17-Tell me, Matron… do you prefer quantity or quality?

The clearing, bathed in soft, diffused light, echoed with the guttural roars of monsters and the sharp-pitched war cries of students.

Rilléan, his bow discarded at his feet, narrowly dodged the snapping jaws of a towering beast. The creature roared, its glowing red eyes filled with rage, but before it could strike again, a surge of incandescent energy erupted from the elf's hands.

"Arma!" he whispered, as a volley of sentient wooden stakes shot from his palms, piercing the beast, which collapsed with an agonized whimper.

Rilléan fell to his knees, his breath ragged, ragged breathing. Darkness flickered at the edges of his vision.

"Hold on!" a firm voice rang out.

Another elf, wielding a blade carved from etherwood, leapt to his side. The blade dripped with the viscous blood of a troll he'd just decapitated. With fluid motion, he stood before his companion, offering a hand.

"I… I can hardly feel Fenya's ether anymore," Rilléan gasped, grasping the outstretched hand.

The elf yanked him to his feet. His eyes locked onto Rilléan's.

"Now's not the time for such thoughts. Fenya is a Lidja. Our stronghold won't fall!"

Before Rilléan could reply, a pack of monsters with razor-sharp fangs and claws emerged from the shadows.

"Ready?" the elf asked, raising his blade.

"Always."

The two elves, exhausted but resolute, braced for another fight.

But before the monsters could reach them, the sky seemed to tear open.

Blades of pure energy erupted from nowhere, spinning at a dizzying speed. They struck the monsters with terrifying precision, slicing through their grotesque forms as if they were mere shadow and dust.

The sky, still humming with the glow of the energy blades, left the two elves in stunned silence.

"What… was that?" Rilléan whispered, his voice broken by exhaustion.

Before his companion could answer, a sharp sound behind them made them spin around. A human figure stood there, appearing out of nowhere, an unconscious elf cradled in his arms. They tensed, on guard, but a cry of instinct escaped as they recognized the elf.

"Fenya!"

Liam stepped forward calmly, offering the elf to them.

"She's just unconscious," he said in a low, steady voice, his gaze meeting each of theirs in turn.

The two elves froze, dumbfounded.

"You… you speak our tongue?" Rilléan stammered, shaken.

But Fenya quickly consumed his focus. He took her into his arms with a gentleness tinged with urgent worry. Beside him, the other elf straightened, a glint of suspicion in his clear eyes.

"Who are you? How…"

"Not now," Liam cut in. "We stop this battle first. Questions later."

Before the other could protest, Liam drew the sword at his belt.

He struck at the air…

A second stretched, silent, as if time held its breath.

Then, everything shifted.

Glowing blades erupted again, cleaving the air with terrifying precision. They struck the monsters, beheading, slicing, annihilating each creature in a deadly ballet. The ground stained dark with viscous blood, yet the elf warriors, strangely, remained unscathed. Not a single blade grazed their skin.

Three minutes of silent carnage. Three long minutes where the two elves didn't dare move. When the final blade vanished and calm returned, Liam sheathed his sword and turned to them.

"Now we can talk," he said simply, as if nothing extraordinary had happened.

The other elf, still reeling, stammered, "Roku… who are you? How did you…?"

Liam flashed a faint smile.

"A friend. If you'll have my help."

---

A grand hall bathed in soft, diffused light, filtered through gem-encrusted stained glass.

The ceiling, nearly invisible in the heights, was woven from luminescent tree limbs, with glowing orbs dangling like stars. Each pillar rose like a carved trunk of a millennia-old tree. The walls were adorned with intricate bas-reliefs.

At the center stood a colossal tree, its roots coiling across the floor, forming a natural platform where a throne rested. The throne, carved from a single piece of ethereal wood so pure it seemed almost translucent, shimmered with opaline and silver hues. The tree's canopy cast a gentle, dappled glow.

Seated on the throne was an elf, draped in a gown of plant silk woven with silver threads. Her immaculate hair, a silver cascade, flowed to her waist. Her eyes, twin pools of luminous green, held a quiet authority.

Flanked by advisors in embroidered sashes and guards in bark-and-steel armor lining the walls, she fixed her gaze on the human approaching.

Liam walked with confidence, his boots echoing on the veined marble floor. Rilléan and his companion flanked him, more tense than ever.

When Liam stopped before the throne's steps, he bowed slightly, a hand over his heart.

"Human," the Matron began, her voice calm, "you saved my warriors. The elves are a noble, grateful people. In return, I offer you a gift. Name it, and it shall be yours."

"Matron, I didn't come for rewards," Liam replied, his voice steady.

A murmur rippled through the ranks of advisors and warriors. The Matron raised a brow, her expression neutral.

"As I suspected," she said after a pause. "You bear a mission. It's not for glory or gold that you've taken this path. So I ask: what do humans seek in this matter?"

Liam drew a deep breath, his face grave.

"Matron, I bring dire news. A stampede is coming, worse than any before. At its head is a dragon king."

The murmurs grew louder, spreading through the hall like leaves stirred by wind. The Matron raised a hand, and the assembly fell silent. Her luminous green eyes bored into Liam's.

"This we already know," she said slowly. "But you still haven't answered: what do humans want in this? Why are you here?"

Liam lifted his head slowly.

"We were sent to slay the dragon king and stop the stampede."

The murmurs turned to gasps, a mix of doubt and shock. Warriors exchanged incredulous glances. Rilléan crossed his arms, studying Liam.

The Matron, however, remained impassive. Her voice cut through the uproar.

"Silence."

The hall stilled, and she fixed Liam with an icy stare.

"How many?" she asked, her voice clear.

"How many?" Liam echoed, puzzled.

"How many humans were sent for this task?"

A heavy silence fell. Liam lowered his head slightly, hesitating.

The silence stretched, almost unbearable.

The Matron, still stoic, narrowed her eyes.

Liam raised his head slowly and took a deep breath.

"We are two."

A suffocating silence enveloped the hall.

"Two?" a councilor choked, his face twisted with indignation. "Is this a jest?"

"Do humans mock us?" another growled, fists clenched on the table before him.

Murmurs multiplied, outraged and furious glares flashing across the room. Yet the Matron, ever calm, raised a hand slightly. The unrest ceased instantly, though the tension lingered. She fixed Liam with a piercing gaze.

"Human, though you saved my warriors, I won't allow you to insult us. Your presence here concerns a potential alliance between our peoples. But if humans think to deceive us, know that elves will not yield. We are ready to become your enemies if you make a mockery of us."

Liam remained calm, standing tall despite the rising anger around him.

"It's no mockery. It's the truth. There are just two of us: me and my superior."

The councilors exchanged disbelieving looks.

"Two?!" the first councilor spat, outraged. "Do humans think this threat is trivial, to send only two men? Or do they expect us to serve as mere cannon fodder?"

Liam squared his shoulders, and something shifted in the air around him.

An invisible, heavy, suffocating tension swept the hall like a gale.

The elf warriors, instinctively on guard, drew their weapons. But suddenly, a terrifying aura surged from Liam, raw and merciless. An overwhelming force struck them head-on. Some fell to their knees, bodies trembling. Others collapsed unconscious, as if crushed by an unseen weight.

The councilors, sweating with dread, froze in panic. Only one figure remained unmoved amid the chaos: the Matron.

Her gaze stayed locked on Liam.

As the tension peaked, Liam took a step forward, his aura still oppressive. He fixed his dark eyes on the Matron's.

"Tell me, Matron… do you prefer quantity or quality?"