Chương 14: Chapter 15: Desperate Measures

Morning came grey and wet over Dunmere. I left The Cataract with my hood drawn low against the drizzle and my stomach turning unpleasantly beneath the thin broth Lysa had forced into me hours earlier. Sleep had never truly come after the attack. I had drifted instead through a feverish half-rest beside the dying hearth while rain whispered against the inn windows and every creak of the roof convinced me another pale hand was reaching for the broken frame upstairs.

Even now the world felt slightly delayed around me, as though my body and thoughts travelled separately before reluctantly agreeing upon the same direction. Garron had insisted on wrapping the shoulder wound again before allowing me to leave. The bandage sat tight beneath my shirt, smelling faintly of spirits and bitter herbs. Lysa had hovered nearby pretending to polish cups while listening openly to every word exchanged between us.

When I finally rose to leave, she darted forward and pressed a folded scrap of paper into my palm.

"For accuracy," she whispered. Garron snatched it away before I could unfold it.

"She is not helping investigations."

"It was organised," Lysa protested.

"There were dates." Garron held the note above her reach.

"There were drawings."

"The drawings were useful."

"The drawings had labelled claw angles." Lysa folded her arms.

"Which could become relevant." Garron sighed with the exhausted patience of a man long accustomed to losing arguments one piece at a time.

"Go see Bellan before you collapse in somebody else's building." Standing beneath the weak morning rain, I almost wished I had managed to keep the note. Dunmere felt different after a sleepless night. Smaller somehow. Less mysterious and more tired. Smoke drifted low between buildings, merchants dragged open shutters with the slow resentment of people beginning another cold day they had not chosen, and somewhere nearby a smith was already hammering iron, the steady ringing carrying strangely through my skull.

My chest still felt hollow. Not wounded exactly. The sensation sat deeper than flesh, a cold emptiness beneath the sternum where the Crimson Elf had pressed her hand. Several times during the walk I found myself touching the place unconsciously, expecting perhaps to feel some hidden wound beneath the cloth, but each time my fingers met only skin and damp fabric, and the hollowness remained all the same. Halfway down the lane ahead, a crowd had gathered.

It was not large, perhaps a dozen people at most, but dense enough to clog the narrow street between the cooper's shop and old Ven's chandlery. Rain-dark cloaks pressed shoulder to shoulder around something lying near the cobblestones while a pair of guards attempted unsuccessfully to force people backward.

"Move along," one of them barked.

"You've seen enough." Nobody moved. Curiosity was stronger than rain in towns like Dunmere. It was stronger than fear too, at least until fear had a chance to show its teeth properly. I slowed instinctively as I approached, and the smell reached me before the sight did, metallic and sharp beneath the wet stone scent of the street. Blood. Fresh enough that the rain had not fully carried it away. Then I saw pale hair among the crowd. My steps stopped.

The Crimson Elf lay twisted against a broken stack of barrels beneath the cooper's overhang. One arm bent beneath her body at an angle no living joint should tolerate. Shards of glass glittered around her in the rainwater. Her neck looked wrong, not visibly broken perhaps, but turned too far against the cobbles, chin resting almost against one shoulder. Blood had spread thinly beneath her hair before the rain diluted it into pink streams running between the stones. For several long seconds I only stared.

I remembered throwing her through the window. I remembered the crash below. Yet somewhere inside my mind I had still imagined her escaping afterward, vanishing into the rooftops and fog the way creatures like her were supposed to vanish. Seeing the body there, still and ugly and unmistakably real, forced the truth upon me with slow and terrible certainty. I had killed her. Not through skill. Not through planning.

I had thrown a half-conscious woman through a window in blind panic, and now she lay dead in the rain while strangers whispered over her corpse. One of the guards noticed me staring and immediately narrowed his eyes.

"You there." I looked up. The guard pushed through the gathered onlookers toward me with one hand resting near the short sword at his belt. He was older than most of Talvek's men, thick through the shoulders with rain caught in his beard and the exhausted look common to men who spent too much time solving other people's problems.

"You injured?" he asked. I glanced down at the blood staining my sleeve.

"Some." The guard's gaze sharpened immediately.

"From this?" I looked at the corpse again.

"Yes."

"You touch the body?"

"No." His hand remained near the sword.

"Then how'd you get clawed?" The crowd quieted around us, and I could feel eyes settling onto me one by one.

"She attacked me," I said. The guard stared at me for a moment.

"When?"

"Last night."

"Where?"

"At The Cataract." Murmurs spread immediately through the gathered townsfolk. The Cataract. Saints preserve us. Another one. The guard's expression shifted from suspicion to something closer to alarm.

