He walked straight to the table, rolled up one sleeve, and placed a smooth river-stone down in the center of the map, one now faintly marked with a golden sigil etched by his own mana. His eyes never left the lines carved into the parchment.
"I found a trail," he said.
One of the older captains tilted his head. "What kind of trail?"
"Residual mana. Warped. Unstable. Like something tried to pull space into itself and couldn’t quite close it afterward."
Another man—thin, silver-haired, dark rings under his eyes, shifted uncomfortably. "Tracking mana threads across the continent? That’s not something anyone does."
"You could be leading us in circles."
"I’d rather circle than stand still."
Jaren stood in the corner with arms crossed. "I saw him test the thread. It’s real."
Some of the commanders exchanged glances.
Lindarion let the silence hang.
Eventually, a younger elf with copper armor leaned forward, expression skeptical. "And what exactly are we supposed to do with this... trail? March blind through half the realm?"
"No," Lindarion said. "You’ll stay here. I’ll follow it. Quietly."
The war table fell quiet again.
A moment later, a soldier burst through the flap without ceremony.
Dust streaked his coat. One sleeve torn. No armor. Just a scroll case clutched in his fist.
The courier bowed quickly and handed the letter to Jaren. "Urgent. Multiple townships. Delivered by hawk. Some marked royal."
Jaren opened the first scroll. Read. Didn’t speak. Just passed it to the next hand beside him.
The next scroll came. Then the next.
By the fourth, no one was sitting anymore.
Jaren finally spoke. "They’ve begun attacking human border towns. Westward. Deep strikes."
"How deep?" one of the generals asked.
"Past Silverwake. Through Hillgrave. There’s mention of bodies hanging from the city walls."
Someone else swore under their breath.
And then, one more courier.
Breathless, shaking, but still moving.
He didn’t even stop at the table. Just held the scroll out to Lindarion directly.
The seal was crimson. Broken hastily.
He unrolled the parchment.
Eyes narrowed as he read.
His voice, when it came, was low. Flat. Dead quiet.
"Evernight Academy has fallen."
Lindarion lowered the letter to the table.
"Only fragments remain. The buildings were destroyed. Witnesses say... they think a creature came out of the sky. Not a spell. Not an army."
"Just one?" a commander asked.
Someone backed a step from the table.
Jaren looked toward Lindarion. "Still want to follow that trail?"
Lindarion stared at the golden-threaded stone. The one he had marked. The one that had pulsed with just the faintest whisper of direction.
"Yes," he said. "More than ever."
He stood outside the war tent alone, breathing in smoke and cold pine air.
The camp stretched behind him, torches flickering along every ridge, armor glinting between tents, the quiet shuffle of a hundred soldiers pretending they weren’t listening. The letter about Evernight still sat folded in his hand, its edges damp from his palm.
He hadn’t moved in five minutes.
Ashwing crouched on a rock nearby in his smaller form, wings folded tight against his back. His tail tapped lightly against the stone.
"They’re scared," the dragon said.
Lindarion didn’t look at him. "They should be."
He turned his eyes to the ridge. Past the last of the watch fires. Beyond the treeline, toward something none of them could see.
"I felt it," he said quietly. "Just for a second. A wound. Like the earth cried out."
Ashwing tilted his head. "And the trail?"
Lindarion lifted the golden-marked stone. It pulsed once in his hand—barely a glow. The connection was weak. Fading.
He could feel it just under the surface of everything. Like breath through silk. A rhythm that didn’t match the land around it.
"It’s moving," he said. "But slowly."
Ashwing stood, stretched out his wings, then narrowed his gaze. "You want to chase that thing alone?"
"I won’t find their base if I show up with two hundred troops and a warhorn." Lindarion tightened his grip on the stone. "I’ll move faster with fewer people."
"How many’s ’fewer’?"
Ashwing blinked. "That’s not fewer. That’s suicidal."
Lindarion looked back at the camp. Torches lined the dirt paths between tents. Soldiers stood in small knots, speaking low. Some sharpening blades. Others not even pretending to sleep.
"You said it yourself," he muttered. "They’re scared."
"They have reason to be."
"They need time. Direction." His jaw tensed. "If I can find the base—just locate it—then they’ll have something to aim for. Not just rumors and ash."
Ashwing grumbled deep in his throat. "This is the kind of thing your system should speak up about."
Lindarion let the silence sit for a long moment. The moon was high above now, soft light running down the side of his armor. A breeze moved through the pine trees in slow, uneven breaths.
Ashwing fluttered once, then nodded toward the edge of camp. "When?"
"You’re not even going to tell Jaren?"
"He’ll talk me out of it."
"That’s because he’s not an idiot."
Lindarion gave a weak, humorless smile. "Then he’ll understand later."
The system didn’t chime in. No map. No marker. Just that stone. That faint pulse.
’Whatever’s behind this doesn’t want to be found.’
He moved quietly between tents, taking only what he needed, a second waterskin, his knife, a roll of smoked meat, and a thick travel cloak. No banner. No emblem.
By the time the edge of camp disappeared behind the trees, his heartbeat had already settled.
Ashwing flew overhead in full form now, wings dark against the stars.
They didn’t speak again for the first mile.
There was nothing to say.
And the faint, pulsing thread of mana tugging him forward.