And her whisper came, faint as breath: "Master, lead them where the shadows do not look. Build strength before you strike."
He opened his eyes. "South."
The commander frowned. "Why south?"
"Because Maeven’s leash pulls from the east," Lindarion said, his voice steady. "Because the corpses above lay north and west. But south..." He turned his gaze toward the dark tunnels stretching beyond firelight. "South has been silent. Too silent. Which means it hides something worth protecting—or fearing."
The lieutenants muttered. One spat again. "Or it hides nothing. And we waste what little breath we have chasing ghosts."
Nysha’s shadows twitched violently. "Better to chase ghosts than march into the teeth of wolves."
The commander studied Lindarion. His eyes were hard, searching. "If we go south, what do you promise my people? Not dreams. Not riddles. What do you promise?"
Lindarion’s chest ached. He tightened his grip on the sword until its hum bruised his palm. His voice was low, unyielding. "I promise that if your kin yet live, I will tear the chains from their throats myself. And if they are dead, then I will bury the ones who took them in their own ash." ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs, ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴇ ᴠɪsɪᴛ novel·fire.net
The cavern trembled with the weight of his vow. Shadows flared faintly at his feet. The humans flinched, but did not look away.
The commander’s jaw worked. At last, he gave a slow nod. "Then south."
The crowd erupted, fear, hope, fury, despair all tangled in one roar. Some shouted prayers, others curses. Children clung tighter to mothers. Men sharpened dull blades as if the act itself might shield them.
Nysha moved closer to Lindarion, her voice low so only he heard. "You bind yourself with words that will kill you."
His eyes stayed on the fire, unblinking. "Better to be bound by my word than by theirs."
She studied him for a long moment, crimson eyes searching. Shadows curled around her wrists, restless. "And when your word breaks you?"
His grip tightened on the sword. "Then let it break me. But not today."
The council broke hours later, humans scattering to prepare. Fires flared higher, torches lit deeper tunnels, scouts armed with rusted spears vanished into the dark.
Lindarion remained by the fire. Nysha stayed near, silent, her shadows twitching. Ashwing curled at his feet, tongue flicking lazily, though his eyes never left the sword.
The commander lingered last. His voice was low, gravel-thick. "Prince."
"You lead them now," the commander said. His eyes burned with equal parts warning and belief. "Fail, and you kill them all."
Lindarion’s jaw clenched. "Then I will not fail."
The commander searched his face a moment longer, then turned and walked into the tunnels.
Nysha exhaled sharply, shadows flicking like wings. "And so the chains tighten."
Lindarion did not answer. His chest burned with the echo of Selene’s warmth, with the weight of Dythrael’s gaze, with the silence of the land above.
He stared into the fire until the flames blurred.
’South,’ he thought. ’If the land itself hides you, Dythrael, then I will drag you screaming into light.’
The sword hummed faintly, shadows twitching like teeth on a leash.
And in the silence of the cavern, the humans whispered his name like prayer.
The torches bled smoke as they moved south.
The tunnels stretched narrow, walls pressed close with the weight of the world above, the air thick with old damp and the faint tang of ash.
Once, these paths had been nothing but stone arteries, winding routes carved by water and time, used by hunters or smugglers, sometimes refugees fleeing wars they hadn’t the strength to fight. But now, now there was something else.
The stone felt sick beneath Lindarion’s boots, as though the rock itself had learned how to rot.
The humans kept their weapons drawn. Spears scraped stone. A bowstring creaked when the archer flexed his fingers too often.
They weren’t quiet, but fear rarely was. Their commander, Harrow, walked just behind Lindarion’s shoulder, jaw tight, sweat shining through the grime on his brow.
Nysha walked a step to the left, shadows brushing the walls like restless wings, her crimson eyes flicking from fissure to fissure as though expecting the darkness to spit teeth at them.
No one spoke at first. Silence was safer. But silence here felt wrong. It pressed too heavy, too deliberate, as if waiting for something to answer it.
Harrow finally muttered, voice low and rough. "This stretch was clean not a month ago." His grip tightened on the battered sword at his hip. "I’ve walked it myself. Now look."
The walls bore streaks of black, like veins pressed too close to the surface, pulsing faintly when the torchlight brushed them. The ground was slick with patches of residue, as though flesh had melted and reformed in lumps of tar.
And here and there, bones. Not old bones, fresh. Human. A child’s femur cracked down the center. A skull half-melted into the stone as if it had tried to scream itself into the wall.
The soldiers muttered prayers under their breath. None of them dared stop walking.
Nysha’s lips curved faintly, though her eyes were grim. "It spreads fast. Faster than rot, faster than plague. It doesn’t fester. It consumes."
Harrow spat to the side, though it landed on black sludge and hissed faintly. "Two months. That’s all it’s been. Two. And already it’s in every damn tunnel I once trusted."
Lindarion didn’t answer. He kept walking, blade in hand, its dark hum faint but steady. The sword knew hunger, but it also knew patience. Shadows pooled along the edge like coals waiting for wind.
The squad slowed when the tunnel widened into a chamber. Torches flared against the space, showing collapsed crates, old tracks carved into the ground where carts had once rolled.
Smugglers’ den, abandoned long ago. Now it reeked of copper. Blood painted the stone, but not in splatters, streaks, as if bodies had been dragged into the dark.
"Prince." Harrow’s voice broke slightly. He gestured toward the corner.