CHAPTER 467: JOURNEY (1)

The first three days passed beneath endless green.

From the air, Lorienya stretched like a living ocean, layers of forest stacked upon forest, each older and stranger than the last.

The canopy glittered in shifting tones of gold and emerald, breathing with quiet life. Yet as Lindarion and Ashwing flew further south, the hues began to dull. The light grew colder. The veins of the trees turned gray where they should have pulsed with blue.

Ashwing glided low, his great wings slicing through mist that clung to the roots like a sleeping tide. "It’s getting worse the further we go," he said, nose wrinkling. "Smells wrong. Like something rotted, but still alive."

Lindarion adjusted his grip on the harness, golden eyes scanning the terrain. "Corruption."

"Dythrael?"

"Maybe." He exhaled, slow and quiet. "Maybe not just him."

They landed at the edge of a clearing by dusk, an old elven outpost swallowed by vines. Half the spires had crumbled into moss, their glyphs faint but still glimmering with residual mana.

Lindarion stepped down lightly, boots sinking into the loam. His breath formed a pale mist even though the air was warm.

Ashwing shrank into his smaller form, a sleek, silver-scaled lizard that perched on Lindarion’s shoulder. "I don’t like it here," he muttered. "Too quiet."

Lindarion knelt beside a broken archway. Beneath the moss, his fingertips traced faint runes carved centuries ago. Elvish, but older than the Lorienyan script.

’Sanctum of the Southern Gate, Guarded by Breath and Bone.’

He frowned. "This post was meant to watch over the borders of the Verdant Expanse."

"Guess they stopped watching."

The silence pressed in, thick as fog. There were no birds, no insects, not even the faint hum of roots beneath the ground. The mana here had gone thin, starved. He could feel the void where life should have been, like breathing beside a wound.

Lindarion straightened. "We camp here tonight. I want to study the flow of mana through this region."

Ashwing’s tail flicked irritably. "Study, right. While I freeze my tail off in ghost-forest land."

"Complaining helps you stay warm."

"It helps me remember you’re a workaholic."

Lindarion said nothing, only smiled faintly, then reached into the air. Shadows coalesced at his palm, folding inward until a small orb of black light pulsed between his fingers.

The system’s inventory opened, faint ripples distorting the air. He pulled out a folded tent, a mana-stone lantern, and a short blade wrapped in cloth, the one his father had given him before leaving Eldorath.

He hesitated for a moment, thumb brushing the hilt.

"Thinking of him?" Ashwing asked quietly.

"Yes."

"Still no word?"

Lindarion shook his head. "Not from anyone who’s lived to tell it."

Ashwing looked away. "Then maybe you’ll find him before you find Dythrael."

"Perhaps," Lindarion murmured. "Or I’ll find what remains of both."

The dragon said nothing after that.

As night settled, Lindarion sat cross-legged before the small campfire. The flames burned pale blue, pure mana fire, cold to the touch but bright enough to hold back the dark. He closed his eyes, extending his senses through the earth. The world tree’s echo still lingered faintly in him, its resonance traveling outward like ripples through an unseen sea.

He followed that resonance downward, into the soil, the roots, the bones of forgotten things.

He saw flashes: silver spires swallowed by vines; elven armor shattered under black tendrils; a whisper of something vast crawling beneath the crust. Not Dythrael, not exactly. But kin to his power.

When he opened his eyes again, Ashwing was staring into the woods, scales rising slightly.

"What is it?" Lindarion asked.

"I heard something."

"Where?"

The dragon pointed with his tail toward the treeline.

A sound drifted on the wind, faint at first, almost human. Then clearer.

A voice. Singing.

It came from deeper within the forest, where the fog thickened into living walls.

Ashwing hissed softly. "Nope. No singing ghosts. We’re not doing this."

But Lindarion was already standing. The glow from the mana fire caught on his white hair, turning it silver-blue. "That isn’t a spirit," he said quietly. "It’s alive."

"You can tell that from one creepy lullaby?"

"The Breath doesn’t lie."

"Yeah, well, it doesn’t sleep either."

Lindarion ignored him, stepping toward the mist. The song grew louder, feminine, sorrowful, threaded with something ancient. The melody tugged at him, familiar somehow, though he couldn’t place why.

As he moved closer, symbols began to flicker faintly on the trunks of the trees, golden runes, pulsing once, then fading. The forest itself responding to his presence.

He whispered under his breath, "Show me."

The runes flared brighter.

The mist parted like curtains, and there, in the center of the clearing, stood a figure draped in tattered white robes, hair like spun moonlight, eyes closed as she sang to no one.

Ashwing’s voice was barely a whisper. "That’s not possible."

Lindarion’s heartbeat slowed. Recognition hit him like a blade drawn from old dreams.

"Luneth?" he said.

The song stopped.

The figure’s eyes opened. Ice-blue. Familiar.

Alive, or something that wore her shape.

Lindarion didn’t move at first. The world seemed to still around him, the trees, the fog, even the faint hum of mana underfoot held its breath. The woman before him stood motionless, her pale hair flowing gently though there was no wind. Only her eyes moved, cold and glassy, like a lake frozen in midwinter.

Ashwing pressed close to Lindarion’s neck, scales rising. "That’s not her. The smell’s wrong. The air’s... hollow."

"I know," Lindarion murmured. His voice was low, steady. "But the mana signature... it’s almost identical."

The figure tilted her head at the sound of his voice, and when she spoke, the words echoed slightly, as if carried through water.

"Lindarion..."

The way she said his name made something twist inside him. It was her voice. Every syllable perfect, the soft cadence, the quiet restraint that Luneth always carried. Even the way she pronounced the second syllable, like she was tasting it.

Ashwing’s claws dug into his shoulder. "Don’t go closer. Whatever that thing is, it’s feeding off the mana here. Look at the roots!"