CHAPTER 369: PLANNING (3)

Nysha flinched at the coldness in his tone.

Ashwing’s tail lashed once, a crack against stone. His little head lifted, eyes narrow, nostrils flaring as if scenting something beyond the corpses. A growl rumbled in his chest.

Lindarion turned his head slightly. "What is it?"

Ashwing gave a sharp hiss.

The soldier behind them scrambled backward on hands and knees, eyes widening. "They’re—gods, they’re moving—!"

At the crater’s edge, one of the corpses twitched. Then another. Broken spines cracked as heads jerked upright, jaws slack, black ichor spilling like tar. Eyes glowed faintly, not alive, not dead. Maeven’s leash still clung even in ruin.

The soldier screamed.

Lindarion raised his blade.

Shadows surged eagerly up the steel, humming like a heartbeat. He stepped forward, the edge singing through the air. The first corpse’s head separated from its neck in a single motion, black smoke spilling as it collapsed. Another lurched toward him, limbs bending wrong, a gurgle scraping from its throat.

He cut it down just as swiftly.

More stirred.

Dozens.

The square erupted in the sound of bone scraping stone, tendons tearing as bodies dragged themselves upright, their flesh unwilling, their souls long gone.

Nysha cursed under her breath, shadows flooding outward to form a wall between the soldier and the shambling dead. Her eyes darted to Lindarion. "We should fall back—"

"No." His voice cut like steel.

He advanced, each step measured, sword humming darker with every corpse it devoured into silence. Ashwing leapt from his shoulder, scales rippling, form expanding midair until wings spread wide, fire spilling from his jaws to incinerate a line of crawling dead.

The stench was suffocating. Burned flesh, rotted blood, smoke.

Nysha’s shadows tore the limbs from two that had slipped around Ashwing’s flames. Their bodies twitched still, fingers clawing at the ground even without hands.

"This isn’t resurrection," Lindarion muttered, slicing another in half. "This is waste. Strings pulled on meat too broken to hold."

Nysha’s face was pale, sweat streaking through dust. "Then why?"

"To break morale. To show nothing stays buried." His eyes narrowed, his sword cleaving three more corpses in a single sweep. "To remind them that even death will not spare them from his hand."

The soldier behind them sobbed.

More corpses rose. Too many. A tide of broken flesh, crawling, dragging, gnashing.

Lindarion’s chest burned. His core throbbed with strain. His vision sparked faint red at the edges.

’Selene.’

Warmth answered instantly, sliding through his veins like balm. Her voice stirred soft in his mind. "Yes, Master."

’Lend me strength. Just enough to clear this filth.’

"Of course."

The sword’s hum deepened, resonance shifting from hunger to purpose. Shadows poured thicker, swallowing the edge until it was no longer blade but a streak of night itself.

Lindarion swung.

The air tore.

Dozens of corpses fell in halves, their black ichor evaporating before it touched the ground. The square shook with the force of the strike, rubble scattering, fire guttering in the sudden vacuum of sound.

Silence pressed again.

One by one, the remaining corpses crumpled, their strings cut, their hollow eyes dimming at last.

Lindarion stood at the crater’s edge, blade humming softly, shadows licking along his arm like fading whispers. His breath came sharp, but his stance never faltered.

Nysha exhaled shakily, wiping sweat from her brow. Her eyes darted to him, unreadable. Fear. Relief. Both.

Ashwing landed beside him, shrinking back to his lizard form, claws clicking against stone. His tail curled protectively around Lindarion’s boot.

The soldier was still on his knees, staring with wide, hollow eyes. He whispered hoarsely, "You... you are more than a prince."

Lindarion ignored him. His gaze swept the broken square one last time, then turned toward the horizon, or what passed for one in a world choked by ash. Black clouds rolled low, and in their depths, faintly, a pulse of red light throbbed.

Maeven.

His hand tightened on the hilt until leather creaked.

’This is only the edge of his game.’

"Yes," Selene murmured in his mind, her warmth steady against the cold that clung to him. And games always end, Master. One way or another.

Lindarion turned back toward the stair, his voice low but carrying. "We return. This was nothing but a warning. He wants me to see what waits."

Nysha lingered for a moment longer, her eyes on the corpses that lay still at last. Then she followed.

The soldier scrambled to his feet, tripping over himself to keep behind Lindarion.

The surface fell silent once more, broken only by the crackle of dying fires.

But the red light in the clouds pulsed again, faint, mocking, patient.

Maeven was waiting.

And Lindarion knew, this was just the beginning.

—

The wind shifted as Lindarion descended back into the cavern, the reek of ash clinging to his cloak like a second skin.

The humans rushed forward when they saw him, their eyes wide, frantic, searching for wounds they could not see. Nysha’s shadows coiled tighter about her as she slipped past them, silent, crimson eyes still locked on the memory of corpses dragging themselves from the dirt.

Ashwing curled against Lindarion’s neck again, but the little dragon’s body was taut, restless.

Lindarion’s boots echoed until the commander met him halfway. "What did you see?" the man asked, voice strained, as though he already knew the answer.

Lindarion’s gaze cut through him. "Maeven’s filth, but not his will. He doesn’t own this game."

The commander stiffened. "Then who—"

Lindarion lifted a hand, silencing him. His eyes gleamed with something harsher than firelight. "Dythrael."

The name itself carried weight, rolling across the cavern like an old scar reopening. The humans recoiled, though most did not know why. Instinct alone whispered the truth to their bones. Nysha froze, shadows trembling around her ankles, her lips parting as though the name itself burned.

The commander swallowed hard. "I’ve... I’ve heard that name in the old stories. A demihuman, they said. The gods’ half-blood. A myth."

"Myth?" Lindarion’s laugh was low, humorless. "No. A butcher who outlived every leash that ever tried to chain him. Maeven is his hound. Nothing more."