13: Chapter 13: Three A.M.
in the Northern Foothills 13: Chapter 13: Three A.M.
in the Northern Foothills At three in the morning, the temperature on the northern foothills was a sharp two degrees lower than anywhere else.
It was not the biting chill of a howling wind, but a creeping frost born of ground vapor condensed into bone-cold mist, seeping through the seams of combat boots and boring into the marrow of the shins.
Li Fan rolled out of his rough bunk.
Without bothering with an overcoat, clad only in thin undergarments, he gathered the discarded arrows he had reground and rebalanced, picked up his black bow, and headed toward the archery range.
The camp was pitch-black, save for the faint blue glow drifting from the perimeter arcane barrier, which barely traced the outlines of the wooden targets a hundred paces away.
Raise bow, draw string.
The first arrow whistled out like a streak of dark light.
Fifty meters: two centimeters left of the bullseye.
Li Fan frowned slightly.
Nocking another arrow, his muscles coiled like a drawn spring.
In the final half-second before the string reached full draw, his core snapped inward, forcing the explosive power of his entire body into his arms.
The second arrow roared forth!
Dead center—yet the thud of the arrowhead biting into wood was half a beat lighter than expected.
The force had dispersed.
He lowered the black bow and listened quietly as the night wind howled across the forest canopy.
Once the last dying whisper of the gale faded away, the third arrow snapped from the string.
Still shy of perfection.
Li Fan showed no impatience.
Walking up to the target, he examined the grouping of the three arrows by the dim blue luminescence, then pulled out the heavy shafts and returned to his mark.
In the empty range, nothing remained but the rhythmic thrum of the bowstring and the dull splintering of wood.
Just as he nocked a fourth arrow, faint footsteps sounded at the entrance to the range.
It was not the cadence of a patrol sentry.
The scouts moved in pairs with overlapping strides.
This was a single person’s tread, slightly slower than a ranger’s standard march, laced with a subtle fatigue.
Li Fan did not lower his bow.
His movements remained steady, though he tilted his head slightly.
The prickly edge he wore by day softened, giving way to a rare warmth and playful banter.
“Checking on the posts in the dead of night?
General, I swear I won’t doze off during tomorrow’s patrol.” The footsteps halted in the shadows for three seconds.
Then, the slender figure stepped slowly into the faint light.
Sylvanas sat straight down onto the grass four paces away from him.
Without hesitation, she leaned back against an old stump beside the target stand, stretching her long legs casually, leather boots resting in the dirt.
Stripped of her daytime armor of unassailable pride and cold detachment, she seemed almost like a different person in her softness.
Li Fan released the string.
The fourth arrow streaked like black light, slamming squarely into the bullseye with flawless force.
With a reverse flick of his hand, he nocked the fifth heavy arrow.
“Yesterday’s sweep of the northern foothills,” she spoke first, her cool voice slightly hoarse in the night mist.
“Mm.” “Seven Amani scouts.
Zero casualties.
Two hours total.” “We could have been more efficient, honestly.” Li Fan loosed his fifth arrow, its trajectory even flatter and truer than the last.
“When I broke their defensive formation, I wasted an extra flanking breach.
Next time, I should be able to shave off another half hour.” Sylvanas gazed quietly at the deeply gouged bullseye.
“The council’s letter,” she said, abruptly changing the subject.
Li Fan lowered his black bow.
“I heard.” “Father blocked it for now.” She paused, lowering her gaze.
“But those stubborn old fools won’t stop at just one.” Li Fan watched her golden hair, damp with night mist.
Carrying his bow, he walked over and sat cross-legged on the grass beside her.
He deliberately lowered his posture to meet her at eye level.
That small gesture smoothed away the rough guardedness of a wandering hunter, revealing a quiet, steady warmth.
“So you came out here in the dead of night,” Li Fan said, resting the black bow across his knees as his eyes fixed on hers, “surely not just to give me a progress report?” Sylvanas fell silent.
This silence was entirely unlike those of the past.
When she had evaluated him on the range before, it had been with aloof scrutiny and calculation; now, her silence carried a covert struggle, at a loss for where to begin.
She slowly turned her head, her eyes looking even more striking than by day.
“You humans…
what do you usually think of Quel’Thalas?” “Hunters watch prey, not politics,” Li Fan replied in a low, gentle voice.
“All I know is that the south of Lordaeron is teeming with refugees, while the barrier to the north seals the road shut, forcing the people trapped between to run for their lives on both ends.” He looked directly into her eyes.
“Why ask all of a sudden?” “I just wanted to hear what someone who belongs to no faction would say.” Li Fan looked at her quietly for a long time.
“I’ve heard countless rumors out there about the arrogance of high elves,” he said earnestly, with a touch of comfort in his voice.
“But since stepping into this forest myself, I’ve found half those rumors to be false.
At least, the ones bleeding and risking their lives here for their people are nothing like what the tales claim.” Sylvanas’s breath hitched slightly.
She offered no reply.
She rose from the stump, her slender fingers moving instinctively to adjust her collar in an effort to mask the turmoil inside.
But halfway up, her hand fell limply back to her side.
Li Fan drew his gaze away from her trembling fingertips and looked toward the dense woods.
“You didn’t come tonight just to ask what I think of elves.” Her back to him, facing the endless dark beyond the range, she stood motionless for five full seconds.
Far off in the canopy, a night owl let out a long cry before vanishing completely into the shadows of the trees.
“Father will bear the brunt of whatever pressure the council applies,” she finally spoke, straining to keep her tone steady, though it held an awkward air of comfort.
“You don’t need to worry too much.
Still…
if they ultimately insist on your expulsion, Father won’t be able to force you to stay.
It violates the rules, and he won’t break them.” With that, she took decisive, long strides away, her footsteps swallowed completely by the forest path.
Li Fan quietly watched the direction she had vanished, a warm smile touching the corners of his lips.
He understood.
This second daughter of the house, usually cold as ice, had slipped out under the cover of night to give him the real story in her own awkward way, trying to reassure a human trainee who might be kicked out at any moment.
He sat on the grass for a long while until the morning breeze dispersed that warm smile, then stood up and gripped his black bow once more.
He trained in the dim light for another full twenty minutes.
By the time the faint blue in the east parted the clouds completely, the camp began to stir.
Ailong walked out from the depth of the camp, carrying two earthenware bowls steadily in hand.
He walked over to Li Fan and held out one of the bowls without a word, plopping down onto the grass to gulp down its contents.
Li Fan took it in silence and threw his head back for a long swig.
Coarse grains mixed with some wild mountain herb.
Yet the scalding broth burned all the way down his throat and into his stomach, driving away most of the creeping chill of the northern foothills at dawn.
The two of them sat in the morning light at the edge of the range, finishing their hot broth in silence.
As the light brightened, the stirrings in the camp grew louder.
Ailong stacked the empty bowls and stood up, though he did not leave immediately.
He stood in the morning breeze for five full seconds before lowering his voice to murmur, “The Sub-General was here last night.” “Yeah.” Li Fan made no attempt to hide it.
“I was on outer sentry duty for the second half of the night.
Saw the whole thing.” Ailong paused, his tone layered with meaning.
“She rarely comes to the northern foothills alone.” Li Fan slung the black bow back over his shoulder, adjusting the angle of the strap with his fingers.
Tucking the earthenware bowls under his arm, Ailong turned and headed for the barracks.
Li Fan watched him go, then strode back toward the camp.