CHAPTER 495: DARK ELVES (2)

The guards bowed low before her, and the woman who had led them stepped forward. "Matriarch Selhyn," she said, her voice formal yet reverent. "We found travelers in the northern glades. One among them bears the light and shadow both. He claims to be Lindarion... of Eldorath."

The Matriarch’s gaze shifted. The air tightened. The runes along the floor rippled outward, reacting to the sound of that name.

"Eldorath," she said softly, her tone carrying weight enough to still every whisper. "So the house of dawn and dusk has not yet fallen."

Lindarion inclined his head, respectful but unbowed. "It endures, though the world grows darker around it."

Her lips curved faintly, not a smile, but the memory of one. "Spoken like your father."

That stopped him cold. "You knew him?"

"Eldrin?" she said, her tone fading into wistful distance. "Once. Before the Sundering. He sought the roots of the world, as you do now. His path crossed mine beneath a blood moon, when the stars themselves fled the sky."

Lindarion’s fingers tightened against his scabbard. "Then you know what became of him."

Her gaze softened, and that alone was answer enough. "He was devoured by a power greater than mortal will," she said. "But not lost. Nothing that bleeds light ever truly perishes."

Nysha looked up sharply. "What does that mean?"

The Matriarch ignored the question, her attention fixed on Lindarion. "You bear his flame, and something more. The Tree’s touch lingers in your soul, yet your eyes hold another reflection. You have seen the serpent."

"Veyrath," Lindarion confirmed.

The runes flickered violently at the name. Even the guards tensed. The woman who had led them here, her name, Lindarion now caught from the whispers, was Maereth, shifted uneasily.

"You survived an encounter with that one?" she said. "Few who see him leave with minds unbroken."

Lindarion’s expression remained calm. "He wasn’t seeking to destroy me."

"No," Selhyn said. "He was measuring you."

The silence that followed was heavy.

Lindarion met her gaze evenly. "You know what he guards."

"I do. The remnants of the First Oath. The serpentine divine’s promise to the Demi-Human progenitors. A flame that predates all empires, sealed so that mortals would never awaken it again."

"And yet," Lindarion said quietly, "something is stirring it."

The Matriarch’s luminous eyes dimmed slightly. "Dythrael."

The name spread like frost across the room. Even Ashwing’s breath hitched.

Nysha stepped forward, arms crossed. "He’s been awake for years now, hasn’t he?"

Selhyn inclined her head once. "Awake, and patient. His influence bleeds beneath the soil, seeding dreams into the roots of men and elf alike. We have seen his shadow in the southern marshes, voices rising from beneath the black waters, promising rebirth through ruin."

Lindarion’s jaw tightened. "Then it begins."

The Matriarch rose. The movement was graceful, but when she stood, the air itself seemed to bow. Her gown shimmered like woven midnight, threaded with veins of light that pulsed as she spoke.

"You walk toward a path that once broke the world, prince of Eldorath. Beyond the Vale of Fathen lies the Gate of the Hollow Sun, what the ancients called the Root of Divinity. To reach it, you will pass through the lands of the dead gods. Even Veyrath fears what sleeps there."

Ashwing’s voice cracked the silence. "Wonderful. You always pick the nicest destinations, Lindarion."

The Matriarch’s gaze flicked toward him, and for a moment, her expression softened. "The dragonkin speaks truth. What you seek will demand more than courage. The balance within you, light and shadow, will either save this age or end it."

Lindarion inclined his head again. "Then I will not falter."

The Matriarch studied him for a long while, then extended a hand. A faint glimmer rose from her palm, a shard of black crystal etched with runes that pulsed faintly with silver light.

"Take this," she said. "It is a Root-Sigil. It will open the first path beneath the Vale. But it comes with a cost: once you step through, the world will mark you as something beyond mortal blood. The gods, both fallen and false, will see you as kin."

Lindarion accepted the shard, the light reflecting against his golden irises. "Then let them look."

Selhyn smiled faintly for the first time. "You truly are your father’s son."

The runes along the floor brightened again, forming a circle of light beneath Lindarion’s feet. The chamber’s walls whispered in an ancient tongue as the Tree’s distant pulse reached faintly through the earth, resonating with his core.

"Go," Selhyn said, her voice lowering into something solemn. "The road south will not open twice."

He turned toward the gate, cloak trailing in faint arcs of light, Ashwing perched silently on his shoulder.

As he passed beneath the arch of Tirnaeth, the Matriarch’s voice followed, soft, almost distant.

"Eldrin sought the roots of creation. You will find what he could not. But beware, Lindarion, salvation and damnation share the same face beneath the Hollow Sun."

The doors closed.

And the Prince of Eldorath stepped once more into twilight.

The air outside Tirnaeth was thick with the scent of minerals and frost. Even though they had not climbed in height, the temperature dropped sharply as soon as they passed beyond the shadow of the black crystal walls. The land stretched southward into veiled hills, rolling, silent, empty. Mist drifted low across the ground like a second skin, carrying faint glimmers of green and violet from the strange flora that grew there.

Lindarion led the group without speaking. His cloak trailed through the fog, the faint shimmer of golden threads visible beneath the dull grey light. Behind him, Nysha walked with one hand resting on the hilt of her spear, scanning the horizon as if expecting the world to move against them.

The human commanders trailed further back, quiet, their armor whispering faintly with each step.

Ashwing circled overhead in his smaller form, his golden eyes bright against the murk. "You know," he said through the bond in Lindarion’s mind, "I really hate this kind of quiet. It feels like something’s breathing under the ground."

"It is," Lindarion replied silently. "The Vale of Fathen used to be a cradle for the demi-gods. They say the soil still remembers their pulse."

"Comforting." Ashwing’s tone was flat. "If I turn into a rock and roll away, don’t judge me."