"You're the Dunmere woodsman." I disliked how quickly the answer came.

"Yes." His eyes moved once over my face, the bandage, the wet cloak, and the shoulder I was trying not to favour.

"The one from the forest ritual." More murmurs followed that, and I wished briefly that Lysa had been there to write them all down so I could hate them later with accuracy. The guard rubbed rainwater from his forehead with visible irritation.

"You should've opened with that." I looked toward the corpse again.

"I was trying not to." A short laugh escaped one of the older men nearby before dying quickly when the guard looked toward him. The guard stepped closer and lowered his voice slightly.

"Captain Talvek's already asking after you. Garron sent word before dawn." He jerked his head toward the corpse.

"This thing climbed into your room?"

"Yes." His mouth tightened.

"What did it want?" I hesitated. I could still hear her voice clearly, soft and terrible in the ruined room. You have an extraordinary soul. The memory unsettled me more now than it had during the fight itself.

"I don't know," I said finally. The guard studied me for another few moments. His eyes lingered on my pale face, the shaking in my hands, the bloodstained shoulder, and perhaps whatever lingering hollowness still clung visibly to me after the siphoning.

"You look half dead." I let out a slow breath.

"I feel worse than that."

"You seen Bellan yet?"

"On my way."

"Good. Do that first. Then Talvek wants you at the garrison." I nodded once and started to move past him before another guard crouched beside the corpse and muttered quietly, "Should burn it." The older guard glanced over.

"Not in the middle of the street." The crouching guard spat into the rainwater.

"You know what their blood does."

"I know what happens when idiots light fires beneath cooper's awnings too." The crouching guard's jaw worked.

"Southern roads are already full of war rumours and greater beasts. Last thing we need is Crimson Elf filth crawling into town." The older guard said nothing to that. His silence unsettled me more than agreement would have. Bellan's clinic stood near the eastern side of Dunmere beside the old ferry road, tucked between a candlemaker and a narrow stone house with leaning walls. The building itself looked less like a place of healing and more like something stubbornly refusing collapse out of spite alone.

Dried herbs hung beneath the awning. Rainwater dripped steadily from cracked guttering into a barrel dark with age. Inside, the air smelled sharply of alcohol, bitterroot, wet wool, and something medicinal I could not name. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, crowded with jars, wrapped bundles, glass vials, and neatly labelled boxes. A narrow stove burned near the back of the room where an old woman stood grinding something green into powder with unnecessary violence.

Without turning, she said, "If you're dying, sit. If you're not dying, wait." I sat. The old woman continued grinding for another few moments before finally glancing over her shoulder. Bellan was smaller than I expected, narrow and hard-faced, with silver hair tied back so tightly it seemed to pull irritation permanently into her expression. Her eyes moved across me once, taking in the blood, the exhaustion, the trembling hands, and whatever else healers learned to see.

"Oh," she said flatly.

"You might actually be dying." I tried to sit straighter and regretted it immediately.

"That comforting tone usually cost extra?" Bellan set down the pestle.

"It does if you survive." She crossed the room briskly and pulled my chin upward with surprisingly strong fingers. Her eyes narrowed immediately.

"How long ago?"

"Last night."

"What attacked you?"

"Crimson Elf." Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings. Bellan clicked her tongue sharply.

"Of course it was." She shoved me backward onto the examination bench before I could answer further. Cold fingers pressed against my sternum. I flinched immediately as the hollow place inside me answered the contact with sudden nausea.

"There," Bellan muttered.

"Thought so." I gripped the edge of the bench.

"What?"

"You nearly bottomed out your mana." The word settled strangely in my ears. Mana. Something belonging to scholars, ranked healers, and stories told around campfires. Bellan spoke it with the practical irritation of someone discussing blood loss or poor sleep.

"I don't use mana." Bellan's eyes snapped to mine.

"Everyone uses mana. Most people just never notice until something starts draining it out of them." She moved away briefly, collected a small glass vial, and forced me to drink its bitter contents before continuing.

"Health. Stamina. Mana. Three reserves. Flesh, body, spirit. They recover differently, break differently, and kill you differently." She pointed sharply at my chest.

"Health empties, you die. Stamina empties, your body fails. Mana empties…" She paused briefly, and the pause did more than the explanation.

"Mana empties and sometimes people simply never wake up again." I felt cold despite the stove heat.

"She was taking that from me?"

"Yes." I looked down at my hands.

"How close?" Bellan studied me for several silent seconds.

"Closer than I'd like." Rain rattled softly against the windows while my fingers trembled faintly against my knees.

"I feel drunk." Bellan snorted.

"That's because your spirit's trying to remember how to sit inside your body properly."

