Every gaze fixed on him. Humans, scarred and desperate. Nysha, arms folded like a blade yet to be drawn. Even the elves on the platforms above, who pretended not to eavesdrop, leaned closer with ears sharpened by suspicion.
Ashwing stirred in his mind, a flutter of scales and childish brightness. 'They're all staring at you again, Lind. You should say sothing heroic. Or scary. Or both. Dragons always make their speeches dramatic.'
Lindarion's lips twitched faintly, though his eyes remained grave. "Three months," he said, his voice carrying across the square. "Three months to prove our worth. That is the decision of Vaelthorn and Sylwen Ironbark."
He let the nas linger, weighty with the authority they carried. "If we waste it, we are cast out. If we use it, if we build, train, strengthen, then they will have no choice but to see us not as burden, but as force."
Nysha's shadows hissed faintly, curling like smoke around her boots. "And if they still decide against us?"
"Then," Lindarion said, his tone quiet but edged like drawn steel, "we will not be the ones kneeling."
A hush followed. The humans straightened, so exchanging looks heavy with the beginnings of resolve. Fear lingered, yes, but so did sothing sharper.
Ashwing's voice piped up again, softer this ti. 'You sounded scary. I liked it. Though… you should've added fire. Fire makes everything scarier.'
Lindarion's grip on his sword tightened slightly, though no outward trace of amusent touched his face. Later, he told Ashwing inwardly. Fire will co when it must.
The commander bowed his head, rough but genuine. "Then we'll use this ti. Train us, Prince. Lead us. If three months is all we're given, then we'll bleed in those months to make every day count."
A chorus of assent rose, ragged but firm. Not a cheer, not yet, but a vow.
Nysha's gaze lingered on Lindarion. Crimson eyes sharp, calculating. "You've taken their leash," she said softly enough that only he caught it. "But you'll choke them with it before you're done."
He didn't answer. His thoughts curled inward, deeper than her words could pierce. Eldrin. His father's na pulsed like a wound in his mind. No news, no trace, only silence. Even the Ironbarks had not known his fate.
Three months. Enough ti to grow, or enough ti to burn.
The sun filtered higher through the canopy, catching in the carved runes of the council's hall above. Lindarion lifted his gaze briefly to it, then back to the faces before him.
"Rest today," he commanded. "Eat. Breathe. nd your wounds. Tomorrow, we begin."
The humans dispersed slowly, their steps heavy yet steadier than before. So whispered to each other, others moved in silence, but the air among them had shifted. Less hollow. Less broken.
Nysha lingered at his side, shadows curling lazily now, as though feeding on his mood. She tilted her head. "You were good at playing prince."
His reply was flat. "I am not playing."
She studied him, then gave a sharp, humorless smile. "No. You're not."
Ashwing, curled unseen beneath his cloak, gave a soft ntal hum. 'I like it here. It slls green. Peaceful. But I don't think it'll stay peaceful for long, will it, Lind?'
"No," Lindarion murmured under his breath, too low for anyone but the dragonling to hear. "It never does."
The forest rustled, ancient and alive, as though it too listened.
—
The council chamber doors had long closed behind him, but their weight still pressed on Lindarion's shoulders as he walked through the winding bridges and stairways of Lorienya.
The city glead with lantern-light caught in glass globes, swaying gently from branches. Music drifted faintly through the canopy, soft, lilting notes of flute and harp. To the Lorienyan elves, tonight was no different from any other.
To him, it was the quiet after a storm.
The humans had settled in the lower tiers, given crude quarters built into the roots of the greater trees. The elves had not been generous, walls of polished bark, food enough to fill stomachs but not warm hearts. Still, the n and won from the caverns already looked lighter, their faces softening as sleep claid them.
Lindarion passed among them without stopping. He offered no words, and none dared call to him. Their faith hung between them like a tether, unspoken, heavy, inescapable.
When at last he reached the chamber set aside for him, he entered and closed the carved door behind him. Silence.
The room was simple, woven mats, shelves carved from the tree's inner bark, a low bed with linen that slled of earth and cedar. For a prince of Eldorath, it was humble. But to Lindarion, it was more luxury than he had seen in months.
He set his sword within arm's reach and lowered himself onto the bed. For a mont, he just sat there, elbows on knees, staring at his hands. The faint sheen of mana still clung to his skin, ghost-light that pulsed in rhythm with his core.
[System Notice: Core Stabilization successful.]
[Current Stage: Luminous Core – Mid Tier.]
[Warning: Recent resonance detected with foreign fragnt.]
His jaw tightened. Even here, in this sanctuary, the system whispered. The fragnt he had touched in the ruins stirred faintly, like an ember that refused to die.
Ashwing's voice broke the silence in his mind, soft and curious. You're frowning again. You always frown when the words appear.
Lindarion leaned back against the wall. "Because they speak too much."
'I like them,' Ashwing chirped. 'They make you stronger. Stronger ans scarier. Scarier ans no one can hurt you. And if no one can hurt you, then no one can hurt either.'
Despite himself, Lindarion's lips curved faintly. "Is that all you care about?"
And food, Ashwing admitted with cheerful bluntness. 'Lots of food. You didn't eat much tonight, you know. I slled roasted roots and honey cakes. You should've taken so for us.'
"You could have stolen them," Lindarion muttered.
'But then everyone would know I'm not just a lizard,' Ashwing replied, huffing. 'You said we should keep that secret, rember?'
His gaze softened. Four years. Just four years since Ashwing had hatched, bright-eyed and clumsy. A dragon, yet still a child, tucked away under cloak and shadow. He had grown with Lindarion's exile, with his battles, with his scars.
Silence stretched again, thicker this ti. Lindarion's eyes drifted shut, though his grip still lingered near the sword. The sounds of the city humd faintly through the wood—distant laughter, the rustle of leaves, the rhythm of life untouched by the horrors outside Lorienya's borders.
It should have been comforting. Instead, it pressed against him like a lie.
"Three months," he murmured.
Reviews
All reviews (0)