The cavern ceiling split, entire slabs of stone dropping. Dust swallowed the air. Humans scattered, dragging their wounded deeper into the tunnels. Mutants shrieked, their voices swallowed by rubble.

Maeven caught the blade again, their hands slick with blood as they pushed against each other, shadows and fire bleeding together into something that unmade the air itself.

And then, Lindarion faltered. His body gave one final lurch, then convulsed violently. The sword nearly slipped from his grip. His legs buckled. His vision dimmed, red light fading.

[System Alert: Synchronization exceeded. Vessel collapse confirmed.]

He tasted iron. His chest cracked like glass. Shadows shrieked, desperate to hold him upright, but his flesh betrayed them.

Maeven's grin returned, victorious.

He shoved forward, and Lindarion's body crumpled, pinned against the stone floor. The sword rattled in his hand.

Maeven raised his own clawed fingers for the killing blow.

And then the air shifted.

Not fire. Not shadow. Something colder.

Nysha stepped forward.

Her eyes glowed crimson through the dust, her hands trembling but outstretched. Shadows spilled from her in waves, thicker than before, deeper, darker, laced with something that felt older than the cavern itself.

Maeven paused. His grin faltered, curiosity slipping in.

"You," he said softly. "What are you—"

The shadows snapped.

They tore across the floor, ripping Lindarion's body free from Maeven's grip, cocooning him in tendrils of black. She dragged him back behind her, her knees trembling under the strain but refusing to buckle.

Maeven's pale brows furrowed. His voice sharpened, still calm, but edged. "You would stand in my way?"

Nysha's voice shook, but her words were steady. "If you touch him again, you'll have to go through me."

Silence.

Even the mutants seemed to hesitate, their shrieks dying to whispers.

Maeven tilted his head. Then he laughed, low and soft. "Quaint." He turned his back, cloak dragging fire behind him. "Let him rot. He'll be mine soon enough."

He and his minions receded into the shadows, laughter echoing through the crumbling cavern until it faded into silence.

Dust settled. Stone groaned. Humans sobbed quietly in the wreckage.

Nysha sank to her knees beside Lindarion, pressing her trembling hands against his torn chest, shadows holding him together where flesh had already failed. Her eyes burned.

"Idiot," she whispered, voice breaking. "You'll die before you ever win."

Ashwing slithered closer, folding back into his lizard form, his scales scorched and chipped. He crawled into her lap, curling against Lindarion's side.

The sword lay inches away, still humming faintly, shadows twitching along its length like a starving beast waiting to be fed.

For the first time, Nysha looked at it not with awe, but fear.

—

Dust choked the cavern. The air burned with the taste of stone, copper, and ash. The cries of the wounded echoed faintly, fractured by the dripping dark. Somewhere deeper in the tunnels, humans dragged bodies across rock, voices hoarse, muttering prayers that no god listened to anymore.

Nysha did not move. Her hands pressed to Lindarion's chest, shadows spilling into his body in frantic pulses, knitting flesh where it tore, holding blood where it wanted to escape. His breath rasped shallow, wet, each exhale flecked with red.

Ashwing lifted his little head from Lindarion's side, his slitted eyes glaring at Nysha with something sharper than animal instinct. His tail lashed once, tapping against her wrist as if urging her to hurry.

Her lips trembled. "I'm trying."

Her voice cracked against the silence. She hadn't realized she was speaking aloud until her own words echoed back, too loud in the hollow wreckage.

Lindarion's blood was everywhere. In her palms, soaking into her robe, pooling beneath him in the dirt. And still the sword lay just beside him, twitching faintly, whispering. She could almost feel it watching her.

'Take me.'

Her throat closed. She swore she hadn't heard it with her ears, but the voice pressed against the inside of her skull like teeth gnawing bone. She pressed harder against Lindarion, ignoring it.

Humans were watching.

From the broken tunnels, from behind rubble, their eyes glowed faint in torchlight, wide with suspicion. Their commander, a scarred man with blood dried black across his jaw, stepped forward, sword still drawn, though his hand shook with exhaustion.

"Girl." His voice cracked from smoke and strain. "What… is he?" His blade pointed, not at Lindarion, but at the sword.

Nysha's jaw clenched. Her shadows curled tighter around Lindarion's body. "He's not your enemy."

The commander's eyes flicked to the corpses of mutants scattered across the cavern, bodies cleaved open, melted, torn by shadows that still twitched faintly. His grip whitened.

"Not today," he said. "But tomorrow?"

She didn't answer. Couldn't. The words she wanted, the assurances, felt hollow even in her own mind.

The commander spat blood, dragging his sword back into its sheath. He gave a sharp whistle. More humans emerged, limping, carrying others who bled too much to walk. None of them came closer to her. They kept their distance, circling the shadows that held Lindarion as though the darkness itself would bite.

Nysha lowered her head again, her hair falling in front of her face.

"Stay with me," she whispered to Lindarion. "Don't let it take you."

