No bells. No horns. No cries.
Not even the shriek of the mutated things that had ruined the human capital.
Lindarion’s hands stayed curled tight on the grips, his shoulders locked stiff.
Ashwing said nothing.
He dipped lower, wings wide, slow. A glide instead of a dive.
Every shift in the wind brought more smoke into Lindarion’s lungs.
’Where are the sentries? The lookouts?’
There were always elves stationed at the outer balconies. Always someone watching the skies.
Ashwing angled them slightly south, toward the solar bridge that once connected the upper quarters to the public wards.
Its golden stone was cracked, nearly severed, still standing, but only barely. A few broken statues lined the sides like blind sentinels.
They passed above it in silence.
"Want to set down?" Ashwing asked, his voice like a low hum in the bond. Not pressing. Just present.
Lindarion’s gaze dropped to the inner quarter.
His mother’s tower was a broken silhouette, one edge sheared clean by something he didn’t want to name yet.
His jaw clenched. Just once.
Past the palace slope. Past the ruined conservatory, where songbirds once filled the trees with music. Now, just charred branches, curved like blackened fingers against the dawn.
Ashwing adjusted again.
They passed the outer training grounds.
The sparring rings were empty.
Scorch marks etched deep into the stone. Like clawmarks. No bodies. No blood. Just the ruins of something too fast to fight.
’They didn’t even have time to hold the line.’
Thoughts came and went without him meaning to.
He didn’t let it linger.
Ashwing glided now, wings barely moving. They were just above the central circle, the place where formal rites were once held, festivals lit from rooftop to rooftop.
Even now, Lindarion could make out the scorched outline of the sun-emblem still burned into the stone.
And for the first time, he heard something.
Not loud. Not frantic. Just deliberate. Careful.
A few figures picking through the rubble.
Soldiers, maybe. Survivors.
Ashwing slowed, a faint grumble in his chest.
"They’re below. In the courtyard."
"You want me to land there?"
Lindarion nodded once.
The wind shifted again, clearing just enough smoke for a better view of the palace.
The very place he had left behind, still full of warmth, of light.
And now it looked like the world had cracked it open and poured fire inside.
The kind of quiet that comes right before everything catches up to you.
Ashwing touched down in the central courtyard with a soft crunch of ash beneath his claws. He stayed crouched low, wings pulled in, body tense.
Lindarion didn’t dismount right away.
The palace steps rose ahead, cracked, blackened, but still intact.
He dropped down from Ashwing’s neck and felt the heat in the stones as his boots hit the ground.
This had happened hours ago.
Toward the ruined halls of home.
And the smoke swallowed him.
The halls were quieter than they should’ve been.
Not just in sound, something deeper. Like the silence had sunk into the stone itself. Like it had roots.
Each step he took echoed too long.
The Sunblade palace had always felt warm, alive. Polished marble, golden trim, wards humming gently in the walls, mana woven like a second heartbeat.
Now it felt like walking through the ribs of something long dead.
The main corridor still held pieces of what it used to be. A scorched tapestry here. A half-melted sword rack there. But none of it made sense. The destruction wasn’t random. It was too surgical. Too precise.
Like the attackers hadn’t just stormed the castle.
They’d carved it open on purpose.
Ashwing stalked beside him in his smaller form, claws whispering softly against the blackened floor. His wings twitched occasionally, not from fear, just tension.
"This wasn’t a siege," he muttered, eyes flicking side to side. "They didn’t try to take ground."
Lindarion said nothing.
He passed a broken shield. Elven make. Crest of House Liora. Splintered down the middle.
His eyes lifted to the ceiling.
No sign of burning up there.
The walls had been peeled inward.
’They wanted something inside. Not to bring the place down.’
The next corridor curved to the left, toward the old starlight gallery. It had always been quiet there, even during festivals. A place of reflection. Of memories.
He stepped into it now and saw none of that.
Elves. Soldiers. Courtiers. Mutants.
Mixed together like a fallen mural, shattered in blood.
Some of them had been burned.
He swallowed once, slow.
One had no visible wounds at all. Just frozen wide-eyed on the ground, mouth slack, as if the soul had been ripped out of him mid-thought.
He crouched beside the closest one, a young guard, still clutching his spear like he’d never stopped trying to stand.
There was no warmth left in him.
But there was something under his collar.
A sigil. Sunblade crest. Slightly scorched.
Lindarion ran one hand across it. The divine affinity in his palm flickered, reflex more than intention.
The body didn’t respond.
’Too late. Hours late.’
Ashwing moved closer, wings pulled tight. "Do you want to see the rest of this?"
"No," Lindarion muttered. "But I have to."
There were no more sounds.
No signs of resistance.
Ashwing’s tail swished behind him, slow. "You smell that?"
Mutants didn’t use fire, not .
This wasn’t the work of wild rage.
He passed through the next hall, one of the older wings. The place where ceremonial armor was displayed. Or had been.
Now the stands were twisted. Some still glowing faintly red, like they’d been flash-heated in place. Others broken completely.
Just the echo of movement.