CHAPTER 464: DRACONIC ESSENCE (2)

The forest murmured, not with wind, but with pulse. The rhythm of something vast and patient, far below.

Nysha approached quietly, her steps soft, her face half in shadow. "You haven’t moved for hours," she said.

"I was listening." Lindarion’s tone was calm, but his golden eyes were unfocused, distant. "The Breath the remnant gave me, it’s not silent. It’s... alive."

"Alive?"

He nodded slowly. "Like a voice, buried deep in ember. It doesn’t speak in words, only... impressions. Memories. Heat."

Ashwing uncurled slightly, blinking up at them. "So you’ve got another voice in your head now? Great. I was feeling left out."

Lindarion almost smiled. "This one doesn’t talk much."

Nysha crossed her arms. "What does it want?"

He was quiet for a moment, fingers tracing the hilt of his blade. "It doesn’t want. It remembers. The dragons didn’t die, they were sealed beneath the world, their breath bound to the roots to feed the World Tree. That’s why the tree lives. It’s why Lorienya stands unburned."

Ashwing frowned. "You mean... the elves built their peace on dragonfire?"

"No," Lindarion said softly. "They built it on sacrifice. The dragons gave their flame willingly, so life could continue."

For a moment, silence pressed between them. The fire hissed softly, embers rising into the canopy like tiny dying stars.

Nysha’s gaze drifted toward the south. "Then if Maeven is waking them..."

"She’ll burn everything," Lindarion finished. "The roots, the forests, the realms. The Breath isn’t meant to exist freely anymore. It will consume what it touches."

Ashwing’s tail flicked again. "And you’ve got one of those Breaths in your chest right now."

"Yes."

"Then we’re walking around with a living torch that might explode."

"Yes."

Nysha sighed, rubbing her temple. "Wonderful."

Lindarion’s lips curved faintly. "You’re getting used to me."

"Or I’ve just stopped trying to make sense of you," she muttered.

He stood then, sheathing his sword, and turned his gaze to the endless trees. The golden light beneath the soil had dimmed to a faint pulse again, but the connection thrummed in his veins, a heartbeat that wasn’t his.

He could feel the world tree’s roots stretching even here, drinking in the lingering echoes of draconic fire. It was... harmonious, in a way. Living flame beneath living wood. Creation and destruction bound in a fragile truce.

And now that truce was shattering.

Ashwing hopped onto his shoulder as Lindarion stepped beyond the firelight. "Where are you going now?"

"To see what lies deeper," Lindarion said. "If the Breath was a warning, there will be others."

Nysha’s voice followed him quietly. "And if the next one doesn’t want to talk?"

"Then I’ll make it listen."

The forest opened into a ravine carved by time and root. Mist hung thick, luminous in places where mana bled through the soil like veins of light. Each step forward sent soft tremors through the ground, as though the forest itself noted his passage.

When they reached the ravine’s heart, Lindarion stopped. A hollow tree stood there, massive, ancient, its trunk split open like the ribs of a titan. The interior shimmered with faint golden light, coiling upward into the canopy.

Lindarion raised a hand. The mark of the Breath on his palm glowed in answer.

The air shifted.

The [System] whispered faintly—

[Detected resonance: Breath Node II – "The Flame’s Whisper."]

[Warning: Draconic resonance threshold approaching instability.]

Ashwing tilted his head. "That sounds bad."

"It’s only bad if I lose control."

"...Oh, great. Comforting."

He stepped forward.

The hollow tree’s light expanded, golden threads spiraling outward, forming shapes, dragons, wings of light, flames unfurling like petals. Voices began to echo faintly, distant and layered.

"We gave our fire to the roots... so life could bloom from ash..."

"But when the last oath breaks, our breath will return, and the stars will burn again..."

The whispers surrounded him, not with menace, but with longing. A memory of warmth turned sorrowful. He could feel their grief, the weight of sacrifice made eternal, their bodies gone but their fire still bound, keeping the world alive.

And then, among the whispers, came one stronger than the rest. A voice deep and resonant, ancient beyond reckoning.

"Child of the Tree and the Flame... why do you bear what was sealed?"

Lindarion answered aloud, the sound of his voice steady against the storm. "Because it was given to me."

The air thickened. The light coalesced into the vague outline of a dragon’s head, enormous and spectral, its eyes like dying suns.

"Given? Then you are chosen, or doomed."

Lindarion’s gaze didn’t waver. "If doom comes with purpose, I accept it."

The dragon’s eyes burned brighter. "You speak like one who remembers pain. Tell me, half-child of shadow and flame, will you bear our burden when the others wake?"

He felt the Breath inside him stir, pulsing once in recognition. "I already am."

The dragon’s massive shape began to fade, but its voice lingered—

"Then learn what you carry, prince of lost oaths. The flame you hold is not destruction, it is choice."

The light dimmed, folding back into the hollow tree until only embers remained, flickering gently like sleeping eyes.

Ashwing’s voice was small. "What did that mean?"

Lindarion turned, his expression unreadable, but the golden gleam in his irises had deepened. "It means the dragons didn’t just give their flame... they gave their will. And that will is waking."

Nysha’s voice drifted from behind them; she had followed silently after all. "And when it does?"

Lindarion looked toward the horizon, where faint crimson clouds gathered beyond the forest’s reach. "When it does," he said softly, "the world will have to decide whether it burns or is reborn."

The wind stirred through the ravine then, carrying the scent of ash and life intertwined. The Breath within him pulsed once more, steady, waiting.

The First Flame was no longer whispering.

It was listening back.

The world outside had gone quiet again. The kind of quiet that came after storms, the kind that made every heartbeat sound too loud. Lorienya slept under pale light, its canopy wrapped in moonlit silver.

The glow from the World Tree reached even here, casting long, soft shadows over the terraces and bridges. But for Lindarion, the quiet offered no peace.

He stood alone on a high platform, eyes fixed on the endless green horizon. His breath fogged faintly in the cool night. Beneath the calm, he could feel it: the whisper in his veins.

The Breath of Flamebound Root. The power that shouldn’t have existed. The world’s pulse now beat alongside his own, but it was growing restless, as though the ancient thing inside him was remembering what it once was.