his nerves. And yet another sensation stirred beneath pride: a subtle tremor, born of that owl's note, whispered that even a perfect machine could seize if one grain of sand were sharp enough.

He forced breath slow, controlled—like drawing a bow inside the chest. His eyes swept battlements, noting missing patrol gaps, counting archers per tower. He caught the flicker of a torch passed too quickly, the sloppy knot at a standard's tie; every small imperfection etched itself on a mental ledger. Cold Shadow will root out the lax, he promised himself. No unseen hand will pluck threads from my tapestry.

Lightning forked across the horizon. In its brief glare the storm clouds resembled mountains hammered from midnight steel. Thunder rolled in heavy pursuit, rattling banners, making torch flames jitter in protest. Soldiers below shifted uneasily—superstition lingered even in veterans—but order held. Snapped commands re-anchored the ranks.

Vostyr allowed a thin smile. Fear is an ally when harnessed to discipline. He would channel it, shape it—turn that raw pulse into a wall no shadow could breach.

A runner broke from the muster lines and sprinted across the yard to the postern gate. A courier hawk, talons wrapped with a scroll tube, waited on a perch of black iron. Seconds later the bird winged skyward, heading east toward Orvath's spire. Vostyr pictured the encoded lines within: instructions laced with threat, a demand for clarity through magic. We do not chase ghosts, he had written. We tear them into the light. The phrase comforted him even now, spoken aloud in a near whisper against the wind. Resolve hardened like cooling steel.

Below, Captain Reave's riders began to file into the outer gate tunnel, hooves clattering on cobbles slick with the first patter of rain. Reave herself rode at their head, spear butt tapping cadence on hobbed stones. She paused only once, glancing up toward the balcony. Even at this distance Vostyr saw recognition in the tilt of her helm—an unspoken promise to succeed where others had failed. He raised one mailed fist in acknowledgement. Metal gleamed, an omen under stormlight. Reave spurred her mount, and the column flowed out into the drenched night.

Wind gusted harder. Raindrops thickened, pinging off Vostyr's armor, rolling between rivets. Beyond the walls, the cedar forest appeared as a single black mass, soon to swallow the wolves. He pictured the coming hunt—the muffled thunder of galloping beats, the flash of lamplight on blades, the brief cries before silence. Efficient. Necessary.

He let the scene settle, locking it behind his eyes for later reflection. Then he turned from the parapet, boot soles squeaking on rain-slick stone. The note pressed once more against his chest—light, yet heavy enough to tilt the balance of his mood.

I am not prey, he told the darkness, jaw set so tight it ached. I am the storm's hand. And I have loosed the wolves.

With the faintest exhale, he stepped back through the door, leaving the wet air behind. Thunder growled again, as if in answer, while the castle's torches fought the wind with a stubborn, guttering resolve.

A missive, coded carefully, vanished into the night, bound for High Magister Orvath. "We do not chase ghosts," it warned. "We tear them into the light." frёewebnoѵēl.com

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Ironleaf smoldered on the valley floor, a ruined ember-bed whose orange veins pulsed against the dark like a dying coal. From the ridge above, Draven noted every shifting glow, every outraged shout echoing up the slopes, and translated each into data—guard rotations, likely morale, resource drain per hour of firefighting. Nothing escaped the cold lens of his mind.

A damp wind rolled over the crest, carrying char and pine sap. It snagged in Sylvanna's silver-white hair, tugging strands across her tense features. She held her bow at half draw—habit more than need—while her gaze flicked between the burning fortress and the shadows lurking under nearby firs.

"Whispers are spreading," she said, her voice pitched low to keep it from scattering on the breeze. "They call you the Silent Hunter in the barracks and the slave pens alike."

Draven stood motionless, cloak snapping at his calves. The title washed over him like rain on slate. Useful—no more. "Good," he answered, tone as flat as the edge of a whetted blade. "A seed grows faster in darkness."

He knelt, unrolling a broad vellum sheet against a breadth of moss. Moonlight struggled through the mist, silvering his gauntlets as he traced precise points with a charcoal stylus. Each mark represented a slaver villa, a caravan rest, a hidden pit camp. Arrows indicated courier runs. Tiny crosses showed the last known positions of mercenary companies likely to hire on short notice.

Sylvanna crouched beside him. The glow of the map's rune-ink—faint, reactive to heat—turned her anxious expression ghostly blue. "So many," she breathed. "You think we can tip them all?"

Draven's reply was a slow raise of his eyes, the violet irises calmly dissecting her question. "Tipping is gravity's work," he said. "I provide the angle."