The silence after the commander's "Understood" tasted false. Like ash over flame that still smoldered underneath.

Lindarion felt it. Even with his eyes closed, he heard the weight of their breaths shift, the scrape of steel in sheaths, the pulse of fear in their throats. A chamber of cowards, thinking themselves wolves.

The sword in his hand quivered against the stone. Hungry. Demanding. Shadows strained, begging to be let loose.

[System Alert: Vital signs unstable. Neural activity: fragmented. Suggestion—surrender to symbiosis.]

'Not yours,' he snarled inside his own head. His teeth clenched hard enough he tasted blood again. 'Never yours.'

Nysha's hand pressed firmer against him. He almost hated it, the gentleness of it, the reminder that he wasn't gone yet.

"Breathe slower," she whispered. Too soft for the humans. Only for him. "If you tear yourself further, I won't… I won't be able to stitch you back."

Her voice broke on the last words. He forced his chest to obey her. Shallow, steady. Each breath scraping through him like knives.

The commander stepped closer, careful to keep his men behind him. His face was all stone again, but Lindarion heard the question before it was spoken.

"How long until he stands?"

Nysha didn't look up. "That depends on whether you shut your mouth."

A ripple went through the men. Half a dozen hands twitched toward weapons. Ashwing hissed, throat rattling like dry leaves.

Lindarion opened his eyes. The chamber tilted, shadows swimming across his vision. But his gaze cut through it, red and sharp enough to pin the commander in place.

"I stand when I choose," he rasped. Each word dragged with it a thread of shadow curling from his lips like smoke. "Not when you ask."

The commander's jaw flexed, but he gave a single nod. A concession, nothing more.

The torches guttered as if to mark the end of it. The dripping from the ceiling grew louder, falling steady, like a clock marking time none of them owned.

Nysha bent her head low over him again. Her hair fell forward, brushing his cheek. Her whispers came quick, desperate. "You shouldn't have burned yourself that deep. That blade—if you keep feeding it, it'll—"

"Enough." His voice was raw. Too weak to bite, but it silenced her all the same.

Her lips pressed tight. But her hands didn't leave his arm, his chest, the cocoon of shadow around him.

[System Notice: External interference detected. Demon-class entity binding your vitals. Probability of long-term parasitic control: 72%.]

He ignored it. Or tried to.

The humans shifted restlessly. He felt their eyes creep back toward Nysha whenever they thought he wasn't looking.

'They'll never stop,' he thought. 'To them, she's a wolf among sheep. And sheep bite hardest when they think they're cornered.'

His grip flexed on the sword.

Nysha caught it instantly. Her whisper was almost angry this time, as if she could read his intent. "No. Not them. Not now."

Her voice cut sharper than steel. For a heartbeat, it stilled him.

Ashwing crept higher along her shoulder, staring at Lindarion with slit-pupiled eyes. Watching. Judging.

Lindarion exhaled through his teeth. The shadows stilled. But his thoughts burned hotter.

'Maeven still walks. That white-haired carrion has not fallen. If he reaches them again, they will scatter like insects. And yet they look at her, not him, as the threat. Fools. All of them.'

The commander turned, barking orders low to his men. Patrols were set, scouts sent crawling into side tunnels. The air filled with the stink of tired armor and boots scraping stone.

But no one came closer to him. To her.

Good.

The cavern dimmed further as exhaustion gnawed at the edges of his sight. Nysha's hand on him felt warmer, heavier, like it pressed him into the earth.

Darkness tried again to swallow him. The sword whispered, coaxing, promising. Nysha's trembling breath fought it back.

And then—

The ground shook.

Just faint at first. A tremor through stone. Dust rained from the ceiling, pattering against helms and shoulders.

The humans froze. Eyes darting upward, hands tightening on steel.

Lindarion's eyes opened again, red gleam cutting the dark. His lips curled, blood at his teeth.

"…He's not finished."

Nysha stiffened. Her shadows tightened instinctively around him, her mouth parting as if to protest, then closing just as quickly.

Because she felt it too.

That presence. That pressure crawling through the earth toward them. Heavy. Patient. Inevitable.

Maeven.

The commander cursed under his breath, shoving men into formation. The chamber filled with scraping steel, the stomp of boots against stone.

Lindarion pushed against the ground, trying to rise. His arms shook, his ribs screamed, but still he pressed.

Nysha forced him back down. Shadows lashed tight around his torso, pinning him. "You'll tear yourself apart!"

He bared his teeth at her, breath ragged. "Then sew me back together again."

Her eyes blazed red, wet at the edges. "You think I can?"

The ground split with another tremor. Louder. Closer.

The commander barked, voice carrying over the chaos: "Positions! Archers—front line staggered! Shields—angle for the ceiling!"

The humans obeyed, though their fear stank thick enough to choke.

Lindarion's hand slid to the hilt of his sword. Shadows pulsed at his fingertips, ready to leap.

Maeven's voice came then. Low. Mocking. From the stone itself, seeping like rot through the cracks.

"You hide in holes now? Pathetic."

The cavern groaned. Something vast moved above.

Nysha's grip on Lindarion's arm trembled, but held. "If you fight him again now, you'll die."

His eyes locked on hers. Red to red.

"Then I'll take him with me."

