CHAPTER 371: NAME

Ashwing’s tail lashed once, a silent reprimand. The little dragon pressed harder against his leg, as though reminding him to stay rooted.

Lindarion straightened, voice even when he spoke again. "Fortify the cavern. Set watches at every tunnel mouth. No torch unlit. No ear deaf to stone shifting." His hand dragged across the parchment, circling the passages. "Maeven will return. Dythrael may not show himself yet, but his shadow will. Be ready to bleed, and bleed together."

The commander nodded, sharp, relief flickering through exhaustion. Orders steadied him more than hope ever could. He gathered the scraps, already barking for men to dig pits, sharpen stakes, stack rubble into barricades.

Nysha stayed where she was, watching Lindarion with a gaze too heavy to ignore.

Finally, she moved closer, her voice a low whisper meant only for him. "You spoke his name as though it belongs to you. Like you’ve carried it for years."

Lindarion’s eyes met hers, cold light glinting. "Because I have."

Her breath stilled, shadows freezing mid-flicker.

"My father told me once," he continued, his tone low, dangerous, "that some enemies never die. They sleep. They wait for the world to rot enough to return. Dythrael is that rot given flesh. Eldorath bled to bind him. And now the leash has slipped."

Nysha’s crimson gaze searched him, suspicion and fear mingling. "And you? Do you mean to finish what your father could not?"

Lindarion’s eyes drifted back to the fire. "What choice do I have?"

Silence stretched. The humans worked, carrying stones, lighting torches, dragging corpses to burn pits. Their murmurs carried: Savior. Prince. Hope. Each word a chain.

Selene’s warmth stirred faintly again, but she did not speak. She waited, patient as ever, for him to call.

Lindarion exhaled, slow. ’Dythrael... the true hand on the leash. If Maeven is smoke, then you are fire. But fire burns everything it touches.’ His jaw clenched. ’And I will not let you burn my blood.’

The cavern roared with the sound of hammer on stone, the hiss of flesh searing in pyres, the low chants of men trying to remind themselves they were alive.

Above it all, Lindarion stood, cloak shadowing his frame, eyes steady, his hand never far from the hilt at his side.

They looked to him as if salvation had flesh.

—

The cavern changed with the weight of a single name. Dythrael. It lingered in the stale air, settling into marrow and stone alike, heavier than the smoke of burning corpses.

Humans moved with new urgency. Men hauled mutant bodies into pits carved into the stone, the smell of burning ichor clawing at throats. Others stacked broken rubble into jagged barricades, makeshift walls meant to funnel an enemy into choke points.

Torches flared in every corner, their flames shaking against damp walls, each one a fragile defense against the dark pressing at the edges.

Lindarion stood apart, his cloak still ragged from battle, shadows clinging faint to his boots as if reluctant to leave.

His sword hummed quietly, not in hunger, but in something worse, patience.

Nysha lingered at his side, arms folded, crimson eyes catching torchlight. Her shadows twitched like restless serpents, coiling and uncoiling at her feet. She hadn’t spoken since her question—"Do you mean to finish what your father could not?"—but her silence pressed harder than words.

Ashwing coiled on a ledge behind him, tail thumping lightly, his slitted eyes following every movement of the humans. He watched them the way predators watch flocks, curious if they would scatter or stand.

The commander approached again, his scarred face drawn tight with exhaustion, yet his shoulders squared with a new weight. Reverence, perhaps, though it tasted bitter. He knelt briefly, as though habit demanded it, then spread more scraps of parchment onto the stone between them.

"Scouts report nothing yet," he rasped, tracing the ink-stains of tunnels with a finger. "But if Maeven serves a master, he will not wait long. We’ve seen their patterns—push, retreat, starve us of ground until there is none left. If this Dythrael is the true hand, then he’s already watching us."

Lindarion’s gaze swept the crude map. Spiderweb tunnels. Narrow chambers. Too many places to bleed out unseen. His jaw tightened. "Watching is not the same as moving. He tests. Measures. Maeven was a leash tug, nothing more."

The commander’s throat bobbed. "And if the leash tightens again?"

"Then it breaks." Lindarion’s hand brushed the hilt at his side, his voice low enough to sting. "Or I do."

The man flinched but nodded, relief hidden poorly behind discipline. Orders meant survival. Doubt was a luxury. He gathered the scraps again, already moving to bark new tasks at the weary men.

The whispers followed. Savior. Prince. Hope. Words more dangerous than blades.

Nysha finally shifted closer, her voice barely a breath, for him alone. "You carry that name like a blade you cannot drop."

He didn’t look at her. His eyes stayed fixed on the fires, the smoke, the hollow faces lit by them. "I carry what I must."

Her gaze sharpened. "You weren’t there when Eldorath faced him, were you?"

His breath caught just slightly. "No."

Nysha tilted her head. "Then how do you know what you fight?"

Lindarion’s lips pressed thin. He remembered his father’s voice, not in council, not in battle, but in the quiet nights when lessons slipped between armor drills. A voice frayed by war, warning him of things he was too young to understand.

"Some enemies never die. They sleep. They wait. If you see him, you turn your blade, Lindarion. You do not reason. You do not kneel. You cut until nothing remains."

He drew in a slow breath, steadying his chest against the ache. "I don’t. Not fully. I only know his shadow."

Nysha’s crimson eyes narrowed. "Shadows deceive."

"They also reveal where the fire stands."

For a moment, silence held between them. Then Nysha turned her gaze away, toward the humans straining under stone loads and smoldering flesh. Her voice was softer when she spoke again. "If your father bled to bind him, and you stand to face him now... then perhaps he was never bound at all."

Lindarion’s jaw clenched, teeth grinding. ’Perhaps. Or perhaps the leash simply slipped. And if it slipped once, it can again.’

[System Notice: Mana Core stabilization—75%.]

The message pulsed faintly at the edge of his sight, then vanished, as if the system itself feared to intrude. His core still throbbed with the cracks of battle, but it held. Barely.

He reached, not aloud, but inward. ’Selene.’

Warmth stirred, not sudden, not sharp, but like a hand laid gently across his chest. Her voice slipped into his thoughts, silk against stone. "I hear you, Master."

’Tell me.’ His eyes scanned the humans, tired, starved, brittle as cracked glass. ’If I use them, if I lead them into his shadow, do they stand a chance?’

Selene’s tone was soft, certain. "You are the chance. Without you, they are kindling. With you, they may burn hot enough to wound. Not to kill, not yet, but to wound."

Lindarion’s breath dragged heavy. ’And if I fall?’

Her warmth pressed closer, steady, unyielding. "Then they fall with you. But Master—" Her voice curved, almost tender. "—you have never been alone. Not then. Not now. Not ever."