"That sounds unpleasant."

"It is." Bellan unwrapped the shoulder bandage with quick efficient movements.

"This part's easy. Elf claws are cleaner than dockworkers." As she cleaned the scratches, her expression shifted slightly. Not alarm exactly. Interest.

"You advanced." I looked up. Bellan pressed two fingers against the centre of my chest again, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

"First Copper ability." My stomach tightened.

"You can tell that?" Her look was very flat.

"I'm a healer, not a turnip farmer." Before I could ask further, the clinic door opened behind me. Talvek stepped inside carrying rain and cold air with him. The guard captain's eyes found me immediately before shifting toward Bellan.

"What's this about his first Copper ability?" Bellan glanced up without pausing her work.

"You hear through walls now?"

"You said it loudly." Bellan resumed cleaning the wound.

"I said it accurately." Talvek looked toward me again, expression sharpening immediately.

"What advanced?" I hesitated. Bellan answered first.

"Apparently your woodsman survived a Crimson Elf trying to hollow him out." Talvek did not look away from me.

"That wasn't the question." Bellan shrugged.

"Then ask him." Talvek stared at me for several long moments before jerking his head toward the door.

"Garrison. Now." The rain had strengthened by the time we crossed the street. Talvek walked slightly ahead the entire way, cloak snapping against his boots with each stride. He said nothing until we reached the small office beside the barracks yard. Once inside, he shut the door firmly behind us and removed his gloves with deliberate slowness.

"Sit," he said. I sat. For several moments Talvek simply studied me.

"You kill it?"

"I threw it through the window." His expression did not change.

"That wasn't the question." I exhaled slowly.

"Then yes." Talvek nodded once.

"Good." The answer surprised me enough that the captain noticed immediately.

"You expected concern?"

"I expected paperwork."

"That too." Talvek leaned back in his chair.

"Tell me what happened." I did. Not perfectly. The memories still came strangely around the edges, softened by the siphoning haze. Yet I described waking with the elf over me, the cold pulling sensation beneath my ribs, the fight through the room, the broken furniture, and finally throwing her through the window. Talvek listened without interruption until the end.

"What did she say to you?" I looked down at my hands.

"She said I had an extraordinary soul." Silence settled heavily through the office. Talvek leaned back slowly.

"Wonderful."

"You know what that means?" Talvek's mouth twisted.

"No. And I'd strongly prefer if Crimson Elves stopped taking an interest in local woodsmen before I'm forced to start charging you rent for the paperwork." Despite everything, the corner of my mouth twitched faintly. Talvek noticed.

"Good. Means you're not fully dead yet." Rain tapped steadily against the narrow office window while the captain studied me.

"What advanced?" I hesitated.

"Desperate Counter." Talvek blinked once.

"That pathetic little gutter skill?"

"It reached Copper (early)." For perhaps the first time since meeting him, Talvek stared openly before barking a short harsh laugh.

"Desperate Counter?"

"It kept me alive." Talvek nodded dryly.

"Yes. So does screaming and running. Doesn't make either respectable." My expression darkened slightly, and Talvek noticed.

"I'm serious, lad. Desperate Counter's a common survival reflex dressed up as an ability. It advances fast because terrified people use it constantly. No structure. No refinement. No future." I leaned back heavily in the chair.

"It reached Copper."

"So can rats if you kick them often enough." The words landed badly because they sounded too close to the truth to dismiss cleanly. Talvek's expression softened slightly then, though not enough to become gentle.

"Listen carefully. Copper rank isn't just bigger numbers and stronger muscles. Iron lets people survive. Copper starts deciding what sort of fighter they become." He tapped the desk once.

"And that skill cannot be merged." I frowned.

"Merged?"

"You don't know?"

"No." Talvek stared at me for a long moment before muttering something unpleasant under his breath.

"Of course nobody in Dunmere taught you." He leaned back again.

"Copper advancement requires evolved abilities. Not stronger ones. Evolved ones. Skills that merge, change, become something better."

"And Desperate Counter can't?" Talvek laughed again, quieter this time.

"No decent fighter would even try. It's too low quality. Too reactive. Too rooted in panic." He pointed toward the axe resting beside my chair.

"Axe Strike? That can evolve. Proper weapon forms can evolve. Military techniques can evolve. Desperate Counter's just a frightened man biting back." The words landed harder than I expected because some part of me already knew they were true. Talvek saw it in my face.

"Good," the captain said.

"Means you're smart enough to hear it." He stood and moved toward the rain-streaked window.

"You want a future beyond chopping trees and almost dying in alleys, you'll replace it." I looked up.

"With what?" Talvek glanced back over his shoulder.

