The Villain Professor's Second Chance

"The halfling," she said. "He fights like me."

Draven leaned back against the edge of the desk, folding his arms. "Explain."

Liora's fingers twitched slightly, the only sign of unease. "His movements. The way he counters. It's not just skill—it's technique. Familiar." She shook her head, her brow furrowing for the first time. "But I've never trained him. He's not from the same lineage. He's a halfling. I am not."

Draven considered her words, turning them over in his mind like a blade being examined for its balance. It was a rare thing to see her disturbed. He did not believe in coincidence. Every piece had its place. And if this piece did not fit… then someone had placed it there deliberately.

The room fell into silence again, thick with unspoken thoughts.

Liora exhaled sharply and moved away from the desk, her posture shifting, arms crossing loosely over her chest. It was a defensive motion, one she rarely displayed—she had been shaken. Not enough to be compromised, but enough to make her question something.

She glanced toward the window where Draven had been watching earlier. "This halfling…" she murmured, as if testing the words against her tongue. "He didn't just fight like me. He moved like me. There were times I almost anticipated his strikes as if they were my own."

Draven's gaze didn't waver. "And how did he react to you?"

A flicker of something unreadable crossed her expression. "He hesitated," she admitted. "Not much, but enough for me to notice. Enough to make me wonder."

"Wonder about what?"

Liora hesitated, which was unusual in itself. Her fingers tapped lightly against the leather of her gloves before she looked at him again, expression guarded. "There's something about him. He fights like someone who's been trained in my ways, but there's no reason for that. None. He shouldn't exist."

Draven noted her phrasing. She wasn't speaking as if she had simply encountered a skilled opponent. She was speaking as if she had seen a ghost.

He let the silence stretch, let her own thoughts turn against her for a moment before he responded. "And yet, he does."

Liora scoffed softly, shaking her head. "You're enjoying this."

Draven tilted his head slightly, his gaze sharp, dissecting. "Enjoyment has nothing to do with it."

"Then what does?" she challenged.

"Observation."

Liora exhaled again, her frustration evident but contained. She wasn't foolish enough to expect an answer from him. Draven never revealed more than necessary.

She turned, facing the wide map pinned to the far wall of the office, her eyes flicking over the network of trade routes, coded marks of influence and alliances—Draven's unseen hand stretching through Halewick and beyond. She ran a finger lightly over one of the lines before speaking again.

"This isn't a coincidence," she murmured. "You already knew there was something unusual about this, didn't you?"

Draven didn't answer.

She turned to face him, studying him the way he had studied her moments ago. "If this halfling is a variable you didn't account for, then someone else put him there."

Draven finally moved, stepping toward the desk and placing his glass down with deliberate care. "Everything has an origin," he said calmly. "A reason."

Liora's lips quirked, but the amusement didn't reach her eyes. "And yet, for once, you don't know what that reason is."

Draven met her gaze without flinching. "Not yet."

That seemed to satisfy her, though only barely. She rolled her shoulders back, some of the tension bleeding away, but not all of it.

Draven watched the minute shifts in her expression, the way her breathing evened out, the way her fingers curled slightly at her side. He had seen her in countless situations—commanding, scheming, killing. But this was different.

There was uncertainty in her now.

And that, more than anything, was what interested him.

He had expected her to succeed in the mission. He had accounted for her efficiency, her precision, her ability to eliminate obstacles without hesitation. But he had not expected her to walk away from it unsettled.

She wasn't just reporting back to him. She was trying to convince herself.

And that meant this halfling was more than just another player in the game.

Draven allowed himself a moment of quiet consideration before he finally spoke again, his voice measured, controlled. "It's nothing."

Liora narrowed her eyes slightly at his dismissal, but she said nothing. Not immediately. Instead, she watched him for a beat longer, then turned toward the door.

As she reached for the handle, she paused.

"You always do this," she said, not looking back.

Draven raised an eyebrow. "Do what?"

"Bury the answer before you find it."

He didn't respond.

Liora let out a quiet breath, then pushed the door open and stepped out, vanishing into the dim candlelight of the hallway beyond.

Draven stood in silence for a moment, staring at the door she had just exited through. Then, slowly, deliberately, he turned back toward the window.

The city stretched before him, dark and restless.

And in the distance, beyond the quiet streets and the smoldering embers of the night's violence, a single raven sat perched on a rooftop, watching.

Draven's fingers drummed lightly against the desk once, twice.

Then he picked up his glass again, as if nothing had happened at all.

"It's nothing."

