The Abused is The Abuser in Another World

Chapter 38: A Raid for Survival

The days passed like a slow-burning ember, the once roaring fires of battle reduced to a simmer within the Drakharoth Enclave. A week had gone by since the clash that claimed Captain Kaelthor's life and scattered the forces of Durnholde. Now, the people of the Enclave were licking their wounds, both physical and mental. Razor and Greenheart had been working closely with the Enclave's healers, ensuring that the lizardfolk refugees were integrated into the community. The injuries of war ran deep, but the Enclave showed resilience.

Orenda moved between the injured, her soft blue healing aura casting light over those whose wounds were still fresh. Her hands worked tirelessly, as if she was channeling the very essence of life into those who needed it most. The air was thick with the scent of medicinal herbs and the faint crackle of fire from the hearth, where food was being rationed.

Greenheart stood nearby, his ancient eyes watching over the scene with a mixture of sadness and pride. He leaned on his gnarled staff, his posture as fragile as the people around him, but his gaze steady.

"They heal, but the scars remain," Greenheart murmured quietly to Razor, who stood next to him, observing the efforts with a scowl on his reptilian face.

Razor, the fierce warrior that he was, could not hide his frustration. His claws flexed in agitation as he watched the people mend their wounds.

"Healing is one thing, Elder. But we're still starving. Sitting here while our people wither away isn't a plan." His voice was sharp, and his yellow eyes burned with impatience.

Greenheart nodded slowly. "Patience, Razor. We will not rush to our doom. But you are right—starvation is the enemy now." He turned his gaze to the gates of the Enclave. "I suspect Noir is already thinking of the next step."

Far away, in the cold, fortified halls of Durnholde, Countess Elara sat in her war chamber, her sharp eyes fixed on the messenger who stood trembling before her. The crackling of the fire was the only sound in the room, save for the man's nervous breaths.

"Say that again," Elara commanded, her voice like ice. "How did Kaelthor die?"

The messenger swallowed hard before speaking. "He was killed by a creature—humanoid, but with an aura of immense darkness. The reports from the surviving soldiers describe it as a human-like figure wielding a scythe. Captain Kaelthor's essence was... absorbed by it, as if the weapon itself fed on his soul."

Elara's fingers tightened on the arms of her chair. "A scythe-wielding human-like creature," she repeated, her voice dangerously calm. "And what of Grimscar? What has become of the outpost?"

"The forces there surrendered or fled after Kaelthor's death, Countess. The outpost is vulnerable."

Elara rose from her seat, her eyes narrowing. "Kaelthor was a fool if he allowed himself to be bested by some... dark entity. But Grimscar cannot fall." She turned sharply to one of her lieutenants. "Send reinforcements to Grimscar immediately. And find out everything you can about this creature. I will not let this affront go unanswered."

The lieutenant bowed, already moving to execute her orders. As he left, Elara stared into the flames, her mind swirling with dark thoughts. "Whoever killed Kaelthor will learn what it means to cross Durnholde," she whispered to herself. "And Grimscar will not fall."

In the grand capital city of Stormhaven, King Edric sat upon his throne, a slow smile spreading across his face as he listened to the report from his scouts. His hand drummed lightly on the armrest, a gesture of satisfaction.