"A sword." I looked at the axe beside my chair. The weapon had been repaired twice now, stained with resin, mud, and the memory of half the things that had tried to kill me since Orven died. It had woken with me into Iron. It had cut my first boar, saved my life in the ridge fight, and rested uselessly in the corner while a Crimson Elf emptied me from the inside. The thought of replacing any part of that felt strangely close to betrayal.

"I use an axe." Talvek shook his head.

"You swing an axe. There's a difference."

"I've advanced Axe Strike." Talvek nodded.

"And good. Keep it. Build from it. But if you want a defensive path that doesn't rely on getting cornered, gutted, or half-drained before it works, you need a guard form."

"With a sword."

"With a sword," Talvek said.

"Or a proper sidearm. Something fast enough to answer before your skull meets a floorboard. Axes are honest tools. Brutal tools. Useful tools. But you can't block a knife in a rented room with the axe you left across the chamber." The office fell quiet around that. Talvek let the silence sit because he knew exactly where the blow had landed. My jaw tightened.

"You saw the room?"

"I saw the report. Garron wrote more about furniture than blood, which tells me the blood was less expensive." Despite myself, I almost laughed.

"Desperate Counter saved me," I said, quieter. Talvek's voice lost none of its firmness.

"Yes. And if you worship every thing that saves you once, you'll end up carrying a sack full of broken habits and calling it a build." The unfamiliar word caught strangely in my mind.

"A build?"

"A shape," Talvek said.

"Not official. Soldier talk. What your abilities make you into if you stop treating each one like a lucky charm." He tapped the desk again, slower this time.

"You are not choosing what keeps you alive today. You are choosing what kind of man survives ten years from now." I looked away. Outside the office, rainwater ran from the barracks roof in steady streams. Somewhere in the yard men shouted over horses and cart wheels.

Dunmere continued around me as if I had not woken beneath the hand of a Crimson Elf hours earlier, as if a corpse had not lain pale and broken in the street, as if my own survival had not become another problem for older men to file, explain, and weaponise.

"What happens if I keep it?" I asked. Talvek's expression hardened again, though less with anger than necessity.

"Then it keeps advancing when you are desperate, and one day you'll realise every important part of you has been trained by panic." I said nothing. That, too, felt true. Talvek crossed to a narrow cabinet against the wall and opened it with a key from his belt. Inside hung several practice weapons, a short sword with a dull training edge, a battered round buckler, and two leather-wrapped rods marked with old nicks from drills. He removed the short sword and tossed it across the room. I caught it awkwardly.

The balance felt wrong immediately, too light near the head, too narrow through the grip, and too quick in ways that made my hand distrust it. Appraisal stirred faintly and gave me nothing useful except the dull sense that the weapon was plain, maintained, and intentionally unforgiving. Talvek watched my face.

"Good. You hate it." I turned the sword in my hand.

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to. Axe men always look insulted the first time a sword refuses to behave like a wedge." I turned the blade slowly.

"And this fixes Desperate Counter?" Talvek took a wooden training rod for himself and moved around the desk.

"No. You fix it by learning not to need it." He tested the weight of the rod in one hand.

"Guarded Blade is ugly at first. Boring. Mostly footwork, wrist position, keeping panic out of the hands. It won't feel like glory, and it won't advance because you got lucky while half-dead."

"That sounds slow."

"It is."

"That sounds expensive."

"It will be."

"That sounds unpleasant." Talvek smiled thinly.

"Now you're learning." I stared at the sword while the hollowness in my chest still ached and the scratch marks on my shoulder burned beneath Bellan's fresh dressing. Desperate Counter sat inside me sharp and ready, powerful now in a way no other ability I possessed could match, and yet when I looked at the weapon in my hand, I understood the trap Talvek was pointing toward. The skill had grown because I had been helpless. It would grow again each time helplessness found me.

There was strength in that, yes, but it was the strength of a door breaking open under fire. A man could survive that way. He could not build a life from it. Talvek tapped the rod once against the floor.

"Stand." I stood too quickly and nearly swayed. The captain sighed.

"Slowly, unless your plan is to defeat me by fainting."

"I'm fine."

"Everyone in Dunmere says that just before becoming inconvenient." I adjusted my grip on the short sword. It felt no better. Talvek stepped closer, raised the training rod, and struck lightly toward my shoulder. I reacted badly. My body wanted to twist, crash inward, answer harm with harm. Desperate Counter stirred at once, eager and ugly, reaching for the old familiar shape. Talvek's rod stopped an inch from my chest.

"No." The word cut sharper than the blow. I froze. Talvek's eyes remained on mine.

"That," he said quietly, "is what we are killing."