Then reappeared behind him, again.
An elbow to the skull.
Lindarion slammed into the ground again, spine-first.
The air left his lungs in a wheeze.
This time, Maeven didn't say anything.
He just stepped over him, foot pressing to his neck.
"You really don't quit," Maeven said. "That's cute. Sad, but cute."
Lindarion didn't look up.
His body screamed. His ribs felt shattered. His mana core pulsed faintly, low on fuel, too much burned too fast.
But he clenched his fists again.
Maeven looked down. "Still?"
Lindarion didn't speak.
He just whispered something.
Maeven leaned down. "What was that?"
"Not alone," Lindarion muttered.
Then the air split open beside them.
Ashwing wasn't small anymore.
His form surged, scales blazing red, wings flaring outward, a roar rising like a tidal wave behind the buildings.
Maeven spun, but not fast enough.
Ashwing struck with his full form, fire and fang.
The buildings trembled.
Maeven vanished into smoke and flame.
Lindarion lay still for a second, gasping.
Because pain or not, he was still alive.
Ashwing dropped beside him, now smaller again. "You're a mess."
"You owe me backup next time."
Ashwing shrugged, tiny shoulders rippling. "Fine."
Lindarion coughed again. "He'll be back."
"But next time," Lindarion said, dragging himself to his feet. "We're ready."
Ashwing looked up at the sky. The red haze was starting to thin.
The pressure was fading.
"Next time," the dragon said. "We hit first."
Smoke curled from the edge of the ruined courtyard. Cracked marble. Shattered gates. The sky above the city was a bruised color, still throbbing with the aftershock of that dragon's roar.
Dythrael stood in the wreckage, coat barely dusted. Not a scrape on him.
'That was it? All that buildup for one barely evolved dragon and a half-dead elf?'
He stretched his arms behind his back, vertebrae clicking in a slow roll. His knuckles were still red from cracking Lindarion through a stone bell tower.
Maeven hadn't shown up again. Typical. Bastard always vanished the moment things got fun.
The city hadn't calmed yet. Screams still echoed from alleys. A few soldiers were stumbling around near the edge of the rubble, but none of them dared come close.
He turned at the sound, light footsteps, but deliberate. Whoever it was, they weren't sneaking. They wanted to be heard.
A woman stepped into view between two collapsed pillars.
She wore the crest of the king's swords.
Shoulder-length black hair, pulled back in a single clasp. Pale skin. No makeup. No ornaments. Just sharp features, sharper eyes, and a long, clean scar across her left cheek that hadn't been made for decoration.
Her armor was light. Mobility-based. But her stance said she didn't need weight to be dangerous.
Dythrael tilted his head.
She didn't speak right away. Just walked up to the edge of the ruined flagstones and stopped about ten meters away.
He could tell from the way she stood, no fear. No bluffing, either.
"Who are you?" she asked, voice flat.
Dythrael raised an eyebrow. "Not a great start."
She didn't flinch. "This is royal ground. You're not a guard. You're not part of the court."
"Then explain what you are."
Dythrael chuckled once, low in his throat. "People usually ask what I want first."
She looked him over. "You want something?"
She shifted her weight, one hand settling near the hilt of her sword.
'She's calculating how fast she can get to me if I move. Cute.'
He didn't bother hiding the grin. "You're one of the king's blades, right? Lindarion mentioned one of you. Short-tempered. Sharp. I'm guessing that's you."
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
"Where is he?" she asked.
She took one step forward. Not fast. Just enough to shift the tension.
Dythrael smiled wider. "Breathing. Barely. Last I checked, he was decorating the city walls with pieces of himself."
Her hand tightened slightly. She didn't draw.
He could feel it in her mana.
"I don't know you," she said finally.
Dythrael tilted his head. "I've been gone a while."
The silence hung too long.
He sighed. "Fine. No games. I'm not from your court. I'm not from this kingdom. I'm not on your side, and I'm not here to make friends."
"Then why are you here?"
"Because I was locked away for a very long time," Dythrael said. "And now I'm not."
Her fingers didn't move from the hilt.
But her posture changed, just slightly.
"You're one of them."
He nodded. "One of what, though? That's the fun part."
"If you don't leave," she said, "I'll make you."
Dythrael blinked slowly.
Just a genuine, amused chuckle.
"You're brave," he said. "Braver than most in this city."
Her sword didn't move.
Her eyes didn't blink.
He smiled. "Come on. I gave you mine."
"No," he said. "But I will."
He took one step forward.
"My name's Dythrael," he said. "I'm what your ancestors tried to bury."
She finally shifted her weight, barely a half-inch.
He raised both hands in mock surrender.
"No blades. Not today. I just wanted to see the capital. Say hi."
She still didn't speak.
"Nice to meet you, King's Blade."
Just like a shadow that decided it didn't belong.
The wind rushed back into the space where he stood.
The girl stared at the empty spot for another long second.
Then she whispered, "He's lying…."
But her hand still stayed near her sword.