CHAPTER 287: AFTERMATH (3)

Lindarion didn’t respond.

Didn’t move.

The flap lifted again, just a ripple this time, but it wasn’t one of the generals. Just another runner. A messenger. Younger than him, maybe, though the lines around the boy’s eyes said he’d seen too much in too little time. The satchel at his hip looked too heavy for how fast he was moving.

He tried to walk past.

Lindarion stepped into his path.

"Where’s that going?" he asked, voice quiet.

The runner stiffened. "It’s for Commander Jaren."

"What is it?"

"I’m not allowed to say."

Ashwing clicked his claws together. "Oof."

Lindarion didn’t blink. "Let me see it."

"I—I can’t. Sorry, sir. Strict orders."

Lindarion tilted his head slightly.

No malice.

Just... intent.

"Who gave you the order?"

"Colonel Varic."

"So not a king," Lindarion said, and before the boy could back up or protest, Lindarion’s hand shot forward.

He didn’t snatch. He didn’t shove.

He just took.

The satchel slipped off the boy’s shoulder in one practiced motion. He opened it with a single pull.

"Sir, please—" the boy tried.

Too late.

Lindarion unfolded the letter.

The seal wasn’t familiar.

But the words—

He stopped breathing for half a beat.

"Confirmed incursion at Solrendel. Perimeter shattered. Courtyard compromised. Queen Melion missing. King Eldrin severely wounded, recovering under high guard. All forces advised to stand by. Awaiting further directive from Sylvarion command."

His hands tightened on the parchment.

Not shaking.

But close.

Ashwing stilled on the post, wings slightly raised. "Lindarion."

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t lower the paper.

Didn’t look at the boy who was now taking a visible step back.

’Solrendel. My mother. Father—’

He shoved the letter into the runner’s chest without ceremony. The boy took it, pale and wide-eyed.

Then Lindarion turned toward the tent and walked in without asking.

No announcement.

No warning.

Just a sudden tearing of the flap and boots on hardened ground.

The warleaders inside didn’t stand. Some flinched. A few drew halfway to attention before realizing who it was.

Jaren, seated near the middle, rubbed his temple slowly as he looked up.

"Lindarion—"

"Solrendel was attacked," Lindarion said, voice flat. "My mother is gone."

A beat of silence.

"You weren’t going to tell me?"

Jaren let out a breath. "We just got the report."

"That’s not an answer."

"It was incomplete. We didn’t want to—"

"Didn’t want to what?" Lindarion snapped, stepping further in. "Distract me? Keep me calm? I’m not one of your soldiers."

"No, you’re not," Jaren said. He stood slowly. His tone was even. Not angry. But firm. "You’re worse. You’re emotional. And right now, we can’t afford you losing control—"

"You don’t think I’m already out of control?" Lindarion’s voice dropped. "You’ve seen what’s happened to the world outside these tents. And now they’ve gone for my home."

He jabbed a finger at the table. "You all sat here talking about timelines and fallback points while Dythrael—yes, I know the name now—burned through my family’s estate. What exactly were you planning to do?"

"Wait," another general said. Lindarion didn’t know him. "Gather intel. Strike once we know where the rift originated—"

"You’re always waiting."

The silence that followed that wasn’t loud.

It was quiet in the worst way.

Jaren met his gaze across the table.

"Sit down," he said finally. "We’re not your enemy."

Lindarion didn’t move.

Ashwing’s claws clicked again from outside.

’If they won’t act...’

He didn’t finish the thought.

But the warmth gathering in his core said enough.

Too much.

Too far.

Too fast.

And still not fast enough.

—

The silence cracked.

Then—

A chair shifted near the far end of the war table. Someone leaned back, just slightly, the legs of their seat dragging against the ground with an easy scrape. Not a threat. Just... bored. Or pretending to be.

The man was tall. Human, probably in his late forties, judging by the gray at his temples. He wore his uniform differently than the others, not stiff, not tight.

Sleeves rolled up, one hand lazily circling the rim of a tin cup. Scar down one cheek, nose crooked like it’d been broken and never set right. A faint burn mark rode high on his jawline, almost under his ear.

He arched a brow at Lindarion. "So this is the Sunblade kid, huh?"

Jaren didn’t answer.

The man clicked his tongue and leaned forward, resting both elbows on the table. "Name’s General Taron. Command the northern border legions. Seen your father in action twice. Stubborn bastard." He gave a lopsided smirk. "You take after him."

Lindarion didn’t speak.

Didn’t nod.

Didn’t care.

To Taron’s right sat a woman whose armor still had soot smeared into the grooves. Black breastplate, sleeves sleeveless.

She didn’t bother with a rank insignia, but her arms were corded with muscle, and a long braid hung over one shoulder like a coiled whip.

She barely looked at him. Just said, "You storm in like a bomb and expect us to follow your pacing?"

Jaren sighed. "That’s General Rhessa. Mountain command. She’s not much for diplomacy."

"Diplomacy," Rhessa muttered, "won’t hold a swordline."

To her left, across the circle, sat a smaller man. Thinner. Bookish. Silver spectacles perched perfectly on his nose, untouched by ash or sweat. He was the only one who hadn’t looked up since Lindarion walked in.

He spoke without lifting his eyes. "You say you’ve seen this creature. Dythrael. Confirm it wasn’t an illusion?"

Lindarion’s eyes narrowed. "You think I imagined it?"

"I think we can’t afford assumptions," the man replied flatly. Then, adjusting his glasses, he finally glanced up. "Strategist Halren. I work directly under the High Command’s arcane research division."

Lindarion almost laughed. "You don’t fight, do you?"

"No," Halren replied, unbothered. "I live."

The fourth and final warleader didn’t speak at all.

He stood by the map, arms folded, long coat half-buttoned, dirt still caked around his boots. An old scar ran from the edge of his eye into his brow, nearly splitting it in two.

His hair was pale blond. His eyes were darker than they should’ve been, like steel dulled under pressure.