Chapter 787: Four Hours to Dawn (1)
"Hours might be enough."
"If you don’t overexert." He poured a single drop onto the back of her hand. The liquid spread, traced sigils along her veins, then sank in with a whisper. "That will sting."
She hissed. Fine arcs of static jumped from her scalp and died. "Understatement."
Draven recapped the vial. "You remain combat-capable?"
A laugh half made of static fizzed in her throat. "I’m breathing, aren’t I? Raëdrithar’s wings are itchy for the sky. We’ll manage."
He met her gaze, cold appraisal under calm lids. Inside, calculations shifted, branching. He would need her in the air—no one else wielded storm-glass arrows with the same precision—but the risk of her resonance shattering mid-flight was non-trivial. Still, necessity outranked caution.
Outside the tent, voices rose—a medic barking for more bandages, a Justiciar swearing as sutures snapped. Draven ignored them, kept his attention on Sylvanna. "Rest for one hour," he said. "In that time I’ll finalize the strike order. When I return, you fly."
"And if I say no?"
"Then I sedate you," he replied without heat, "and strap you to Raëdrithar anyway. Either way, the wyvern leaves the ground before sunrise."
Despite herself, Sylvanna chuckled, the sound brittle but genuine. "There’s the charm."
He rolled up his instruments, slid them beneath his coat. Before turning away he rested two fingers lightly on her forearm, not quite a gesture of comfort, more a diagnostic reaffirmation that the mercury had taken hold. Sparks no longer leapt where he touched; the field had dampened. Good. A thin margin, but margins were all wars were made of.