The stone, radiating a heat that intensified with every passing second, rolled to a stop near the small elf lying on the ground. Oliver instinctively reached toward it, but before he could grab it, the elf beneath him let out a shrill, fear-stricken scream.
"Ahhh! Get it away! Take it away!" The elf's voice cracked with panic, completely ignoring the arrow pressed against his throat. The tip of the arrow had already pierced the thin skin of his neck, a bead of blood running down his collar, but the elf was too terrified to care.
Oliver hesitated, hand frozen in mid-air. The scream wasn't the response of someone afraid of death, it was deeper, a raw, primal terror, as though the stone embodied something far worse. For a split second, Oliver wondered if this was another blessing, some sort of enchantment meant to disorient him.
But then, as his hesitation stretched, something began to change.
The elf's wide eyes, once filled with desperate fear, turned glassy and vacant, as if the life had already started to drain from him. His lips, which only moments ago were capable of speech, trembled with spasms. His youthful, smooth skin shriveled in an instant, pulling tight over bone, like fruit left too long in the sun. The dagger that had been clutched so fiercely in his hand slipped free, his fingers twitching uncontrollably before going slack.
The elf's expression contorted into one of excruciating pain, his body wracked by some unseen force beyond Oliver's comprehension.
'What the hell is happening?'
Before Oliver could piece it together, the stone's searing heat faded. It cooled rapidly, the glow vanishing like a dying ember. Then, without warning, cracks began to spread across its surface, spiderwebbing through the stone until it shattered into countless fragments, scattering in the mud.
And with the shattering of the stone, the elf's body went still. Whatever force had been twisting and tormenting him had taken everything; his life, his strength, and perhaps even his soul.
Oliver remained motionless for a moment, watching the lifeless body at his feet. His instincts told him to stay cautious. 'What if it isn't over?' To make sure the elf wouldn't spring back to life, he took the arrow still poised against the elf's throat and drove it into his chest, pinning him to the wet ground.
His eyes flicked to the rest of the battlefield, where more bodies lay. Most were still breathing, paralyzed but conscious, their eyes darting about frantically. Some tried to call out, their mouths forming silent words of desperation. Others had slipped into eerie silence.
But none of them were looking at Oliver.
Their fear wasn't directed at him, it was something else, something worse. Their gazes were wild with terror, as if they feared that whatever had claimed the elf's life might soon come for them too.
And then it began.
Like a wave sweeping across the field, more bodies began to change; skin shriveling, limbs stiffening, life leaking out of them in an unnatural silence. Stones, once hidden beneath their clothes, crumbled into fragments just like the first. Each time a stone broke, an elf's body stilled, locked forever in the grip of whatever malevolent force was bound to the strange artifacts.
Oliver scanned the survivors; those few who still remained untouched and made his way toward one of them, the closest to him. The elf's eyes widened in terror as Oliver approached, clearly anticipating the worst. But Oliver's attention wasn't on the elf, it was on the stone tucked beneath his tunic.
He knelt down, careful not to let the rain drip onto the stone this time. Gingerly, he pulled the object free. It was cold to the touch; gray, irregular, and unsettlingly ordinary.
The wind stirred, carrying a gentle breeze that brushed across the stone's surface. Instantly, the stone began to heat up, growing hotter by the second in Oliver's hand.
'It's not the water... it's the air. Or maybe the wind itself?'
He didn't have time to figure it out. With a curse, he flung the stone far from him, watching it tumble across the wet grass.
The nearest elf, still paralyzed, let out a weak sigh of relief, clearly thinking the danger had passed. But Oliver wasn't one to leave loose ends. He recognized this elf, it was the same one who had launched the fireball at him earlier.
Without hesitation, he drew an arrow and drove it into the elf's chest, silencing him for good.
The rain came down harder, drenching everything, clothes, skin, and the hidden artifacts beneath. As the stones absorbed the moisture, more elves began to change. Their bodies withered, faces twisted in silent agony before falling lifeless to the ground, their stones breaking apart in the same grim pattern.
There wasn't enough time to test each one. Oliver ran his hand through his wet hair, sighing heavily. His body ached; his burned hand throbbed painfully, and the frostbitten skin on his foot stung with every step. The exhaustion weighed on him like lead, but he forced himself to remain focused.
He glanced at the remaining elves, all lying helplessly on the ground, knowing they could offer no answers, no resistance.
There was nothing more to do here.
With one last glance at the battlefield, Oliver turned away, slinging his bow over his shoulder and trudging off into the rain. No unnecessary movements, no hesitation.
'This ends here.'
---
Later, in a quiet grove far from the battlefield, a voice called out to him through the rain.
"Where's the person you were supposed to find?"
Oliver frowned, wiping the water from his face with his good hand. "They're all lying back there, unable to move. What do you expect me to do, carry them all here?"
The voice hummed with amusement. "You took down all of them?"
Oliver scoffed. "Do I look like someone that violent?"
The speaker chuckled. "Really? What's with the arm, then?"
He raised his injured hand, grimacing at the sight of the burned, blistered skin. "This? A burn. Can't you smell it? The stench of burnt flesh hasn't even gone away yet."
The other figure fell silent for a moment, perhaps realizing the gravity of what had happened.
Oliver shook his head, letting the rain wash over him as he kept walking. Whatever had just transpired on that battlefield would haunt him for a long time to come.
But for now, it was over.
"That's not what I meant," An said, frowning as he glanced at Oliver's bandaged hand. "When was the last time you got hurt like 'this'?"
Oliver shrugged, flexing his stiff fingers despite the pain. "Didn't I ask your sister for medicine a few days ago?"