His lips parted. A faint breath escaped. Blood slipped down his chin.

She bent closer, desperate for any sign.

"…idiot," he rasped. The word was little more than air, but it was there.

Her throat tightened so hard it hurt. She almost laughed, but it came out broken. Her shadows surged, wrapping tighter, forcing blood to slow its escape. He sank back into unconsciousness, but she clung to that single word like a rope against the abyss.

Stone shifted overhead.

The cavern groaned. More cracks raced across the ceiling, pebbles showering down, followed by a slab of rock that crushed one of the mutant corpses with a wet crunch. The humans shouted warnings, dragging their wounded deeper.

The commander barked. "We move! Now! If this place comes down, we're buried."

His eyes cut back to her once, narrowing. "Bring him. Or leave him. But if that sword stirs—"

He didn't finish. He turned away, ushering his people into the tunnels.

Nysha trembled.

Her eyes flicked to the blade. It still hummed, faint but constant, like a heart that didn't need flesh. Shadows twitched along its length, reaching.

Her breath stuttered. For one moment, she thought about touching it.

If she did… she could heal him. She knew it. The weapon carried more than destruction, it carried depth, raw and bottomless. Enough to stitch his life back together. Enough to steady the bleeding.

But it would take her, too.

She forced her gaze away, clutching Lindarion tighter. "Not yours," she whispered to the sword. "Never yours."

Ashwing hissed low, as if in approval. His little claws dug into Lindarion's side, a grounding anchor.

The ceiling gave another violent groan.

Nysha cursed under her breath, gathering what strength she had left. The shadows shifted, forming beneath Lindarion like a stretcher, lifting his limp body. She staggered as she rose, every nerve in her frame screaming with fatigue. Still, she stood.

Humans glanced back from the tunnels, their eyes wary. Some whispered, words she caught in fragments. "Elf." "Weapon." "Demon girl." "Danger."

She ignored them. Her steps were slow, heavy, but each one dragged him closer to survival. Ashwing crawled along her shoulder, eyes sharp, tongue flicking in and out as though scenting the tension that thickened the air.

Behind them, the sword remained.

She hesitated. Just for a moment. Leaving it here would be safer. Leaving it would mean Lindarion might wake without its hunger gnawing him raw.

But her shadows twitched. Not by choice, by instinct. They wrapped the blade, lifting it into the air to follow.

Her heart dropped into her stomach. "No," she whispered. But her shadows did not listen. The sword drifted after them like a chained beast that had already chosen its master.

The humans saw it. Their eyes widened.

The commander barked. "Keep distance! Don't touch it!"

The whispers rose louder. Fear etched deeper into their gaunt faces.

Nysha lowered her head, shadows clenching tighter around the blade, dragging it along whether she wished it or not.

The tunnels swallowed them.

—

Hours blurred. The world became a rhythm of footsteps, dripping water, distant collapses behind. The humans carried their wounded with grim silence, torches flickering against walls that stank of damp and blood.

Nysha followed, slower, her shadows carrying Lindarion and the sword together. Her legs shook with every step. Her hands burned. The hum of the weapon rattled in her skull.

Ashwing never slept. His eyes stayed open, watching, as if daring the blade to move against them.

Finally, the tunnels widened. A hollow opened in the stone, an underground camp, carved from necessity. Fires burned low, smoke clinging thick to the ceiling. Dozens of humans huddled in clusters, children pressed against mothers, men with empty eyes sharpening broken blades.

The commander announced their return, his voice hoarse. The survivors lifted their heads, relief and despair mingling as they saw how few had come back.

Their eyes landed on Nysha. On Lindarion. On the sword.

The whispers began again, harsher now.

"Elf."

"Demon's pet."

"Cursed weapon."

"Don't let them stay."

Nysha's jaw clenched. She kept walking, shadows trembling as she lowered Lindarion onto a flat stone near one of the fires. He didn't stir. His chest barely rose.

She knelt beside him, brushing hair back from his bloodied face with a hand that shook too much to be gentle. Her eyes burned.

The commander approached. His gaze was hard.

"He's dangerous," he said flatly. "That sword is worse."

Nysha's breath caught. "Without him, your people would all be dead."

His lip curled, but he didn't deny it. His eyes dropped to the blade, which twitched faintly where her shadows held it.

"Dangerous," he repeated.

She met his gaze, crimson eyes unwavering. "So am I."

For a long moment, they stared. Then he turned, spitting into the dirt. "Keep him alive if you can. But if that sword moves against us…" His hand brushed the hilt of his blade. "…I'll cut him down myself."

He left her with that promise.

Nysha's shoulders trembled. She bent lower over Lindarion, pressing her forehead to his.

"Wake up," she whispered. Her voice cracked, her shadows fraying at the edges. "Wake up before they decide you're not worth saving."

Ashwing curled tighter against his side. The fire spat weak sparks, the cavern groaned faintly in the distance, and the sword hummed its endless hunger.

And Lindarion did not wake.