The Villain Professor's Second Chance

"Funerary verse," Draven confirmed. "A promise that no Seed sleeps alone." His gaze flicked across the glowing runes, tracing meaning in patterns too ancient for human tongues. There was a softness to his expression—gone the razor attention of strategist, replaced by something like wistful recognition. It lasted a heartbeat, then tucked itself behind his habitual calm.

With only three discs left, the hymn grew quieter, as though conserving breath for its final refrain. Sylvanna felt sweat cooling at her temples. The air up here was thin and tasted faintly of crushed mint. If she closed her eyes—only for a moment, she swore—she could imagine the platforms were lily pads on a lake and that stepping wrong would plunge her into nothing colder than water.

Draven never allowed flights of fancy. "Last measures," he warned. "Cadence slows."

He moved first—heel down, toe roll, weight forward—each gesture precise enough to be written into sheet music. Sylvanna followed, translating his motions into her own longer stride. The platform hummed a tenor note just shy of wistful. Another step: alto, warm as smoke curling from a hearth. She drew a final breath, inhaling the ghost‑scent of star‑touched leaves overhead.

They landed together on the largest disc, a smooth moon‑white slab that pulsed beneath their boots like some great heart beneath marble ribs. A spiral glyph uncurled across its face in filigree gold, radiating outward until the edges of the platform shone with a gentle halo. Far below, the fog dissipated in a graceful swirl, revealing the floor's runic lyrics locked into perfect stasis—the hymn complete.

Sylvanna exhaled a shaky laugh. "Tell me that glyph is a blessing. I need a win."

Draven swept the chamber once more, cataloguing the wilt in the vines and the way the constellation lights softened. "Blessing," he allowed, though a corner of his mouth lifted in wry correction, "occasionally doubles as surveillance."

She brushed stray curls from her brow, smearing the sheen of sweat there. "Of course it does. Elves and their layered meanings." She flapped her collar, expelling tension. "Next you'll tell me their bedtime stories double as counter‑espionage ciphers."

"Only on even‑numbered moons." His dry tone coaxed a reluctant grin from her.

The marble dais beyond the last disc lowered with a soft hiss, revealing a flight of steps descending into a faint green glow. Draven offered no pause; he strode forward, boots whispering against stone as if reluctant to disturb the hush their music had earned. Sylvanna followed, flexing stiff ankles, each step feeling strangely mundane after so much careful choreography.

The air grew cooler, laced with the smell of river glass left in moonlight. They emerged into a sunken glade shaped like a shallow bowl, where trees of pure crystal reached skyward. Their trunks were prisms; their branches forked into leaf‑thin panes that clinked softly in a draft that did not exist. Every surface mirrored surrounding light, refracting it into shafts of rain‑bow brilliance. As the hunters crossed the threshold, hundreds of reflections sprang to life on that glassy bark—visions like oil on water, each image flickering between past and present.

Draven's sharp intake of breath was nearly silent. He knew this terrain by reputation: the Garden of Glass Regrets.

Sylvanna froze two strides ahead, boots squeaking on the polished quartz path. Her pupils dilated, fixating on a single tree near the glade's edge. Within its clear trunk, a scene replayed as though carved in ice: Sylvanna herself knelt beside a shaggy, lion‑bodied chimera whose flank streamed crimson. She pressed bandages against the wound, fingers trembling. Then came the telltale sag of her shoulders, the moment hope collapsed. In the reflection she stood, shaking her head, retreating while the beast's luminous eyes tracked her departure. She vanished past the tree line. Moments later the chimera exhaled its final breath.

The real Sylvanna's jaw worked soundlessly. Her fingers curled against her hips; nails bit through glove leather. "That wasn't my fault," she said, voice brittle. "I was out of antidotes. I— I didn't know she was pregnant."

Glass leaves tinkled overhead as though mocking excuses.

"Memory is indifferent to intent," Draven answered quietly. He did not touch her—too much risk of accidental comfort turning into recoil—but his presence anchored the moment, steady and immovable.

His reflection had surfaced, too. In the central arbor a vision unfolded: another grove, roots charred, runes cracked. A Heart‑Seed pulsed white‑hot on a stone pedestal, its glow flickering like a candle in storm wind. A figure—Draven's own mirror—stood before it, dual blades sheathed, eyes bleak. Cracks marched across the Seed's shell until it split; a roiling shadow erupted, laughter echoing in silent mockery. The reflection‑Draven did nothing—no blade drawn, no spell shaped—only watched as darkness devoured saplings, vines, air. Failure caught in amber.

