He'd seen it before, in intelligence reports Sigora had shared, in descriptions of the forces hunting ancient bloodlines. And during his stay in the camp.

"That's a high-level deployment," Sik'ra said quietly, his eyes scanning the garrison's defenses. "Look at the gear they're carrying—those aren't standard infantry weapons. Those are specialist equipment. The kind you only see with killer teams or strategic response units."

"The Empire!" Sarhita breathed.

"What are they doing here?"

Jorghan's enhanced vision picked out details—guards in armor that was clearly enchanted with high-level protective wards, weapons that thrummed with contained power, and positioning that suggested professional military training rather than conscripted levies.

This was an elite force, not some random patrol.

And moving between the structures, inspecting equipment, or conferring with other soldiers were figures that commanded clear authority.

One in particular drew Jorghan's attention.

A woman, perhaps in her early forties, with a bearing that suggested command despite not wearing the most elaborate armor.

She was tall by human standards—close to six feet—with dark hair bound in a practical braid and features that would have been beautiful if they hadn't been set in an expression of cold professionalism.

She turned slightly, saying something to a subordinate, and Jorghan saw her profile clearly for the first time.

Recognition hit him like a physical blow.

Yvonne.

She'd been part of his uncle's organization. The last he saw of her was during the battle with his uncle. He had clearly forgotten about her.

"Jorghan?" Sarhita touched his arm gently.

"Do you recognize someone?"

"That woman," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"The one with the dark braid, inspecting the perimeter defenses. I know her."

Sik'ra's head snapped around. "You're certain?"

"I'm certain." Jorghan's eyes never left Yvonne's form as she moved through the garrison.

"Don't you remember? She was there when Hawkin came to attack us."

Sik'ra shook his head. "It's been a while, and the memories from that time are still hazy for me."

"Those mixed breeds of the beasts," Sarhita said slowly, pieces clicking into place.

"Were these people the ones who created them?"

"That's one possibility. I don't see Swana or Scarlett anywhere around here. They must be here for the elves in the desert. I'm guessing."

Sigora said that the empire was hunting down the elves of twelve clans, and seeing Yvonne here, Jorghan was sure.

The implications were staggering.

"We need to leave," Sik'ra said urgently.

"If that's an Imperial garrison, if they're specifically hunting people like you, being this close is suicide."

"But Swana," Sarhita protested.

"And Scarlett. The trail led here. If the Empire has them—"

"They don't," Jorghan interrupted, his blood magic still tracking the faint life signatures.

"Swana's trail doesn't lead into the garrison. It passes nearby but continues east. Wherever she was taken, it wasn't here."

"Then we follow her trail," Sik'ra said.

"But we move carefully, staying out of sight. The last thing we need is to alert an Imperial hunter team to our presence."

They began to withdraw, moving with careful silence through the underbrush.

But Jorghan's eyes remained fixed on Yvonne until the garrison disappeared behind the trees.

Questions churned through his mind.

What was she doing here? Was her presence a coincidence, or had she somehow tracked him specifically?

The forest whispered around them, and in the distance, the sound of mechanical footsteps suggested that multiple forces were converging on this location.

Major Carrow's IPMF units, the Empire's hunters, the Nue'roka seeking revenge, and Jorghan's desperate search for his captured family.

The Whisperingtris was living up to its name, whispering warnings that no one seemed capable of heeding.

Blood would water these ancient roots.

The only question was whose and how much.

-

Whisperingtris Forest - Eastern reaches of the wilderness

The blood trail was faint but unmistakable to Jorghan's senses.

Swana's life signature pulsed weakly in his awareness, moving away from them, carried by unknown forces. His jaw was clenched so tightly it ached, his hands flexing unconsciously as blood magic coiled beneath his skin, eager to be unleashed.

The tattoo on his neck glowed with a deep red color.

[Bloodborne Rage increasing!]

[Mana Devouring active]

[Negative energy inbound]

They moved quickly through the forest, Sik'ra and Sarhita flanking him, all three of them radiating the kind of focused intensity that came before violence.