The chamber shook again, louder, harder. Screams echoed as debris rained down.

And Lindarion tried once more to rise.

—

The stone cracked.

Not just tremors now, cracks running down the cavern wall like veins splitting open under strain. Dust billowed thick, choking the air, carrying the metallic tang of earth ripped apart.

The torches guttered. Their flames snapped sideways under the pressure of mana, that choking, sour taste of rot and burning flesh.

Maeven was close.

Lindarion felt it before the humans even saw it. That aura, sharp as knives pressed against bone. White fire under ice. A presence that bent the air wrong, dragging all sound into silence.

[System Alert: Hostile entity approaching. Proximity—critical. User combat readiness—below 14%. Estimated survival chance: 3.9%.]

'Shut up,' Lindarion rasped in his head, though he hadn't moved his lips. He couldn't waste breath on words the system would never obey.

Nysha felt it too. Her hands on him shook harder, though her shadows thickened, crawling higher along his ribs, anchoring him like spider silk. "Don't move," she whispered, voice quivering but hard beneath it. "You can't move."

Her command tasted bitter.

"I can." His whisper scraped raw through blood in his throat. His hand still clutched the sword, though his vision blurred red and black. "And I will."

The cavern wall split with a scream of stone, light flooding in where no light should. Not sunlight, something colder, bleached, draining. A pale glow that stung eyes and skin alike.

Maeven stepped through the fracture like a shadow made flesh. White hair slicked back, cloak heavy and untouched by the dust storm swirling around him. His eyes were the worst, pale gray, but lit from within like coals that had forgotten how to die.

He didn't glance at the humans as they raised weapons, nor at the commander shouting orders. His gaze fixed on Lindarion.

And he smiled.

"Still alive," Maeven said, voice silk stretched over steel. "Good. I would have hated to lose the only amusement this wretched continent has offered me."

The commander barked: "Loose!"

Arrows hissed through the air. Fireballs, lances of stone, wind blades, everything they had left surged toward Maeven.

None touched him.

He lifted a hand, slow, lazy, and the air bent. The fire died, stone crumbled mid-flight, arrows dissolved into dust before they reached him.

Mutants stepped out behind him, twisted silhouettes with too many limbs, eyes stitched shut, jaws stretched wider than natural mouths should go. They lurched into the cavern, shrieking, charging the humans.

Steel clashed. Screams rose. Blood sprayed.

Maeven stepped forward through the chaos, unhurried, gaze still pinned on Lindarion.

Lindarion tried to stand. Shadows rose like wings behind him. His ribs screamed, his legs buckled, but the sword hummed hungry at his side.

Nysha forced him down, her face snapping toward him, fury carved into every sharp angle. "You'll die if you—"

"Then let me." His voice was nothing but gravel. "Better to die with my blade drawn than rot in the dark while he—"

[Warning: Neural override attempt detected. Suggestion: yield control for combat efficiency.]

The system's words thundered inside his skull. For one raw second, his vision doubled. He almost saw himself, another Lindarion, rising without hesitation, without fear, without weakness. Shadow and fire, divine light and blood hunger all braided together, a thing made to kill.

'Not yours,' he hissed inward. 'Never yours.'

Maeven stopped only paces away now. His smile widened, too many teeth in too calm a face.

"You think yourself chosen," Maeven said. "You think those shadows are yours to command? No. They are borrowed. And you are dying because of it." His head tilted, like a wolf studying a broken deer. "Give it to me. That blade. You are unworthy of it. I will use it to end this pathetic world's cycle."

The sword in Lindarion's grip pulsed once, sharp, eager.

Nysha's hand clamped down on his wrist. "Don't listen," she breathed, desperate. Her eyes burned red, shadows coiling tighter around him like chains. "He lies. He always lies."

Maeven's gaze flicked to her for the first time. His smile thinned.

"Ah. The stray."

Nysha stiffened, but didn't look away.

Maeven's voice dropped colder. "Do you think binding yourself to him will save you when he dies? Do you think shadows care for loyalty? When his corpse cools, they will come to me. They always return to me."

Nysha trembled, but her grip didn't falter.

Lindarion snarled, forcing himself half up against her hold. His teeth bared red with blood. "You talk… too much."

Maeven's eyes lit. "Then strike me. If you can."

The cavern shook again. Mutants screamed. Humans fought and fell. The commander's orders turned to roars of desperation.

Lindarion pressed his hand to the ground. Shadows surged, bleeding from the cracks like oil. His body screamed, but still he pushed, rising, dragging himself upright one trembling inch at a time.

Nysha's voice cracked sharp with panic: "Stop! You'll break—"

"I already broke," Lindarion growled. His eyes flared red, burning through the haze of weakness. "And I'm still standing."

Maeven laughed softly. "Yes. That's better."

The air between them thickened. Mana warped, shadows twisting into knives, white fire bleeding from Maeven's aura. The cavern howled with the clash of two storms pressing against each other.

Humans staggered back from the force. Some dropped their weapons entirely, crushed by the pressure.

[System Alert: User body integrity compromised. Warning: organ collapse imminent. Estimated time until failure: 43 seconds.]

The numbers meant nothing.

All that mattered was Maeven in front of him.

The sword in his hand.

And the shadows screaming to be unleashed.

He raised the blade.

And the cavern roared.