Elandor returned to his private laboratory long after the rest of the outpost had settled into uneasy sleep. The small, reinforced hut sat on the outer edge of the rebel camp, partially sunk into the marsh and carefully camouflaged with living vines and glowing plants. To most, it was simply the old mage’s workspace — a place of study and quiet research. Few ever questioned why the door remained locked at all hours, or why the air around it sometimes carried the faint metallic scent of blood mixed with strange herbs.
Inside, the main room was cluttered with shelves of ancient tomes, glass vials filled with swirling liquids, and half-drawn runic diagrams. Elandor moved through it with the familiarity of long habit, his faded robes whispering against the wooden floor. The conversation with Veyra still weighed on his mind. Antoine. The Orc Slayer. That unnatural presence still lingered in his senses like a splinter he could not remove.
He poured himself a small measure of bitter marsh tea and drank it slowly, staring at the flickering oil lamp. The rebellion needed strength. That much was undeniable. But strength without understanding had destroyed more than one cause in the years since the Beast Wars. He had seen it happen.
After several long minutes, Elandor set the empty cup aside and moved to the far wall. His hand pressed against a specific section of wooden paneling. A soft click answered him. A section of the floor slid open, revealing a narrow stone staircase that descended into the earth. Cool, damp air rose from below, carrying the scent of chemicals, sweat, and something sharper, the unmistakable copper of old blood.
He descended.
The basement laboratory was larger than the room above. Stone walls reinforced with iron bands held back the marsh water. Rows of crude operating tables lined one side. On the other, cages and restraints waited in the shadows. Several figures lay on the tables, some still, some twitching weakly. Glass tubes and glowing crystals connected to their bodies, feeding them experimental compounds designed to force the awakening of magical potential.
Elandor approached the nearest table. A middle-aged human man lay bound to it, wrists and ankles secured with heavy leather straps. His eyes were open but unfocused, tears tracking down the sides of his face into his hair. He was conscious enough to understand what was happening, and the terror in his gaze was unmistakable.
"Please..." the man whispered, his voice hoarse. "I don’t... I don’t want this. Please, Master Elandor... I have children..."
Elandor rested a hand on the man’s forehead, his expression calm and almost gentle. "I know. And that is exactly why this must be done. Grimgor’s armies grow stronger every day. Our people die in chains and in the pits. If we are to stand against him, we need more than ordinary soldiers. We need those who can wield power. You will be one of them. Your suffering will give others a chance to live free. This is for the greater good."
The man sobbed quietly, shaking his head as much as the restraints allowed. Elandor ignored the protest. He prepared a syringe filled with a pale green liquid, a heavy sedative mixed with the latest version of his experimental catalyst. He injected it into the man’s arm with practiced care. Within moments, the man’s struggles weakened. His eyes fluttered closed, and his breathing slowed into the heavy rhythm of deep unconsciousness.
Elandor turned toward the trays of surgical tools and glowing crystals when soft footsteps sounded on the stairs.
A young woman in her early twenties appeared at the bottom of the staircase. She wore the simple, practical clothing of a practicing mage, her dark hair pulled back tightly. She paused when she saw the scene, her expression carefully neutral. She had seen enough of Elandor’s work not to flinch, but the tension in her shoulders was clear.
"Master Elandor," she said quietly. "There is someone who wishes to speak with you. He is waiting above."
Elandor set the tools down and wiped his hands on a cloth. "Who?"
"Harlan."
A flicker of something, weariness, perhaps, or old pain, crossed the mage’s face. He nodded once. "Tell him I will be up shortly. And close the hatch behind you."
The young woman bowed her head and retreated up the stairs. The floor panel slid shut with a soft thud, sealing the basement once more.
Elandor remained still for a moment longer, staring at the unconscious man on the table. Then he climbed the stairs and secured the entrance. When he stepped into the upper room, Harlan was already waiting near the central table, arms crossed, face set in a grim expression.
Harlan looked older than his years. The war and the loss of his family had carved deep lines into his features. He was no longer the hopeful young man who had once begged for power. Now he carried the quiet weight of someone who had accepted hard truths.
"Uncle," Harlan said simply.
Elandor studied him for a long moment. "If you have come to ask me again to force the awakening of magic within you, then you are wasting both our time. I have not perfected the process. Too many have died under my hands. I will not risk the last living member of our bloodline."
Harlan’s jaw tightened, but he shook his head. "That is not why I am here. Not anymore."
Elandor raised an eyebrow, waiting.
Harlan exhaled slowly, as if releasing a burden he had carried for years. "I have accepted it. The magic skipped me. No matter how much I begged, no matter how many times I offered myself for your experiments, it was never going to work without killing me. I understand that now. The war took Mother, Father, and both of my sisters. You and I are all that remain of the old blood. I will not throw that away chasing something that was never meant for me."
Elandor’s expression softened slightly, though caution remained in his eyes. "Then what do you want, Harlan?"
Harlan’s voice dropped. "One last thing. A chance to speak with my wife."
Silence filled the room.
Elandor’s face went still. "Mira has been dead for three years."
"I know." Harlan’s hands clenched at his sides. "But you have the knowledge. The old rites. The ones our family once used to commune with the departed when the need was great. I am not asking you to bring her back. I am asking only for a moment, a single conversation. To tell her that I am still fighting. To tell her that I have not forgotten. To ask if... if she can forgive me for surviving when she did not."
Elandor turned away, walking slowly toward the shelves of tomes. His fingers brushed the spines of several ancient volumes before he spoke.
"The rites are dangerous. They require blood, focus, and a vessel that can withstand the strain. Even then, there is no guarantee the spirit will answer. And if it does... the living often leave such meetings more broken than before."
"I am already broken," Harlan said quietly. "I just need to hear her voice one more time."
Elandor closed his eyes for a long moment. The weight of family, of loss, and of the terrible things he had done in the name of the greater good pressed down on him. Finally, he turned back to face his nephew.
"I will consider it," he said. "But not tonight. And not without preparation. Return to your duties. When the time is right, and if I judge the risk acceptable, I will call for you."
Harlan nodded once, the tension in his shoulders easing only slightly. "Thank you, Uncle."
He left without another word, and the old mage swiftly returned to his experiments. Veyra was against it, not because it was inhumane, but because she felt he was killing off the few potential men they had without any results. She was right, he knew that much, and that was why he was doing all he could to change that. If he succeeds, perhaps they’d be no need to accept strangers with strange powers into their midst anymore.