Vesstan stared at the sight of the battlefield before him. They had been victorious, true, but the sight still sickened him. His work here was necessary. He was helping to prevent a far greater evil. His predictions were useful—nay, integral—to the success of the elven armies.

It gave him no pleasure. The warning he had given of enemy troops had allowed them to win the battle decisively.

He would have preferred if there had been no need for battle at all.

Vesstan exhaled slowly. He tilted his head back to gaze up at the stars above him. He wished there was more he could do. He wished he knew the path to end this conflict without more bloodshed.

But alas: he had seen that the way forward would be bloody and difficult. Any victory would come at great cost. He sighed again. He looked to his side: to his guardian on the battlefield, his escort among the elven armies.

As he turned his head, it swam. A sense of unease came over him. All danger was not yet gone from the battlefield, it seemed.

An unhealthy sort of fear seized him. It was one that had been more common, recently, both in his visions and in his idle time. He feared for their wellbeing, and more than he knew he ought to.

“We must move from this place,” he began, his voice low. “I feel… uneasy. A grave threat yet still lurks here. There is a trap, of sorts, still unsprung.”