Real Draven tilted his head, studying every fracture and smear of soot as though memorizing defect lines. He didn't flinch. He didn't defend himself. After a long moment he bowed his head—not in shame, but acknowledgment, a warrior saluting the price of miscalculation.

The crystal bark fogged, image dissolving into pale luminescence. Acceptance registered; the Garden permitted absolution in silence.

Sylvanna, meanwhile, hovered at the edge of her scene, chest rising in small, tight breaths. Tears threatened, bright against sweat. She raised a gloved hand, fingertips trembling inches from the chimera's ghostly mane. Glass frost radiated from the memory, cold as forgotten promises.

"Don't," Draven warned, the single word as sharp as any blade he wielded. "Regret must be carried, not clung to. Touch it, and you let it root."

Her hand fell to her side, shaking. The tree's vision dimmed, retreating into neutral translucence. The chimera's outline surrendered to pale starlight, leaving only the faint etch of branches behind her eyes.

A hush blanketed the glade, as though dozens of unseen hearts exhaled alongside her. A path of tiny crystal stepping stones revealed itself—no more than shin high—leading between the trees toward a dark arch. Runic blossoms opened along their edges, glowing a gentle coral hue that promised safe passage.

"Convenient," Sylvanna muttered, wiping her cheeks with the heel of her hand.

"Therapeutic," Draven corrected, already setting off down the luminous trail. He had no patience for lingering where ghosts had been given their say. Sylvanna fell in at his shoulder after a heartbeat, each footfall ringing like a glass bell. No echo of their regrets followed them; the Garden kept what it harvested.

At the arch's threshold the air thickened—warm stone after winter glass. Somewhere ahead a distant thrum pulsed, slow and heavy, like rock remembering how to breathe. Draven recognized the signature: the Chamber of Breath and Stone waited.

But that lay beyond. For now the glade of mirrors dimmed behind them, sealing its secrets beneath the hush of refracted starlight, and Draven carried forward the silent vow forming beneath his ribs: some futures, unlike memories, would not be left to crack.

Draven's head bowed, a single, deliberate motion that said I see you to a memory already fading.

The mirrored trunk fogged, spider‑web fractures knitting themselves smooth until the crystal showed only the distorted glow of nearby runes. The Garden accepted his acknowledgment like soil taking rain‑water, no triumph, no accusation—simply quiet.

Across the glade Sylvanna still stood rigid, palm hovering over her own vision. Through the prismed bark she watched her younger self stagger away from the dying chimera, every step laced with guilt she'd spent years papering over with bravado. The frozen scene arrested her breath; her shoulders trembled beneath the tension of fight‑or‑flight.

A heartbeat, two.

Draven's voice slid through the hush, low but edged with command. "Enough."

She startled, fingers grazing the glass. Frost bloomed where her glove touched, hairline cracks racing toward the image as though regret itself might shatter the tree. He covered the distance in three noiseless strides. With a surgeon's precision he caught her wrist before skin could meet cold crystal.

"Regret must be carried," he said, eyes flint‑hard, "not clung to. You keep it here—" he tapped her breastbone lightly "—and walk on."

Sylvanna's breath hitched. The chimera's dying eyes flickered one last time, then the image dimmed, collapsing into clear crystal that reflected only her own startled face. Relief prickled her skin, followed by shame's aftertaste. She yanked her hand free but didn't step back.

The tree's leaves—thin panes of glass—rustled as though sighing. Shards of reflected starlight cascaded over them, and in that sparkle a narrow foot‑path materialized: overlapping lily‑shaped tiles leading deeper into the grove. Each tile glowed a muted rose, inviting but not pleading.

"Convenient," Sylvanna muttered, rubbing her wrist.

"Therapeutic," Draven corrected. He turned without another look at the trees, cloak whispering over quartz grass. His posture announced forward or be left behind.

She followed, boots tink‑tinking as they met each crystalline petal. The chimera's echo flitted behind her eyes, but the weight on her chest felt lighter—as though the garden had agreed to shoulder half for a while.

The path tightened, branches weaving overhead to form a dim corridor. Frosted light ebbed with every step until they emerged in a smaller, circular clearing. Here the air smelled of granite dust and distant thunderstorms.

Massive stone gates loomed before them, carved from dark basalt veined in silver. Hundreds of names covered the surface, so weathered many were reduced to grooves—memories eroding under the slow drip of centuries. One phrase remained crisp at the arch's crown, the runes renewing themselves every time a fleck of stone faded:

To pass, speak the name that remembers you.

Sylvanna's brows knitted. "Cryptic much."