CHAPTER 501: DIFFERENT

Ashwing landed on his shoulder with an audible gulp.

"Okay," he whispered, "uh... be normal. Just be normal. Try not to glow."

Lindarion didn’t respond.

His aura pulsed once not outward, not aggressive,

but like the settling of dust after an explosion.

The Tirnaeth captain swallowed.

He was tall for a dark elf—bright amethyst eyes, ash-gray skin with the faint lavender undertone common to his people. His spear was steady, but barely.

"State your name," he said, voice taut. "Slowly."

Nysha stepped between them.

"Captain Kael, stand down. This is Lindarion of Eldorath. Prince of—"

"I know who the Prince of Eldorath is," Kael snapped.

His eyes didn’t move from Lindarion.

"But this is not the same man who entered that tower."

Ashwing muttered, "That’s what I said—"

"Quiet," Nysha hissed.

Kael pointed the butt of his spear to the ground.

"Something awakened when you stepped inside. The tower has not stirred in centuries. Dead, silent, emptied of all presence."

"It’s no longer empty," one of his warriors murmured.

Her gaze flicked to Lindarion, fear tightening her throat.

Another added, "The roots hummed. The runes lit. The air, changed."

Kael raised a hand to silence them, but he didn’t contradict a single word.

Then:

"What happened inside?" he asked.

Lindarion met his gaze for the first time.

His golden irises held no arrogance, no intimidation—

just clarity so sharp it unsettled the soldiers more than open hostility would’ve.

"The tower tested me."

Kael’s expression twitched.

"Tested?"

"Evaluated," Lindarion corrected.

"Measured my resonance. Witnessed my essence. Then answered."

Kael took a single step back. Instinctive.

Even subtle as it was, his soldiers noticed.

They tightened formation.

"Answer... how?" the captain asked carefully.

Lindarion tilted his head slightly.

His white hair caught the dim light, glowing faintly at the tips.

"It told me what lies deeper in the south. What’s waiting for us."

That hit the company like a blow.

Soldiers exchanged silent looks, fear, relief, confusion, suspicion.

Dark elves were not easily shaken.

Yet none of them had truly believed the tower would speak.

But something else gnawed at them—

the way he carried the tower’s presence out with him.

Nysha stepped closer to Lindarion.

Her hand brushed his arm, checking, grounding, assessing.

He didn’t pull away.

But the faint static of power along his skin made her jaw clench.

Kael exhaled.

"You glow with the tower’s breath... but not its corruption."

A soldier behind him whispered,

"Is it possible... he was chosen?"

Kael shot him a sharp look, but he didn’t dismiss the idea.

"And," Kael continued, voice lower now,

"I feel no malice from you. Only force. Raw. Controlled. But force nonetheless."

Lindarion inclined his head.

"That’s because I’m not your enemy."

Another pulse, subtle, but the tower behind them answered with a soft hum.

Runes along its doorway flickered once, like a heartbeat.

The dark elves stiffened.

Kael raised a hand.

"Enough. We will return to camp. There, we will speak to the Matriarch. She decides our actions."

He motioned sharply.

"Formation. Center the prince and his companions."

Nysha frowned.

"Centering us implies—"

"That you are either valuable," Kael cut in,

"or a threat. The Matriarch will determine which."

Ashwing squeaked, "Can’t we be neither?"

"No," Kael said dryly. "Not anymore."

Two rows of dark-elf soldiers formed around them, spears angled outward, boots silent on the moss.

Lindarion walked with quiet grace, eyes forward.

His steps hardly seemed to disturb the ground.

Kael observed him, expression unreadable.

Even unwillingly, even cautiously,

the entire squad’s attention bent around Lindarion’s presence.

It wasn’t awe.

It wasn’t fear.

It was recognition.

Somewhere deep in their blood, they knew what it meant when a tower awakened for a single man.

After several minutes of marching through Tirnaeth’s twilight forest, Kael finally spoke again, softer this time.

"You are dangerous," he said quietly.

Lindarion didn’t look at him.

"I know."

Kael hesitated.

"But... I do not sense cruelty in you."

Lindarion’s voice held a quiet weight.

"Then you sense correctly."

The captain let out a slow exhale.

"In that case, Prince..."

he glanced toward the tower behind them, the faint runes still flickering like candlelight in deep halls,

"...I pray your path runs parallel to ours. For if it does not—"

Lindarion finished for him, voice calm as a river at dusk:

"—you will not be able to stop me."

Kael didn’t deny it.

Didn’t bristle.

Didn’t threaten.

He simply nodded once, heavy and honest.

"That," he murmured,

"is what frightens me."

And the march continued—

the shadowed forest shifting around them,

the tower behind them humming with fading power,

and Lindarion walking at the center of a formation meant to contain him...

while every dark-elf soldier there realized:

There was no containing him.

Only witnessing.

The trees thickened as they approached the heart of the forest—

ancient, towering trunks twisted like spiraled marble, their bark shimmering with faint violet bioluminescence.

Dusty blue spores drifted lazily through the air like snow.

The Tirnaeth encampment revealed itself not with walls,

but with silence—

a sudden, complete stillness in the forest,

as if every creature held its breath.

Then the path widened into a clearing.

Hundreds of dark elves filled it—warriors, scouts, mages—

their armor a blend of obsidian, ashwood, and violet runes.

Campfires burned with pale blue flame.

Suspended bridges wove between massive, hollowed trees.

The heart of the settlement pulsed with ancient power.

All movement stopped when Lindarion stepped into view.

The whisper spread like wind:

"Eldorath’s heir.

The tower-woken one.

The golden-blooded."

Kael’s squad parted, guiding Lindarion, Nysha, and Ashwing toward the center platform.

At its far end stood her.

The Matriarch of Tirnaeth.

She was tall even for a dark elf, her figure regal, anchored by an aura that bent the air around her. Silver-white hair cascaded down her back in waves, braided with onyx clasps. Her skin was deep violet, luminous under the moonlight, and her eyes—

those eyes were pure starlight, bright silver without pupils, ancient and piercing.

She wore ceremonial armor, but lightly—

not a warlord’s bulk,

but a queen who needed no steel to command obedience.

Her voice reached the clearing without volume:

"Prince Lindarion."

He bowed his head slightly.

Not deeply.

Not arrogantly.

Just enough to acknowledge her authority in her domain.

"Matriarch," Lindarion said.

Her gaze traced him from crown to heel—

pausing where faint runes still flickered under his skin.

Not shock.

Not fear.

Recognition.

"You carry echoes of something my people have not felt since the First Era," she said quietly.

Ashwing whispered under his breath, "Why does everyone keep saying that—"

Nysha elbowed him sharply.