Jorghan's eyes flared with a fierce, primal light, and his aura burst from him in waves, searing the ground beneath his feet.

Sarhita and Sik'ra kept themselves at a safe distance from him, as his intense aura was affecting them too. Sarhita looked at him with complex emotions; just when she thought she knew him, he was showing her his complete new side.

While Sik'ra shared his anger. He could remember the time when they fought on the floating islands and how helpless they were and hoped such situations would never come again, but seeing as how they found themselves in one of those scenarios, it made him frustrated.

He wanted to rip off whoever took Swana. He was aware that he wasn't powerful enough to take on all of them; he hoped that Jorghan would do his part for him.

The trees seemed to part before them, as if the forest itself recognized predators on the hunt.

Then a figure burst from the underbrush ahead—a young red elf, perhaps twenty by human standards, his polished amber eyes wide with panic and his armor torn and bloodied. He stumbled, caught himself on a tree trunk, and looked directly at them with recognition and terror warring in his expression.

Jorghan and others stopped in their tracks to see the red elf coming towards them.

YOU!!

"Jor-Jorghan… Sol'vur," the elf gasped, his voice hoarse.

"They were taken by them, those strange humans."

Jorghan furrowed his brows, confused as to what he was saying.

"Thank the ancestors. I've been searching for you. Your cousin, the brown elf woman—she's been taken. And the human woman too. The terraspers have them, the ones with the metal giants. They attacked us and killed most of my unit. I barely escaped. You have to—"

Jorghan moved before the elf could finish.

One moment, he was standing twenty feet away; the next he had the young warrior by the throat, slamming him back against the tree trunk with enough force to crack the bark. Jorghan was floating in the air as he held the elf to the tree.

"What did you say?" Jorghan's voice was cold and controlled, but his eyes blazed with barely contained fury.

"And why were you anywhere near my cousin?"

"K-Kelris," the elf choked out.

"My name."

"Scout. Nue'roka clan. I was following orders, just following—"

"Nue'roka."

The name fell from Jorghan's lips like a curse.

His grip tightened.

"El'ran's clan. The one who challenged me, who lost, who should have accepted their defeat with honor. What were you doing with Swana?"

Kelris's amber eyes were beginning to bulge, his hands scrabbling uselessly at Jorghan's wrist. Even though he had the height advantage, he couldn't go against the strength of Jorghan as he helplessly kicked his legs in the air.

Jorghan released him slightly—enough to breathe, enough to speak, not enough to escape.

"We were... it was a plan. Young Patriarch Lamorg's plan. We were supposed to capture them, use them as bait to draw you out. Revenge for his father's death. But then the terraspers attacked, and everything went wrong and—"

Jorghan stepped back, releasing Kelris entirely.

The young elf collapsed to his knees, gasping for air.

For a moment, it seemed like the confrontation might end there.

Then Jorghan raised his hand, fingers spread like a conductor preparing an orchestra.

And Kelris screamed.

The blood inside his body began to move. Not flowing naturally through veins and arteries, but twisting, writhing, and responding to external control of Jorghan. It gathered in specific locations, creating pressure points of agony, then began to seep through his skin in thin lines—dozens of them, hundreds, fine as spider's silk and red as fresh arterial spray.

The blood in the form of lines didn't kill him.

That would have been mercy.

Instead, they held him suspended a foot off the ground, his body contorted by pain so intense it transcended screaming into silent, open-mouthed agony. Every nerve was firing simultaneously, every pain receptor overwhelmed, and still Jorghan maintained the technique with cutting precision.

Sik'ra gulped, seeing the pained expression on the elf. He looked at Jorghan and could only think about how much he had changed. He seemed completely different from the boy he had known.

Sarhita was the same. It was like he had become completely different.

She could see, in that moment, the lengths Jorghan would go to protect those he loved. The doubts she once held about his dream of a harem—his strange desire to gather many under his wing—faded before the warmth of belonging. For the first time, she felt certain she was one of the cherished few he would fight the world for. A soft smile touched her lips at the thought that Jorghan would do the same for her.

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