CHAPTER 370: PLANNING (4)

Selene stirred faintly at the back of his mind, not speaking, only lending warmth like a hand pressed over a bleeding wound. Lindarion didn’t summon her voice. Not yet. He didn’t need reassurance, only steel.

The humans exchanged fearful glances. Some muttered prayers under their breath. Others gripped their blades tighter, as if steel could shield them from the weight of a name older than their bloodlines.

Nysha finally spoke, her voice low, taut. "If Dythrael moves behind all of this, then Maeven is only the smoke before the fire. You knew this."

Lindarion’s gaze locked with hers. "I’ve known since the first corpses twisted into beasts. Maeven has rage, but no craft. Only a leash could teach him to break flesh that way. And only one leash has ever taught it."

Nysha’s shadows writhed against the stone, restless, hungry. "And you—what is your plan? Strike at the dog while the master waits?"

"Maeven will fall because he stands in my path," Lindarion answered, his voice sharp as a drawn blade. "But Dythrael..." His eyes narrowed. "Dythrael waits. He wants me to bleed for every inch. He wants me to believe the war is against his mutt. But I see the leash. And I will cut it."

The commander blanched. "You speak as if you’ve faced him before."

"I haven’t really," Lindarion said, sheathing the blade with a clean motion. "But my father did. And my father bled for it."

The words fell heavy. None dared to speak after them.

Lindarion strode past the stunned silence, his cloak brushing stone, his steps a measured rhythm of resolve. He would not let them drown in their fear. Let them believe he carried certainty, even if every breath scorched with strain.

Nysha followed, her shadows silent, but her eyes never leaving him. She had seen the hollowness beneath his composure. She had heard the edge in his voice when he said the name.

Selene’s warmth pulsed once more, soft and patient. If he called her, she would answer. But for now, he bore the name alone.

Dythrael.

The one behind the leash.

The one who had never fallen.

The one waiting in the dark, smiling as his hound tore at the world.

And Lindarion knew, Maeven was not the true war.

The true war had yet to begin.

—

The cavern did not breathe after that name. Even the fires seemed to gutter low, shadows swelling along the walls as if listening. Dythrael. The syllables slithered across stone and flesh alike, a curse older than the cavern, older than the tongues of men.

The commander’s jaw flexed, his knuckles whitening against his sword hilt. The men behind him muttered, each syllable half-prayer, half-denial. They wanted to treat it as superstition, a tale to frighten children by torchlight. But their marrow betrayed them; their bodies knew the weight of predators, even those unseen.

Lindarion stood at the cavern’s heart, eyes steady. His breathing was still ragged from above, but he hid the ache behind his composure. The humans needed a blade, not a man. They needed something to kneel to, not someone to pity.

Nysha was the first to break the silence. Her voice was low, words woven with iron. "If Dythrael guides this, then nothing you do here matters. Walls won’t hold. Blades won’t cut deep enough." Her eyes gleamed crimson in the firelight, and her shadows spread thin across the cavern floor like smoke. "You know that, don’t you?"

Lindarion’s hand brushed against his sword, his grip steady. "I know."

The commander snapped his gaze toward him, his scarred face taut with disbelief. "Then why not run? Why not flee these tunnels before he looks this way?"

Lindarion turned, his cloak dragging stone dust as he walked closer. His eyes locked on the commander, sharp and unyielding. "Because running only feeds him. Dythrael does not chase—he waits. Every step you think buys safety, he has already taken from you. Flee, and you run into his teeth."

The man swallowed hard, but he didn’t look away. "And you believe you can stand against him?"

Lindarion’s lips curled, not quite a smile, not quite a snarl. "I don’t need to believe. I only need to cut until he bleeds."

Whispers rippled through the humans again, their voices jagged, fraying into the cavern’s edges. Savior. Prince. Hope. They spoke it like a spell, desperate to bind themselves to his defiance.

Nysha’s gaze never left him. She saw what the others did not: the cracks beneath the iron. The ache in his chest, the shadow of exhaustion gnawing at his frame. But she said nothing, because she also saw the way they looked at him. As though his spine alone held up the ceiling above their heads.

Lindarion turned, surveying the camp. Fires sputtered, men carried stones to shore up walls, women wrapped wounds with strips torn from cloaks. They moved now with a feverish rhythm, spurred not by command, but by survival tied to a single figure. Him.

He let them move. He let them believe. Then he found a flat stretch of stone near the firepit and lowered himself to one knee. Ashwing slithered from his shoulder to curl against his lap, the little dragon’s scales still scorched, but his eyes unblinking.

The commander followed, hesitant, as if stepping into a circle that belonged to someone far above his station. He knelt opposite, laying out scraps of parchment and a shard of charcoal. Maps, if the word could be stretched to fit. Jagged lines traced tunnels, caverns, dead-ends.

"Maeven’s forces come from here," the man rasped, stabbing at one inkblot. "A collapsed mine. We’ve seen them pour from it for months. But if... if this Dythrael commands him, then perhaps the mine is nothing but a kennel."

"Perhaps," Lindarion said softly. He scanned the markings. The tunnels bled into one another, a spider’s web of dark arteries. Easy to get lost. Easier to be swallowed.

The commander’s jaw clenched. "We’ve hidden, fought, run. We can’t do it anymore. If you want us to strike, say it. If you want us to dig, say it. But give us something more than fear."

Lindarion leaned back, letting the fire’s smoke sting his eyes. ’They want certainty from a blade held together by cracks.’ His fingers brushed the hilt at his side. The hum of the sword pulsed faint, restrained. He hadn’t called Selene, not yet, but her warmth lingered like a heartbeat in the background of his mind.

’Father faced him.’ The memory rose unbidden, sharp as glass. ’And he bled. If even he could not cut Dythrael down, what am I? What do they see when they look at me?’