For a few moments, neither of them spoke.
Melion studied the girl again.
Younger than she remembered. There had been rumors of Vaelion’s daughter visiting the capital years ago, but she’d been just a shadow of a person then, quiet, shy, barely speaking above a whisper.
But this girl, no, this young woman, had blood on her sleeves, bruises on her arms, and eyes that had clearly watched something terrible happen recently.
Melion tilted her head. "You were taken from the city?"
Luneth’s jaw worked. She looked away. "I was trying to help. I shouldn’t have been there. I—" She cut off.
Eventually, Luneth spoke again. "He appeared out of nowhere. White hair. I thought... I thought we could fight him. Vaelion tried. I tried."
Melion’s chest tightened. "Maeven."
Luneth leaned back. "He was faster than anything I’ve ever seen. We didn’t stand a chance. I think... he let us think we did. Then just—took me. Like I didn’t weigh anything."
Melion closed her eyes for a beat.
"You’re not broken," she said quietly.
Luneth gave a tired breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. "Feels like I should be."
"You’re not," Melion repeated. "That’s what matters."
She shifted again, pain shooting up through her left leg, but she forced herself upright against the stone wall.
"They wouldn’t go through this effort if we didn’t matter. They want something."
"Yeah," Luneth murmured. "But what?"
Melion didn’t answer right away.
She thought of Eldrin’s face, smeared with blood, half-conscious. She thought of Lindarion. Whether he knew what happened. Whether he felt it.
"They already took our cities," Melion said. "Now they want the pieces they missed."
Melion nodded once. "But they’re not going to keep us."
Then Luneth glanced up at her. "You sound like someone planning something."
The girl managed a faint smirk. "Well. Good. I was getting tired of crying."
A faint vibration echoed somewhere beyond the wall.
Something massive moving through stone.
Melion looked up toward the ceiling again.
Then, quietly, the girl asked, "What do we do if they come back?"
Melion’s eyes narrowed. Her voice stayed level.
The air was thick with heatless energy.
It shimmered, subtly, around the edges of the stone walls, barely visible distortions like a glass veil stretched too tightly over something ancient.
The structure itself was more cavern than hall now, long-forgotten ruin swallowed by the mountain’s roots. Not meant for light.
Dythrael stood near the edge of a sunken altar, staring down at nothing in particular.
His hands were clasped behind his back, fingers laced. Bare feet against black stone. The remains of Edric’s body, the original host, had long since been reshaped. Now, the form was taller. Leaner. Ageless. Not beautiful. Not grotesque.
His voice, when he spoke, was low and even.
"No one’s prepared for what comes next."
From the far side of the chamber, Maeven leaned against a broken pillar. One boot resting lazily on the edge, arms crossed, that same irritating smile curling at his lips.
"I dunno," Maeven drawled. "The elf prince is putting on quite a show. You should’ve seen him—gold eyes all blazing with righteousness, yelling at butterflies."
Dythrael didn’t respond at first.
He slowly tilted his head, gaze flicking up toward the ruined ceiling. "Lindarion’s a child holding a sword too sharp for his hands. But he’ll be useful."
Maeven raised an eyebrow. "You’re planning to kill him, or...?"
"No." A pause. "Eventually, he’ll kneel."
Maeven let out a short laugh. "You say that like you know."
The silence stretched.
Behind them, the shrine pulsed once. Low. Like a heartbeat echoing through bone instead of air.
Maeven scratched his neck, casually. "So. What’s the next step, o’ master of all things cryptic and grand?"
Dythrael’s eyes dropped to the map etched into the black stone wall beside them. Ancient continents, warped by time. His fingers hovered just above the outlines, coastlines shaped from before the current world order. Before kings. Before nations.
"Caldris was the weakest link," he said. "Their king’s missing. Their armies scattered. The survivors will cling to elven mercy. The others will die before winter."
"And Solrendel?" Maeven asked.
"The queen is secured. The king’s body is broken. The prince is busy playing savior." Dythrael’s fingers tapped once against the map. "Sylvarion next."
"Their capital’s fortified. Lots of bored nobles with ancestral swords."
"I don’t need to take it with force. Not yet."
Maeven tilted his head. "So what? We march in and ask for keys?"
"No. I let them invite me in."
Then Maeven let out a soft chuckle. "You’re serious."
Another pulse from the floor.
It was faint, but real. Like something below them was still waking up, one breath at a time.
Dythrael turned away from the map.
"When they see their gods fall, they’ll look for something stronger. Something permanent."
Maeven’s grin sharpened. "And you’re happy to play god?"
"I’m not playing anything."
Then Maeven said, "And what about me?"
Dythrael regarded him carefully. "You’ll have what I promised."
Maeven’s tone was still light, but a thread of curiosity crept in beneath it. "And what was that again? Power? Purpose? A throne?"
"No." Dythrael smiled, faintly. "Freedom."
Maeven’s smirk faltered, just slightly.
"I forget sometimes," he muttered. "You hear everything, don’t you?"
"I only listen when it matters."
Behind them, the shrine’s pulse grew stronger. One ripple. Then another. Something old, something vast, pressing against the veil of this world.
Dythrael turned back to it.
"I will take the north first," he said. "Then the southern ports. The oceans. The sky routes. The trading corridors. The cities will surrender, one by one, not because of fear—but because they see nothing else left standing."
Maeven flexed his fingers absently. "Sounds lonely."
Dythrael’s answer came without hesitation.
"Because they’ll thank me for it."