CHAPTER 372: MEETING

The ache in his chest eased slightly. Not healed, but steadied. He let the warmth linger, then exhaled, sending her back to sleep. She receded willingly, silent once more, leaving only her echo.

The humans had begun chanting as they worked. Not songs, not hymns, just guttural syllables, names, fragments of words that gave rhythm to the labor. The sound throbbed through the cavern walls like a pulse, as if the stone itself now bore witness.

Nysha’s shadows twitched at the cadence. Her voice was low, bitter. "They think you’ll lead them to a dawn they’ll never see."

Lindarion’s eyes stayed on the flames. "Then I’ll make sure they see it anyway."

"Even if it kills you?"

His hand tightened on the sword. "Especially if it kills me."

She stared at him, crimson eyes burning, but said nothing more. Shadows curled tighter around her, silent wings refusing to take flight.

Hours bled into one another. The humans worked without sleep, as though exhaustion were a luxury their fear would not permit. Barricades rose. Corpses burned. Tunnels bristled with sharpened stakes and pits slicked with oil.

And above it all, Lindarion stood, unblinking, every whisper, every kneeling form binding tighter around his frame.

’Dythrael.’ His thoughts whispered the name like steel drawn from a sheath. ’I have not seen your face in a while, only your leash. But I know your shadow. And I will cut until nothing remains.’

The cavern thrummed with smoke, sweat, and faith. The humans no longer looked at him with suspicion. No longer whispered of cursed blades or demon girls.

They looked at him as if he were winter fire, hungry, dangerous, but the only warmth left to them.

—

The cavern stank of oil and smoke. Every fire snapped at the dark, every wall bristled with the makeshift teeth of men too desperate to know fear. Humans hammered spikes into stone with bare fists, bleeding knuckles against rock.

Others dragged mutant carcasses into piles and poured pitch across them, lighting pyres that filled the tunnels with choking fumes. Children wept softly in the corners, but no one stopped. Exhaustion had no place here. Faith burned hotter than fatigue.

Lindarion stood above it all, back rigid, eyes fixed on the tunnel mouth that led upward. His chest still ached from Maeven’s claws, each breath like glass dragged through lungs, but he would not sit. He would not let them see him falter.

The whispers followed him wherever he moved.

"Savior."

"Prince."

"Hope."

They thought the word had weight. To him it was dust.

Nysha lingered at the edge of the firelight, shadows curling around her ankles like restless hounds. Her crimson eyes cut toward him every time another human knelt, every time another voice rose with reverence. Her silence was a warning sharper than any blade.

Lindarion ignored it.

At last, when the barricades stood and the tunnels quieted into a rhythm of breathing bodies, he left the cavern. No one stopped him. They parted before him, as if his shadow demanded it.

The air above ground reeked worse than the caverns.

He stepped into ruin.

The night sky hung choked by smoke, stars drowned in the haze of burning villages. Fields that once fed cities were charred wastelands, their stalks reduced to brittle ash.

Corpses littered the dirt paths, men, women, children, all left where they had fallen. Some were human, others twisted, half-mutant, their bones warped by whatever poison Dythrael had sown into this land.

The wind carried the stench of rot.

Lindarion’s boots crunched over brittle remains. A doll lay half-buried in the dirt, one glass eye cracked, its dress stiff with dried blood. He passed it without pause.

The silence here was worse than the chaos below.

’So this is what you leave in your wake, Dythrael.’ His thoughts were steel, sharp and bitter. ’Not conquest. Not war. Desecration. Feeding the earth carrion until it chokes.’

He moved further down the road, past the corpses, past the empty huts collapsed into ash.

The wind shifted, carrying a murmur. At first it was nothing but air through charred rafters, but then, words. Faint, indistinct, like a whisper breathed directly into the marrow of his bones.

"...Sunblade..."

He stopped.

His hand slid to the hilt. Shadows rippled along the sword, answering.

"...little prince of Eldorath..."

The voice curled around him, old, mocking, far too calm for a battlefield.

Lindarion’s jaw clenched. He did not summon Selene. Not yet.

"You finally crawl from the dark," he said aloud, his words slicing the silence. "Show yourself, coward."

A laugh drifted across the field. Not Maeven’s manic rasp, not the shrieking glee of mutants, but something deeper. It carried weight that pressed the air flat, a sound too heavy to belong in a ruined village.

And then he saw him.

Atop the blackened ridge stood a figure. Tall, straight-backed, clothed not in rags or armor but simple robes that the firelight refused to cling to. His hair was pale now, nearly white, his face too perfect, too human, save for the eyes. They glowed faintly, silver on black now, depthless pits that seemed to drink the stars themselves.

Dythrael.

Maeven’s leash. The true rot in this world.

Lindarion’s fingers dug into the hilt until the leather bit his palm. The shadows in the sword strained, eager.

"You hide behind lapdogs and broken beasts," Lindarion spat, his voice low. "Do you fear me so much that you will not soil your hands?"

Dythrael smiled. A soft, measured curl of lips, almost gentle.

"Fear you?" His voice carried across the distance without strain, smooth as still water. "No, little prince. I do not fear broken glass. I admire it. How it cuts so sharply before it shatters."

The words slid cold through Lindarion’s chest.

"You will not speak of me as though I am a toy." Shadows flared around him, curling like wings ready to strike. "Maeven was a mutt. You are the hand that held his chain. That makes you mine."

Dythrael tilted his head, as though considering the claim. "Yours? No. I am no one’s." His smile deepened. "But you—you are mine. You always were, Lindarion Sunblade. From the moment your bloodline was blessed with mana it could never master, you were walking toward me."

The sword in Lindarion’s hand hissed. His core pulsed, pain spiderwebbing through his ribs, but he held fast.

"You will learn," he growled, "that Sunblades are not yours to leash."