Behind them, deeper in the cavern, the council huddled. The last of the human leadership, generals stripped of their armies, nobles stripped of their titles, priests stripped of their gods. They argued still, voices raw with fear.

"We must flee deeper—"

"There is nowhere deeper—"

"We should negotiate—"

"With what?" Darius spat, backhanding a mutant across the snout. "You would offer them your bones for supper?"

The council's words died as the ceiling split above them.

Dust rained. Beams groaned. And then, silence.

Not peace. Not safety. Silence like the pause before a knife slides in.

And through the crack in the stone, a pale figure dropped.

Maeven landed soundlessly, as though the earth bent to cradle him. His white hair caught the torchlight, glimmering faintly. His eyes swept the cavern, not with hunger, not with fury. With indifference.

The mutants froze mid-slaughter, trembling, awaiting his word.

Darius's throat closed. His shield sagged an inch before he forced it upright again.

Maeven spoke softly, his voice carrying through the screams and clash of steel.

"You burrowed. Like insects. I did not expect less."

The council scrambled to their feet. One priest thrust a shaking hand toward him, clutching a symbol of his broken faith. "We are the chosen of the gods! You will not—"

Maeven's gaze flicked to him. The priest's body bent wrong. His ribs tore outward with a sound like wet cloth ripping. He fell, twitching, mouth gaping silently.

Maeven did not raise a hand.

"You still cling to names and walls," he murmured, eyes on the rest. "But you are already dead."

The mutants shifted, claws scraping, mouths frothing for permission.

Darius swallowed hard. He wanted to step forward, to meet the pale figure blade-to-blade. But his knees trembled. His breath stuttered. He had faced kings and tyrants, beasts that towered over castles, but never had he faced nothing. And that was what Maeven was. Not man, not demon, not god. Just absence.

The council began to beg. Voices high, cracked, choking on their own terror.

"Spare the children—"

"We can serve—"

"You cannot wipe us all—"

Maeven blinked slowly, as though their voices reached him from across a void.

"I can," he said simply.

He lifted his hand, fingers pale and elegant, as though he would brush dust from a table.

The mutants surged forward.

The cavern filled with screams.

Darius braced, sword high, knowing it was the end.

Then, it hit.

The air curdled.

A weight pressed down, thick, suffocating, heavier than stone. The torches guttered, their flames shrinking back as if afraid. The mutants stopped mid-charge, their claws halfway to flesh, their mouths hanging open. Even Maeven's head turned, eyes narrowing faintly.

From the far end of the cavern, beyond the broken ranks of soldiers, beyond the trembling civilians, a figure stepped through shadow.

A hooded cloak dragged against the stone, dark with ash. His steps were slow, measured, the sound of boots echoing in silence broken only by labored breathing.

The hood tilted up.

Eyes burned red beneath. Not glowing. Burning. Blood slicked his mouth, dripping from his lip to his chin. His breath rattled, wet, but steady.

The aura deepened, pressing down until even the council could not stand, dropping to their knees under its weight.

Darius felt it claw through his chest, dragging his heart into his throat.

The figure spoke not a word.

But the cavern belonged to him now.

Maeven's pale eyes narrowed, his lips curving the barest fraction upward.

"…Interesting."

And the hooded figure, Lindarion, took another step into the firelight.

—

The cavern had gone still.

Darius's arm ached from holding his shield, though no strike came. His ears rang, not from battle but from the silence that had replaced it, silence pressed so tight that even his own heartbeat felt like treason.

The hooded figure stood in the firelight now, red eyes gleaming beneath shadow, blood spilling from the corner of his mouth. He did not wipe it away. He did not need to. The blood seemed less a weakness than a banner.

Men whispered around Darius, but the sound was strangled, half-born, killed before it could echo. No one wanted to be the first to draw the stranger's attention.

Even Maeven waited.

The pale-haired one tilted his head, studying the hooded figure as one might study a rare insect that crawled unexpectedly into one's palm. His mutants twitched, restless, hungry for slaughter, but they did not move without his word.

Until one did.

A creature, bulkier than the rest, its skin stretched like wax across swollen muscle, stepped forward. Its jaw unhinged, teeth spilling jagged as knives. But unlike the others, fire pooled inside its chest, glowing through cracked ribs like coals smoldering in a furnace. The air shimmered around it with heat, a dry bite in the damp cavern.

It opened its maw, and the cavern brightened with a gout of flame.

Not wild. Not aimless. Controlled, condensed into a blazing orb that it spat forward. The fireball roared as it flew, torching the air, throwing shadows long across the walls. Men screamed, shields lifted instinctively though they knew such heat would melt steel.

The hooded figure did not move.

The fire closed the distance in a heartbeat, roaring bright enough to blind—

And with a sweep of his hand, it was gone.

Not burned out. Not deflected. Gone, like a candle snuffed by invisible fingers.

The cavern shuddered with the sudden absence of light and sound. The fireball had promised an explosion; its vanishing left only silence, a void sharper than thunder.

The figure's voice slid into that silence, low, steady, as though he were addressing no one and everyone at once.

"Cheap tricks like this won't work against me."

The words carried not like a shout but like stone grinding beneath the earth, felt more in bone than in ear.

Darius's knees buckled. He forced himself upright again, though his shield rattled against his gauntlet. He couldn't breathe right. His men couldn't either. The air had weight, thick as smoke though no fire burned.

The mutant staggered, confused. It tried again, chest convulsing as flames built, but before it could release them, the hooded figure stepped. Just a step.

The shadows surged with him. They rippled outward, dark veins spreading across the stone, swallowing torchlight. The mutant screamed, flame sputtering out inside its chest. Its body convulsed, limbs flailing, as though the very darkness was crushing it from within.

Then it fell.

Not torn apart. Not scorched. Just collapsed, smoke curling from its mouth, body twitching once before stilling.

The other mutants hissed and drew back.