Draven stood there.
Frozen.
For a long moment, the rain felt distant, the storm muted—as her words sank in and settled somewhere deep in his chest.
Then something snapped.
"Don't," he said.
His voice was calm.
Too calm.
"Don't give me that crap."
Elliana blinked, faint surprise flickering across her face.
Draven lifted his head, silver eyes hard—not angry in the way of rebellion, but in the way of someone refusing to be lied to.
"Stop it with the damn smile," he said quietly. "I hate that."
His jaw clenched.
"It pisses me off."
The shadows around Elliana shifted, uncertain.
"Don't smile and act like everything's okay," Draven continued, his voice steady but tight, "when I already know it's not."
He took a step closer.
"You aren't fine," he said flatly. "I can see it. Damn it—you don't hide lies behind your smile, Mom."
The word slipped out—raw, unguarded.
"If you're going to smile," Draven said, swallowing hard, "I want it to be real."
His fists trembled at his sides.
"Not some fake-ass bullshit smile that's supposed to make *me* feel better."
Silence fell.
Heavy.
The storm still raged around them, but between mother and son, there was nothing left unsaid—only the truth, laid bare and unprotected.
Elliana didn't look away.
And for the first time—
She didn't smile.
Draven drew in a slow breath.
Then another.
The anger didn't fade—but it settled, hardening into something deliberate.
"If you want me to leave so badly," he said quietly, his eyes never leaving his mother's, "then let's just get out of here *together*."
Elliana stiffened.
"We leave," Draven continued, his voice firm, "right now."
He turned slightly and gestured with his chin toward the maid standing a short distance away—one gauntleted hand still gripping an armored figure. The once-proud knight now hung limp in her grasp, his resistance long since crushed, his breathing ragged and uneven.
"We let *her* keep them busy," Draven said evenly.
His gaze sharpened as it shifted fully to the maid.
Crimson bled into his eyes—not flaring wildly, but focusing, tightening, like a blade being drawn inch by inch from its sheath.
He stared at her.
Hard.
"Are you not willing," Draven asked, his voice low and edged with steel, "or do you have any objections?"
The question wasn't loud.
It didn't need to be.
Rain struck armor.
Thunder rolled overhead.
And for a brief, dangerous moment, the battlefield waited—to see whether the maid would answer a son willing to stand his ground… or a mother who refused to yield it.
The maid shifted.
Still holding the Knight effortlessly, she bowed her head just enough to be respectful—not submissive, but absolute.
"I would not dare object," she said calmly, her voice even despite the storm. "If that is your order, then I will carry it out—without a single strand of hesitation."
Draven studied her for a heartbeat longer, crimson eyes searching for doubt.
Finding none.
Then he turned back to his mother.
Elliana was looking at him differently now.
The tension in her shoulders eased just a fraction, silver eyes softening despite the storm, the blood, the shadows still coiling at her feet.
"You're really stubborn, aren't you?" she said.
Draven huffed.
Elliana's lips twitched.
Her tone shifted—fond, sharp, unmistakably maternal.
"Honestly," she went on, "you've turned into a terribly stubborn little brat who refuses to listen when his mother speaks."
Her gaze hardened just enough to carry weight.
"So will you," Elliana said pointedly, "do as you're told, listen to me, and get the hell out of here already?"
Draven snapped back instantly.
"No way in hell is that happening."
The words came fast—automatic—as if he'd been waiting for the chance.
Elliana stared at him.
Draven stared right back.
Rain fell.
Thunder rolled.
And for a brief, ridiculous moment, it wasn't an ancient being facing down enemies—it was a mother and her son locked in a familiar, infuriating standoff, neither willing to give an inch.
The storm didn't stand a chance.
The last of the shadow-clones dissolved into smoke and rain.
Kaela straightened slowly, her blade humming once before the mana along its edge dimmed to a restrained, lethal glow. Blood streaked her armor, rain washing it away in thin rivulets as she turned toward them.
Her steps were unhurried.
Measured.
Each one deliberate as she walked closer, boots sinking slightly into the churned mud.
"I do not speak of intent," Kaela said calmly.
Her voice carried easily through the storm—flat, precise, stripped of emotion.
"And I hold no such intentions," she continued. "Nor am I interested in you, or in the reasons a night elf would ally herself with demons."
Her gaze flicked briefly to Elliana.
Then to Draven.
Dismissive.
Clinical.
"My objective is simple," Kaela said. "The slaying of all demons—and those who stand with them."
Lightning flashed, illuminating the calm certainty in her eyes.
"These are His Majesty's orders," she went on evenly. "And they are the only thing that concerns me."
She stopped a short distance away.
Close enough to matter.
"I will see them carried out," Kaela finished.
No threat.
No promise.
Just inevitability.
The rain fell harder, drumming against armor and shadow alike as the weight of her words settled into the air—cold, uncompromising, and utterly indifferent to the bonds standing in her way.