CHAPTER 289: AFTERMATH (5)

Ashwing snorted softly and lowered his front leg. His body dipped just enough for Lindarion to step forward and climb onto the saddle-shaped spot just behind the horns.

The leather grip was still there. Charred and repaired half a dozen times over the years.

"Same place?" Ashwing asked, wings curling slightly with tension.

"The southern crest. The old ridge above the solar gate."

"Long flight."

"I’ll make it."

He meant they.

Ashwing felt it.

The dragon didn’t reply. He just took two long strides forward, wings pulsing wider with each step.

And then they leapt.

Up.

Wind hit immediately, sharp and cold, but clean. No smoke here. No blood. No echoes of crying children or bleeding soldiers. Just air. Sharp and fast.

Lindarion leaned forward, gripping with his legs, hair snapping behind him like silk on fire.

His coat flared.

His eyes narrowed.

He didn’t speak again.

Didn’t need to.

The land fell away beneath them, trees becoming patterns, tents becoming dots, the camp becoming nothing but shadow and flickering light.

The world stretched.

Ashwing flew hard. Swift. Low at first, then climbing higher as they cleared the last of the valley’s rise. Wings tucked tight for speed. Air peeled off his back like pressure broken loose from stone.

They didn’t talk.

Not for hours.

The system flickered once in Lindarion’s peripheral vision. A dull sign. No sound. No alert. Just a blinking sign that said:

Objective: Unknown

Status: Alignment recalibrating...

Directives: Suspended

He ignored it.

’You’re late anyway,’

he thought, not expecting a response.

He didn’t get one.

Good.

The stars kept moving.

The moon followed like a silent shadow.

And somewhere, still distant, but not unreachable, the stone walls of Solrendel were waiting.

He wasn’t coming back empty-handed.

And he wasn’t asking anyone else for permission

—

The wind cut colder the farther north they went.

Not icy, not biting, just steady. Relentless. Like the world was exhaling one long breath, and they were flying straight into it.

Lindarion kept his head low, body curled against the arch of Ashwing’s neck. The leather grips were warm under his fingers, worn soft by years of use.

He didn’t look down much anymore. The land below had blurred into shades of shadow and snowless dirt, and then, finally, into green again, thickening forests, ridgelines he hadn’t seen since boyhood.

He didn’t say a word.

Neither did Ashwing.

Not until the horizon shifted.

"You still awake?" the dragon asked, voice calm in his mind.

’Barely.’

"I can feel your core flickering. You need to rest."

’I can’t.’

Ashwing grunted quietly through the bond. Not a real protest. Just acknowledgment.

They kept flying.

Hours.

The stars changed.

The air grew thinner.

Not because of altitude, but pressure.

Like the sky itself was bracing for something.

And Lindarion felt it too.

Something was off.

He didn’t feel his mother’s presence. Not even faintly. The castle wards always left a hum in the mana for those attuned to it. He had been raised with that pulse like a second heartbeat. Now it was gone.

’Dead mana. Too still.’

He shifted slightly, wincing as the motion tugged old bruises.

Ashwing dipped slightly to adjust for the sudden change in weight.

They didn’t need to talk.

They both felt it.

A silence deeper than quiet.

The kind that grew in the wake of violence.

Lindarion narrowed his eyes, trying to pierce the cloud line ahead. His heart ticked faster. Not fear. Not quite anger.

Something worse.

He lifted one hand, and divine mana sparked faintly at the tips of his fingers. Just enough light to cut a narrow path ahead.

But it didn’t help.

The clouds were too thick.

Not storm clouds. Smoke.

Ashwing’s voice again. This time lower. Careful.

"We’re close."

’I know.’

He adjusted the angle of descent. The old ridgeline was near. The one just above the Solar Gate. The city was supposed to open beneath them like always, rows of glimmering towers rising out of the mountain, sun-crystal roofs catching even starlight.

It didn’t.

Lindarion leaned forward as they dipped under the lowest mistline.

And then he saw it.

His home.

Burning.

Not a section.

Not a single quarter.

The whole city.

Fire along every ridge. Smoke rising from the high courtyards. Black scorch lines where the outer towers once stood proud.

The northern gardens, gone. The great Sun Mirror cracked in two. Light still flickered off one side, but the reflection was wrong, warped by ash.

He blinked once.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t breathe.

Ashwing hovered just above the outer wards, wings holding steady.

The system flickered again in his peripheral vision.

Update Detected.

Location Status: Compromised

New Prompt: [Would you like to assess casualty projections?]

Lindarion didn’t answer it.

He didn’t even move.

His grip on the leather tightened, knuckles white.

Ashwing turned his head slightly.

"Lindarion?"

’...They’re inside the city.’

He wasn’t guessing.

He felt it.

The same pressure from the capital.

The same rot underneath the mana flow.

And something else.

Something deeper.

He looked toward the inner circle, where the queen’s tower used to cast its light across the valley. It was just smoke now. And ruin. And silence.

His jaw set.

He didn’t speak again.

Not yet.

They hovered above the ruins of home.

And the fire kept spreading.

—

Ashwing circled once above the outer walls.

Or where the walls used to be.

From up here, they were nothing but melted stone and shadow, collapsed battlements half-swallowed by flame.

The wards that once shimmered faintly against the sky were gone, leaving only flickers, like dying sparks from a crushed lantern.

Lindarion didn’t speak.

He just watched.

The sun was rising behind them, but its light didn’t reach this far into the valley. Not clearly. The smoke choked the warmth before it could touch anything.

Below, the streets of Solrendel curled inward like a spiral, leading to the Sun Spire at the center.

Or what was left of it.

It looked like a sword had been driven through the castle’s heart.

Part of the east wing was collapsed entirely, and fire chewed through what remained of the High Library.

The gardens were gone.

The market towers, reduced to slag and ash.

But it was the silence that struck hardest.