The underground chamber became his prison, his crucible. Days bled together in the stagnant air, the dim flicker of torches marking time more than any sun or sky.
The walls bore the scars of his impatience, blackened gouges from flame, fractures from lightning, scorched stone where divine light had seared. But now, fire and lightning were forbidden.
Nysha’s voice made certain of that.
"Again," she said for what felt like the hundredth time.
Sweat clung to Lindarion’s skin as he stood in the chamber’s center, Zerathis in hand. The blade purred faintly, almost mocking his exhaustion. His chest rose and fell with sharp breaths, every muscle taut with both effort and fury.
"I don’t repeat myself," he growled.
"Then you’ll never learn."
Her tone was maddeningly calm, as it always was. She stood at the edge of the chamber, arms folded, her red eyes catching the light. Ashwing had claimed her lap, shrunk into his lizard form, tail curling lazily as though this entire ordeal amused him more than anything.
Lindarion’s jaw tightened. He wanted to snap at her, to remind her who he was, prince, wielder of countless affinities, chosen of Ouroboros. But the memory of the Sword Saint’s blade cutting him down again and again silenced the words before they left his tongue.
Instead, he dragged in a breath and raised Zerathis.
The shadows stirred, crawling reluctantly from the blade like black smoke. He tried not to force it, tried to let it flow as Nysha had drilled into him. But patience was not in his blood.
The darkness spilled too fast, a sharp wave instead of a slow seep. It spread across the sand, swallowed the torchlight, and then collapsed in on itself with a violent snap, sending him staggering.
Nysha shook her head. "You’re still pushing. You’re not supposed to command it."
"I command everything," he snapped.
"That’s why you fail."
His grip tightened on the sword. He wanted to lash out, to make her eat those words — but he knew she was right. That knowledge stung worse than any insult.
"Again," she said, softer this time.
He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. He pictured the shadows not as something to wield, but as something to dissolve into. He imagined silence. He imagined not being seen.
The darkness stirred again, softer now. A whisper instead of a roar. It stretched slowly from the blade, creeping across the sand like spilled ink. The torchlight flickered, dimming without extinguishing.
For a moment, the world narrowed, sound muffled, edges blurred, as though everything was being swallowed into stillness.
When he opened his eyes, Nysha was gone.
No, not gone. Hidden. The red of her eyes glinted faintly from the shadows, her form erased completely.
And then he looked down.
His own hand on Zerathis was half-vanished, the edge of it blurred like smoke. His chest tightened. For the first time, he felt it, the shadows weren’t his weapon. They were his cloak.
The moment shattered as his concentration broke. The darkness snapped away, the chamber brightening again. Lindarion staggered forward, chest heaving.
Nysha emerged from the shadow at the wall, her expression unreadable. "Better."
He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "Not enough."
Her lips quirked faintly. "For once, we agree."
The lessons dragged on.
He learned to still his breath, to quiet his mana until the shadows accepted him. When he tried to rush, they rebelled, snapping back in violent bursts that left scars on the walls. When he calmed, they wrapped around him like smoke, erasing not just sight but sound.
The first time he moved through them properly, Nysha tested him.
She stood across the chamber, a dagger in hand. "Strike me."
His lips curled. "Gladly."
He raised Zerathis, letting the shadows seep around him. The chamber dimmed, silence thickening. For a heartbeat, even Ashwing’s lazy tail stopped moving.
Nysha turned sharply, her dagger up, but he was already behind her, Zerathis at her throat.
And then, with a sharp exhale, the shadows collapsed, dumping him back into visibility. He staggered, the blade clattering against her dagger as she deflected at the last instant.
His chest heaved, sweat dripping down his face.
Nysha stepped back, eyes narrowed, but there was something in them he hadn’t seen before. Respect.
"You’re learning," she said softly.
He smirked, though his exhaustion soured it. "I told you. I command everything."
She shook her head. "Not command. This time... you asked."
The words struck him deeper than he wanted to admit.
But it wasn’t only victory. Failure came often, sometimes brutally.
One night, when his control faltered, the shadows consumed too much of his mana at once. They lashed back, a violent recoil that hurled him into the wall hard enough to crack stone. He collapsed, gasping, blood in his mouth.
Nysha rushed to him then, kneeling at his side. Her hands pressed against his chest, mana flowing into him, not light, not fire, but a strange balancing energy that dulled the backlash.
"Idiot," she muttered, voice tight. "You’ll kill yourself before you ever learn."
His lips curled in a bloody grin. "Better me than them."
Her red eyes flared. "That pride will be your death."
He spat blood onto the sand. "So be it."
But even as the pain racked him, he was already thinking of trying again.
Ashwing, for his part, found endless amusement in it all. He often perched on Nysha’s lap or shoulder, watching Lindarion’s struggles with what could only be described as smug delight.
Sometimes, when Lindarion stumbled or fell, the dragon let out a low, throaty chuckle, and sometimes, just sometimes, he offered a faint flicker of smoke or a guiding hiss, as though reminding his master he wasn’t entirely alone in this.
Once, after a particularly bad failure, Lindarion glared at the little creature. "Laugh again and I’ll roast you."
Ashwing flicked his tongue, entirely unbothered, before curling back into Nysha’s lap as if to say: You won’t.
Nysha stroked the dragon absently, her gaze never leaving Lindarion. "Even he knows you push too hard."
Lindarion growled, dragging himself back to his feet. "Then I’ll push harder until it breaks."
Nysha shook her head. "No. You’ll push softer until it bends."
Slowly, painfully, he learned. The shadows became less hostile, less wild. They answered when he whispered, not when he shouted. They erased instead of exploding. They cloaked instead of burning.
And with each step, Zerathis purred louder, as though pleased by his progress.
By the end of the week, Lindarion could cross the chamber unseen, his presence erased until he chose to reveal it. He could silence his footsteps, blur his outline, vanish into the black until only the faint hum of the blade betrayed him.
It wasn’t mastery. Not yet. But it was enough that when he stood before Nysha again, blade in hand, his voice was steady.
Nysha’s lips curved faintly. "Now you’re ready."