"No," Velistra replied. "It'll be hers."
Lindarion's jaw clenched.
The lightning surged brighter.
Syrien darted forward, just a twitch—
—but Velistra held out one hand, stopping her.
"No," she said calmly. "Let him go."
Syrien froze. Mid-step. Her claws were already half-extended.
"Maeven told us not to interfere."
Lindarion narrowed his eyes. "Why?"
"Because he wants to talk to you," Velistra said simply.
Salen didn't confirm it.
Korrash grunted again, annoyed but not resisting.
Syrien made a small sound in the back of her throat. Disappointed.
"Fine. But if he doesn't scream loud enough, I'm cutting in."
Lindarion didn't respond.
He didn't thank them.
He just lowered his hand, and kept walking.
Sylric sighed as he followed. "If this ends with me getting my arms ripped off by some winged meat puppet, I'm haunting you."
Ashwing muttered, "You'd be a lazy ghost."
The mutant ranks didn't move to block them.
Lindarion didn't care.
Every step deeper brought him closer.
And every second longer?
The hallway felt too quiet.
No footsteps but his own. No voices. Just the scrape of his boots on polished stone that didn't look like it belonged underground. Everything had a strange sheen to it—too clean, too smooth. The walls were warm to the touch, like they held body heat.
Lindarion didn't like it.
The mutant leading him didn't say a word. Tall. Scarred. Looked more human than the others, but the eyes gave it away, silver where they shouldn't be. No glow. Just wrong.
'This is a trap,' Lindarion thought. 'Obviously.'
He kept walking anyway.
Ashwing perched on his shoulder in smaller form, quiet, but tail twitching. The only real sound in the corridor.
They reached a dark, heavy door, black metal inlaid with lines of copper or something like it. Runes traced the edges, not active, not glowing. Just etched.
The mutant stopped, then stepped aside.
Lindarion didn't wait for an invitation.
He pushed the door open himself.
The chamber beyond was circular. Dimly lit by pale crystals overhead, pale red light bleeding down the walls. In the center stood a table, flat, square, too big for the room. On the other side of it stood Maeven.
Same too-clean robes, black and white trimmed with red. Glasses, like some kind of scholar, tilted slightly down his nose. He smiled, slow and wide, like he'd been waiting.
Which, knowing him, he had.
"Lindarion," Maeven said, spreading his arms like they were friends. "Glad you could make it."
Lindarion stepped in. Didn't return the gesture. "Where's Luneth."
"Alive. Safe. I can even have her brought in, if you sit."
Lindarion didn't move.
"You've got five seconds."
Maeven chuckled. "You never change."
Maeven raised a brow. "Bit dramatic. I intercepted her. There's a difference."
"She wasn't a threat."
"She was with you. That made her a variable. And I don't like variables."
Lindarion's jaw tightened. His right hand flexed slightly at his side, fingers twitching just enough for Ashwing to shift.
"Look," Maeven said, gesturing to the chair across the table. "You want to scream, threaten, throw a few spells—fine. But sit down first. I'm not one for dramatic hallway conversations."
"I'm not here for tea."
"Obviously." Maeven's smile didn't fade. "But you're here. So that means you haven't given up yet."
Lindarion stepped forward slowly.
"You're not the one I came to fight."
Maeven leaned forward a little. "No?"
"I came to get her back."
"Well," Maeven said, tapping a finger on the table, "you'll be glad to know she's not hurt. Just sedated. For safety."
Maeven's grin widened. "Both."
'Punch him in the mouth,' Lindarion thought. 'Just once.'
"What is this place?" he asked instead.
Maeven straightened. "A fallback. A cradle. The end of the city and the start of something better."
"That's not an answer."
"It wasn't meant to be."
Lindarion looked around the room, low light, no guards, no weapons visible. Not a prison. Not exactly. "So you built your nest under the capital."
"Not mine," Maeven said. "I just tidied it up."
"Where's the original owner?"
"Dead," Maeven said casually. "Or something close to it."
Lindarion didn't ask for more.
"Let her go," he said again, stepping around the table. "Now."
Maeven watched him come closer without flinching.
"You keep saying that like it's up to you."
"I'm giving you a chance."
Maeven tilted his head, glasses catching the red light overhead.
"To not make this worse."
For a moment, neither of them moved. Maeven didn't even blink. Then, like someone flipping a switch, he sighed and leaned back in his chair.
"Fine," he said. "I'll let you see her. But understand something—this isn't the old world anymore. There are new rules. You just haven't realized it yet."
Lindarion didn't answer.
Maeven snapped his fingers once.
The door behind Lindarion hissed open again.
A different mutant entered, this one smaller, cloaked, faceless under a hood. Wordless, it gestured for Lindarion to follow.
Ashwing stayed silent.
Just a straight corridor to a room that should never have had a door in the first place.
The air in the hall felt colder.
Not the natural kind of cold.
The kind that crawled down the spine like something was watching. Waiting. Breathing behind a wall too thin.
Lindarion followed Maeven in silence.
The white-haired bastard hadn't said a word since unlocking the last door. Just that infuriating slow pace, hands behind his back was a tour.
'If she's harmed, you're first,' Lindarion thought. Not even trying to hide it.
Ashwing stirred on his shoulder but didn't speak.
The corridor ended at a plain door. Old wood. No carvings. Just a strange shimmer of mana sealed around the handle.
Maeven touched it and it opened without a sound.
Lindarion stepped through first.