His tone was clipped. Precise. The kind that measured every word before saying it.
"I’m not here to replace anyone," Lindarion said plainly. "I just want to know what’s going on. Morale’s low. I felt it the second I landed. You don’t need more soldiers, you need a reason to keep moving."
He looked at Naelira. "Have the civilians been told anything?"
"Only what they already saw. Fires. Screams. Corpses. We’ve tried to keep them separated from the front-line units, but rumors don’t respect boundaries."
Varnel added, "We’ve lost six commanders in three days. People are scared."
Lindarion nodded once, steady.
Then asked the question that had been burning since he arrived.
But enough to notice.
Jaren finally looked up. "Gone."
"No one knows," Naelira answered. "They left the Highgrove during the second wave. Escort vanished too. We received a report of a teleport trace... but that’s it. No location. No update. No trail."
Lindarion didn’t say it.
Naelira seemed to hear it anyway. Her voice dropped half a tone. "They might be dead."
"Or hiding," Varnel said flatly. "Which is worse."
Another general coughed behind them. "What about your father?"
Lindarion’s hands curled slightly at his sides. "I haven’t seen him."
"You’re the prince," Varnel said. "Are you acting regent?"
"No." His voice was level. "Not unless someone asks me to be."
No one spoke for a long beat.
Ashwing’s voice twitched in the back of his thoughts. "They’re not sure whether to trust you or bow."
’I don’t care which one they pick. I just need them moving.’
"I’m giving a speech," Lindarion said, turning toward the flap. "Now. No ceremony. Just honesty."
Naelira raised an eyebrow. "About what?"
He didn’t wait for permission.
He stepped back out into the camp and saw what he’d expected.
Elves lined along tents and supply wagons. Some still in armor. Some barely clothed, wrapped in blankets or stitched cloaks. Wounded. Dirty. Tired.
Lindarion took the steps up onto the nearest supply crate, high enough for them to see him.
Ashwing landed beside it and curled his wings tight against his back, silent.
The murmurs quieted. A ripple of hush passed through the clearing.
Lindarion took one breath.
’You don’t speak as a prince. Not now. You speak as someone who didn’t run.’
He raised his voice, not too much. Just enough to carry.
"I won’t lie. You’ve already seen the worst. Your homes burned. Your families lost. Your leaders disappeared."
He didn’t dramatize it.
"I saw the capital fall. I was there. I’ve seen what they became. The ones who used to be men. The ones who were twisted into something else."
He glanced around the crowd.
Civilians. Children. Wounded soldiers.
And faces that weren’t just afraid.
Faces that were waiting.
"For the past week, we’ve been surviving. Not fighting. Not planning. Just hoping to breathe one more hour without being found."
The wind tugged at his coat.
"But that ends tonight."
The air shifted again.
"I’m not giving you hope. I’m giving you something better. Clarity. They want you to think no one’s left to fight. They want you to think you’ve already lost."
He stepped down from the crate.
Started walking through the crowd.
Each word slower than the last.
He stopped in the middle of them.
Voice lower now. Focused.
"I’m still breathing. You’re still breathing. That means they haven’t won. That means they’re not done trying. And neither are we."
He looked out toward the forest line.
Toward the horizon where smoke still rose.
And said quietly, but clearly:
"I don’t care what rank I hold. Or what blood I carry. I care about ending this. And if you want to fight—if you still want to see your home again—then follow me. Not because you’re ordered to. But because you choose to."
He let the silence hold.
Until the first voice broke it.
"I’ll follow," someone muttered.
Another. Then another.
And the ripple began.
Ashwing didn’t say anything.
But Lindarion felt the faintest twitch of pride across their bond.
He just turned back toward the tent.
Toward the next step.
The mana-dulling shackle dug into bone, not just flesh. It pulsed with something unnatural, cold, dry, metallic. Not built for elves. Built against them.
She sat against the far wall of the cell, one leg drawn in, the other stretched in front of her with its ankle also shackled to the ground.
Her dress was shredded, half the hemline singed and blackened from the earlier assault. Ash clung to her knuckles and cheekbones. She hadn’t wiped it off.
The cell wasn’t large.
Ceiling too low. No window. Stone carved in precise symmetry, too smooth to be natural, too detailed to be human.
There was a sound beside her.
A breath. Light. Sharp.
Another figure sat across the cell, crumpled against the far wall. Small, slim. Pale hair falling in tangles. Dirt smudged across the cheek. Wrists bound the same way hers were, metal, etched, draining.
Melion stared for a long moment.
The girl didn’t respond at first. Her head lolled slightly to the side, too heavy from whatever hit she’d taken. There was dried blood at the edge of her brow. Faint, but visible.
Melion shifted, wincing as her arm pulled awkwardly against the restraint. Her voice dropped lower.
"Luneth. Can you hear me?"
The girl’s eyelids fluttered.
A flicker of confusion passed over her face.
Then she squinted at Melion.
Melion almost smiled. Not from humor. Just relief.
"You’re Vaelion’s daughter."
Luneth’s expression flickered again. "Yeah. I—wait. How do you—?"
"I’m Melion." She let the name sit a moment. "Sunblade."
Luneth’s brow furrowed. Then she sat a little straighter. Her voice was hoarse, but steady. "You’re Lindarion’s mother."
They stared at each other for a moment in the dim light.
"What is this place?" Luneth asked finally.
"I don’t know." Melion glanced at the ceiling. "It’s below something. Deep. The air feels wrong. There’s no sun. No stars. I haven’t felt my mana in hours."
Luneth tried to lift her hands. The cuffs clanked quietly. "These things—they burn."
Melion nodded. "They’re made for people like us. Specifically."