"I'm not talking about small injuries." An crossed his arms. "I mean something serious, like that burn on your hand."
Oliver paused, thinking. "It's been... a few years, I guess. Why do you ask? By the way, where's that elf, Ziggy?" He scanned the area, hoping to spot the small elf from earlier.
"She's teaching Nisha something," An answered. "I'll take you to her."
"Appreciate it."
As they began walking, An gave Oliver a sideways glance. "It's pretty outrageous, isn't it?"
Oliver snorted, keeping pace. "Outrageous? It's like trying to grow watermelons on a tree."
An chuckled, but there was a thoughtful edge to his expression. "It makes sense now, though. The way you fought. According to the teacher, most elves shouldn't be able to match you in combat. Even in groups, they'd struggle. You might take a few hits, but nothing serious. Certainly not this."
Oliver arched a brow. "'Most elves'? Only 'most'? I think the teacher's opinion of me is a little too low."
An shook his head, grinning. "He thinks highly of your archery skills. I'd say you've earned it."
"Well, don't spoil my performance with too much praise, yeah?" Oliver shot back, his usual sarcasm intact.
---
Nisha worked in silence, carefully applying herbs to the burns on Oliver's hand and the frostbitten skin on his foot. She was meticulous, wrapping the bandages with steady hands, her face focused.
Oliver winced as she tied off the final knot, but said nothing. "If you two had jumped in a little earlier, I might've been back to full strength by now," he muttered, half-joking but clearly frustrated.
An rolled his eyes. "It's not like you waited around to ask for help."
"You're lucky you still have a hand at all," Nisha said flatly as she packed away the remaining herbs.
Oliver flexed his bandaged fingers. "I'll take my chances."
Then, he shifted the conversation. "The other side; those elves, they had more than one blessing, didn't they?"
An's expression darkened, and the room seemed to grow quieter. Oliver quickly recounted what he had discovered: the irregular stone hidden beneath the enemy's clothing. How it reacted to rain and wind, breaking apart into fragments that drained the magic from any nearby living being before shattering.
Ziggy, seated nearby with her arms crossed, shook her head. "That's new to me. There were no such things in my time or if there were, I never came across them."
"No record of something similar?" Oliver asked.
"None," Ziggyreplied, her gaze distant, as if searching her memory.
An and Nishi, both elves blessed passively through birth, exchanged glances. Their blessings were inherent, not earned or acquired, and they had never studied them in depth. Both shook their heads.
"What do you think the stone was?" An finally asked.
Oliver frowned. "It wasn't just an artifact; it was something that 'granted' blessings."
"Is that even possible?" An raised a skeptical eyebrow.
Oliver exhaled slowly. "I'm only guessing. I haven't spent enough time with the thing to know for sure."
An leaned in. "What's your best theory, then?"
"It's man-made," Oliver answered without hesitation.
His words hung in the air for a moment, sinking in. An's eyes widened slightly, and even Nisha looked up, her expression uneasy. "Man-made?" she repeated, as if testing the idea aloud.
It was common knowledge that blessings were a gift, bestowed by higher forces. No one could simply create a blessing; at least, that was what everyone believed. If what Oliver was suggesting was true, it defied everything they had been taught.
"How?" An muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
Ziggytapped her fingers against her arm, deep in thought. "It's unnatural," she said slowly. "The way you described it... draining magic, reacting to wind and rain. It's not a blessing from any natural source. If it were, there'd be a record of it. At least something in the histories."
Oliver nodded. "Exactly. Which means someone's making these blessings; or imitations of them. And judging by the way those stones reacted, it's not perfect. They're unstable."
"Unstable..." Nisha echoed. She glanced toward the window, where rain pattered steadily against the glass. "But why would they break apart like that in the wind and rain?"
Oliver rubbed the back of his neck. "I still don't understand that part."
---
The storm outside intensified, rain drumming harder against the ground. On the battlefield, the elves who had been paralyzed were starting to stir, their bodies regaining motion little by little. Some sat up groggily, rubbing stiff limbs, while others stared in silence at the lifeless figures around them, those whose stones had shattered.
The village chief's grandson opened his mouth to speak, his expression troubled. But before he could get a word out, the village chief stepped forward and knocked him out cold with a swift tap to the back of the head.
---
"Do you think they'll find out?" a voice whispered in the shadows, just beyond the edge of the battlefield.
"Find out?" Another scoffed. "Based on those defective stones? Not likely."
"Better safe than sorry."
The first voice hummed in thought. "If things get messy... we'll just wipe them all out."
The second voice laughed quietly. "Always the simplest solution, isn't it?"
---
Back in the room, Oliver leaned against the wall, arms crossed, as the rain continued to fall outside.
"So, where's the person you needed to find?" Nisha asked, wrapping up the last of her supplies.
Oliver tilted his head toward the window. "They're still out there. Couldn't exactly drag them all in here."
An smirked. "You took down the whole group on your own?"
Oliver shot him a tired glare. "Do I look like that kind of guy?"
"Actually, yeah," An replied with a grin, nodding toward Oliver's bandaged arm. "What happened to that, anyway? Get too cocky?"
Oliver rolled his eyes. "It's a burn. What, can't you tell? The smell of scorched flesh hasn't faded yet."
An chuckled, shaking his head. "I'll admit; you're either incredibly lucky or just stupidly reckless."
Oliver gave a weary sigh, straightening up. "Probably both."
He glanced toward the door, the storm still raging outside. Whatever was going on with those strange stones, he knew one thing for sure, this wasn't over. Not yet.