On the twelfth day, Faylen made his move.

He stood before the soldiers in the largest cavern, his voice carrying strong despite the smoke.

"We cannot wait for salvation that will never come. Lindarion is dead. The gods are silent. If we sit here, we will wither. But if we march, we may yet carve our way to freedom. Who will follow me?"

A murmur spread. Dozens stepped forward. Not all out of loyalty, many out of desperation. Anything was better than the dark.

Ydrien rose to stop him, her body trembling with fatigue. "March into death, if you will. But you'll drag hundreds with you."

"Better that," Faylen spat, "than let them rot in your false hope."

For the first time, steel rang in the council chamber. Thariel drew her sword, blocking Faylen's path.

"No," she said, her voice like stone. "You leave, you leave alone. These people need unity, not madness."

The cavern erupted in shouts. Blades half-drawn. Soldiers torn between hunger, hope, and despair.

It did not come to blood, not yet. But the fracture was complete.

—

The days dragged.

Food shrank further, now mere crumbs and thin broth. Men fought in the dark over scraps, teeth bared like beasts. The sick bay overflowed, moans filling the air. Corpses piled at the far tunnel mouth, waiting for disposal none dared risk.

The soldiers stopped whispering of victory.

They whispered only of death.

—

The stone ceiling of the cavern dripped. Cold water struck the dust, hissing as if the earth itself whispered secrets. Lindarion sat cross-legged, the blade, that cursed gift of a god, resting across his lap, silent, patient, like a predator pretending to sleep. Shadows clung to his shoulders even when the fire was near; it unnerved the others, but Nysha had grown used to it, though her eyes still flickered there when she thought he wasn't watching.

She stood at the mouth of the chamber now, hesitant, fingers worrying the hem of her robe. The dim torchlight carved her cheekbones sharper than they were, and for a moment, Lindarion thought she looked older than the soft-voiced girl who had dragged him from death weeks ago. Her silence pressed against him heavier than her words ever could.

"You've been hiding something," he said, voice low, as though the cavern itself was listening.

Her breath hitched. A beat, then two. She finally stepped forward, kneeling just inside the circle of firelight. Her eyes, red as blood drawn fresh, locked with his.

"They came," she whispered. "Your people. The humans. They've been attacked."

The fire snapped, and Ashwing, still in his diminutive lizard form, stirred in her lap where he had been curled. He flicked his tongue against her wrist like he sensed the tremor in her pulse.

Lindarion's hand tightened on the sword. Not enough to draw blood, not yet, but enough to leave pale lines across his knuckles.

"Attacked." The word was almost a growl. "By what?"

Her eyes dropped. The hesitation was answer enough.

"Speak."

"Mutations," she said at last. "Not demons. Not wholly. Twisted… like flesh turned inside out, like mana burned wrong. They swarmed the human towns. The strong held for a time. But—" she swallowed, her throat trembling in the firelight, "—your Evernight Academy fell first. Then the others. The survivors flee underground. Their leaders… desperate. Fractured."

A silence stretched. The cavern seemed to lean closer, waiting for his reaction.

[Warning: Emotional instability detected. Heart rate accelerating.]

The system's voice cracked across his skull, useless, unwelcome. He ignored it, eyes narrowing at Nysha.

'Humans. Fallen already. And the rest of the elves? Do they think themselves untouchable? Do they wait for the fire to reach their roots?'

He rose slowly, cloak whispering against the stone. The shadows thickened behind him, writhing like smoke caught in windless air.

"You should have told me sooner," he said. No heat, no fury, but the calm that bled from his tone was colder than rage.

Nysha flinched anyway, then straightened, lips pressed thin. "You weren't ready. You can barely stand against one saint of my people. If you left then, you would have died. And not even I could have—" She cut herself short, pressing her mouth shut, her hand on Ashwing to steady herself.

The lizard draconic eyes blinked up at Lindarion, unblinking, knowing.

'She fears for me. Or fears losing her tether. No matter. The world burns while I sharpen a blade.'

He stepped closer until the firelight threw his shadow over her. Her red eyes lifted, searching, pleading maybe, but he saw only the reflection of his own darkness there.

"Show me where," he said. "If the humans fall, all of the elves will follow. And if the elves fall, so too will your kind. We are all tinder now."

Her lips parted, closed, then opened again, a soft tremor escaping her throat. "…You're not ready."

Lindarion leaned down, close enough she could feel the cold rolling off him. "I was not ready the day I first drew steel. Readiness means nothing. War waits for no man, no elf, no demon." His hand came down hard on the pommel of the sword. The sound rang through the cavern like a warning bell.

The shadows bent. The fire guttered low. And in the suffocating silence that followed, Ashwing lifted his tiny head and hissed.

[Quest Update: Investigate Human Losses – Optional Objective. Failure will lead to irreversible consequences.]

Lindarion ignored the flickering text. His gaze did not move from Nysha, who swallowed once, then twice, before she nodded, small, reluctant, but inevitable.

"I'll take you to the edge," she whispered. "No further. You'll see the smoke for yourself."

Lindarion straightened, sliding the sword back under his coat. The blade pulsed faintly, hungry, as though it too had heard the news and longed for blood.

'So be it. If the world has already begun to collapse, then I will carve through its ruins.'

Without another word, he turned for the cavern's exit, the sound of dripping water still echoing in the hollow behind him like a clock counting down.

Nysha ran behind Lindarion making him stop in his tracks.

The shadows bent at her call, her voice steady as she drew symbols in the air, her hands shaking just slightly. The darkness rippled like a pool disturbed, edges unstable, hungering.

"Just stay still and close to me," she whispered, pressing her palm against the back of his hand. "I'll hold the weave together. If you drift too far, you'll be torn apart in the space-between."