Liora frowned slightly, her sharp eyes narrowing. "You don't believe that."

Draven didn't respond immediately. He never did. His silence wasn't avoidance, nor was it indecision. It was calculation. A pause long enough to let the weight of her words settle but short enough to leave no room for doubt about his stance. He remained where he was, his posture relaxed yet perfectly composed, as if even his breath was measured.

Liora tilted her head slightly, watching him as if studying a puzzle she had yet to solve. "You always do this," she murmured, voice softer but no less sharp. "Pretending detachment, pretending indifference." She leaned forward, resting a hand on the desk, her nails tapping lightly against the polished wood. "But I see it, Draven. You wouldn't be here if it was nothing."

He finally turned his head, his cold gaze locking onto hers with a quiet intensity. There was no irritation, no sign of offense. Just an assessment, the same way one might regard a particularly intriguing equation.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then, with precise, deliberate steps, Draven walked toward the window. The floorboards barely creaked beneath his weight, his movements as controlled as everything else about him. The faint glow of lantern light cast his reflection against the glass—a sharp silhouette, unreadable, untouchable. Outside, Halewick stretched into the distance, the mist swallowing the city's contours, making it appear as though the streets were dissolving into shadow.

The tension from earlier still hung in the air, an invisible force pressing against the city like the hush before a storm.

Liora's reflection joined his in the window, standing just behind him. She crossed her arms. "So?" she said, quiet but insistent. "What happens now?"

Draven's fingers curled slightly around the rim of his glass, the wine within untouched, reflecting dim candlelight. His eyes remained on the city as he answered. "Now, we wait."

Liora scoffed. "You, waiting? Now that's a first."

Still, he gave no reaction. The silence stretched once more. Liora was used to it, had learned to navigate it, but there were moments—brief, fleeting—where it irked her more than she cared to admit. This was one of them.

She took a step closer, lowering her voice. "Do you ever wonder what it would be like?"

Draven didn't turn. "Clarify."

"To do things differently. Directly," she said, her tone thoughtful but laced with something more. "You could crush them yourself if you wanted. No need for these elaborate threads, no need for pieces moving behind the curtain. Just you. No games."

There was something almost amused in the slight shift of his expression—not quite a smirk, not quite anything at all, really. Just a flicker of something in his eyes, gone before it could be given a name. "That would be inefficient."

Liora sighed. "You and your efficiency."

Draven finally turned to face her, though his expression remained as unreadable as ever. "Do you know why I don't handle things directly?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Because it's beneath you?"

A small, almost imperceptible shake of his head. "Because it's a waste of time."

That made her pause. Her gaze sharpened, as if peeling back his words to study what lay beneath them.

He continued, his voice steady, patient, like a professor indulging a student's curiosity. "A problem solved by force alone will always resurface. A system corrected by sheer will alone will always resist. Control is not exerted through strength—it is maintained through inevitability."

Liora exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "And here I thought you just enjoyed making things complicated."

He didn't answer. He didn't have to.

She studied him for another long moment before shifting, pushing off the desk with a quiet breath. "Fine," she said. "But don't act like you don't enjoy it."

Draven didn't argue. Perhaps because there was nothing to argue.

Liora took a step back, the light catching on the intricate embroidery of her merchant robes, a stark contrast to the deadly presence she carried so effortlessly. Her gaze flickered once more toward the city, toward the distant remnants of Kael's battle, before settling back on Draven.

There was something in her eyes, something unspoken, but in the end, she let it remain that way.

She gave a half-smile—small, unreadable, just like him. "Well then. I suppose I'll be going."

Draven inclined his head slightly.

Liora hesitated, just for a second. "You could have just said 'stay out of trouble.'"

Draven merely lifted his glass, turning back toward the window. "You wouldn't listen."

Liora let out a quiet laugh, the sound barely audible as she stepped away, her cloak shifting around her like liquid shadow.

"Fair enough," she murmured.

Then, as easily as she had appeared, she vanished into the darkness, her presence dissipating as though she had never been there at all.

Draven stood there for a moment, watching the reflection of the empty room in the glass. He had known how this conversation would play out before it even began. And yet, something lingered in the air, something just slightly off-beat.

It didn't matter.

Slowly, deliberately, he turned back to the desk.

The flickering candlelight danced over the open ledger before him, illuminating ink-sketched maps, carefully drafted reports, the weight of countless decisions resting in crisp, calculated writing.

He reached for the quill, dipped it in ink, and made a single note in the margins.

A name.

A thought.

A contingency.

Then, without another word, he closed the book.