The Scholar's Rebirth

Draco sat at the edge of the village, perched on the remnants of a collapsed watchtower, one knee bent as he surveyed the wreckage below. Eldora was still standing—barely. The battle had left deep scars, some visible, others far worse.

But none of it mattered.

Not compared to her.

He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. It had been two weeks—two damn weeks—since Eira had collapsed, unresponsive, lifeless in all but breath. The village's best healers had tried everything, but the verdict was always the same.

"She's not wounded. She's simply… asleep."

Draco had nearly broken something when they said that.

"Then wake her up."

"It doesn't work like that."

He clenched his jaw at the memory, golden eyes flickering with frustration.

Eira was no ordinary elf. Even unconscious, there was something unnerving about her state, as if she was existing on the very edge of something vast and unknown. He didn't understand it, and that made him restless.

He hated the waiting.

He hated how quiet things had become without her.

Draco had never been one for words, nor for blind faith, but he found himself lingering near the healer's hut more than he cared to admit. He never went inside—what could he even do?—but the uncertainty gnawed at him.

Elandor was different. The elf spent every night in that hut, barely leaving even to eat. His loyalty to Eira was unwavering, but Draco could see the exhaustion weighing him down.

Not that Draco was doing much better.

Draco trained to keep himself from thinking. He fought because standing still made him feel useless.

Sparring matches with the knights, relentless drills, hunting anything that lurked too close to the village—he poured himself into movement, into action.

But every night, as exhaustion settled in, his feet carried him back to that damn healer's hut.

He never stepped inside.

Never looked at her.

But he always waited.

"What am I even doing?" he muttered one night, leaning against a tree outside the hut. The torches cast long shadows, flickering against the wood.

He had fought for many things in his life—power, survival, revenge. He had stood at the brink of death, had witnessed comrades fall, had never cared.

So why did this feel different?

Why was there a part of him that refused to believe she wouldn't wake up?

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply.

This was stupid, he had known her for how long? Just a few days,so why? Why was he so attached?

"Draco."

He turned at the sound of his name.

Elandor stood a few steps away, his silver eyes reflecting the torchlight. He looked like hell—dark circles under his eyes, his usually immaculate posture slightly slouched.

"Go inside," Elandor said.

Draco scoffed. "Tch. What for?"

Elandor didn't respond at first. He simply studied Draco for a moment before sighing.

"You keep coming back here."

Draco didn't reply.

"I know you care."

Draco's jaw clenched. "I don't care. I just—" He cut himself off, irritated at the way the words stuck in his throat.

Elandor gave a tired smile, as if he had expected that answer.

"Then go inside and prove yourself right."

Draco hesitated.

The hut was quiet. No movement, no sound—just the rhythmic rise and fall of her breathing.

He clenched his fists.

"She's going to wake up," he muttered.

He just knew.

And until then—he would wait.

------

- 3 weeks after the battle -

The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and burning wood. The village still bore the scars of battle—shattered buildings, scorched fields—but progress had been made.

Elandor stood at the great hall's balcony, watching over the people as they worked tirelessly.

He was exhausted. Two weeks without rest.

"She should have woken up by now."

A voice interrupted his thoughts.

"You look like hell."

Draco leaned against the wooden railing, arms crossed, golden eyes sharp.

Elandor exhaled. "You're not looking much better."

Draco clicked his tongue. "Tch. Not my fault that damn elf decided to sleep for an eternity."

Despite his words, his gaze flickered toward the healer's hut.

Eira should have woken up.

He refused to believe she wouldn't.

"She's not dead." His voice was quiet but absolute.

Elandor glanced at him. "You sound sure."

Draco's jaw clenched. "Because she can't be."

Before Elandor could respond,a ripple of energy washed over them.

The entire village froze.

Then—

"She's awake."

The words had barely left Draco's lips before he was already moving.

Her eyes fluttered open.

The ceiling above her was unfamiliar, the scent of herbs heavy in the air.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then—

The door slammed open.

Draco stood in the doorway, golden eyes locked onto her. His usually unreadable face betrayed something dangerously close to relief.

Elandor was right behind him, his grip on the doorframe tight enough to splinter the wood.

Eira blinked at them.

Then she smirked. "Miss me?"

Draco exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Tch. You're a damn pain in the ass, you know that?"

Elandor stepped forward, kneeling at her bedside. His fingers curled into the fabric of his cloak as he bowed his head for a brief moment.

"Welcome back, Eira."

And just like that—Eldora had hope again.