CHAPTER 357: JUDGEMENT (5)

Not from shadows. Not from stone breaking. From something colder.

Maeven froze, eyes flicking up. The humans, pressed against the walls, gasped as a new presence spilled into the cavern.

A girl’s voice. Soft. Almost trembling.

"Enough."

Shadows bent around her as she stepped forward. Nysha.

Her red eyes glowed in the dark, not wild like Lindarion’s, but steady. Her hands trembled, yes, but her voice didn’t break again.

"You’ll kill him," she said, glaring up at Maeven. "And if you do—" her breath hitched once, then hardened into steel "—you’ll have to go through me."

Maeven blinked. Then he laughed, quieter this time, almost curious.

"And what are you, little demon? Another scrap to feed the dark?"

Nysha didn’t answer. She lifted her hand. Shadows stirred, not Lindarion’s, not the blade’s, but hers. They coiled around him, pulling his broken body away, wrapping him in a cocoon of black threads. Her knees trembled as she forced the magic to obey.

Maeven tilted his head. "Interesting."

He stepped forward. She didn’t flinch. Her small frame shook, but she stood in front of Lindarion all the same, her red eyes unwavering.

Maeven stopped.

His grin lingered, blood dripping down his chin. "I’ll let him crawl away, for now. Let him rot a little longer. Next time, he won’t be standing when I cut him down."

He turned. His pale hair swung like a curtain of snow as he stepped back into the broken cavern, his minions retreating with him into the shadows. His laughter echoed even as he disappeared into the cracks.

Silence followed.

Only the rasp of Lindarion’s breath remained, ragged under the cocoon of shadows Nysha held tight around him. Her face was pale, her hands shaking violently, but she didn’t release him until the last trace of Maeven’s aura faded from the cavern.

Then she sank to her knees beside him, pressing trembling fingers against his blood-slicked face.

"Idiot," she whispered, voice breaking for the first time. "You’ll tear yourself apart before you ever reach him."

Shadows still coiled faintly around his body, but his eyes were closed, his breath shallow. The sword lay inches from his hand, humming faintly in the silence, hungrier than ever.

And for the first time, Nysha looked afraid not of Maeven, but of the weapon itself.

—

The cavern was still bleeding dust.

Bits of stone rained down from the cracks above, each drop sounding like the tick of a clock counting toward collapse. The humans clung to the shadows at the edges, eyes wide, lips pressed shut, too stunned to speak.

Nysha knelt in the center of it all, her hands locked around the cocoon of shadow that held Lindarion together.

Her palms burned. Not from flame, but from strain. The threads of darkness writhed like living worms, eager to unravel and return to her flesh. Every second she held them around him was like holding back a tide with her bare hands.

But she didn’t let go.

His blood soaked through the web, sticky and hot, dripping down her forearms. His head lolled against the black weave, his mouth smeared crimson. Too pale. Too still.

’If I let go... he’ll shatter.’

Her breath came sharp, ragged. She pressed her lips shut against it. Couldn’t show weakness. Not here. Not in front of them.

The humans.

She felt their stares like knives. Dozens of them, pressed against the far side of the cavern, armored and bloodied from their retreat. They looked at her not like an ally but like something worse than the mutants that had driven them underground.

Something unknown. Something unnameable.

"...What is she?" one voice broke the silence. Rough, male, frayed from shouting orders.

The commander, Nysha realized. She had heard him barking orders when the ceiling began to collapse. His chestplate was cracked, his left arm bound in makeshift cloth, his eyes narrow and bloodshot, but still sharp enough to cut her apart from across the chamber.

A murmur rippled through the soldiers behind him. Words bitten off, muttered too low for her ears, but she knew what they were.

Demon.

Witch.

Monster.

Nysha’s throat closed. Her fingers trembled against the cocoon, and she pressed them harder, nails biting her skin until blood welled.

’Don’t listen. Don’t falter. Keep him breathing.’

She glanced at Lindarion’s face again. His lips moved faintly, not words, just air, struggling in and out. His chest shuddered, each rise weaker than the last.

"Don’t die," she whispered before she could stop herself.

The word carried. Too much. It slipped out like a crack in armor.

The commander’s eyes narrowed further. "He’s with you, isn’t he? That elf. The one with the blade." His voice cut through the whispers like steel. "You’re the reason he’s alive."

Nysha swallowed. Her tongue felt too large, her throat too tight. She forced the word out anyway.

"Yes."

It echoed. Small. Fragile. Yet it landed like a hammer in the silence.

The commander stepped forward, boots crunching stone. His men tensed behind him, hands twitching toward weapons, though none dared move closer.

Nysha’s shoulders locked. Every instinct screamed at her to sink into shadow, to vanish, to drag Lindarion away from their eyes. But she couldn’t. Not yet. He was too weak. Moving him recklessly would kill him.

The commander stopped three paces away. His face was stone, his gaze unrelenting. "What are you?"

The words stabbed deeper than she expected. Her throat bobbed. The truth scraped the back of her tongue, jagged and bitter.

’Demon.’

But if she said it, if she gave the word to them, they’d break. Fear would turn to blades. And Lindarion, half-dead, wouldn’t survive the mob.

So she said nothing.

The silence stretched, taut as wire. The commander’s eyes flicked down to Lindarion’s body, wrapped in her shadow-web. Back to her. Then to the sword lying at her knee, faintly pulsing, still humming like a living thing.

"You’re not human," he said flatly.

The murmur behind him swelled. Fear thickened the air like smoke.

Nysha’s breath hitched. Her nails dug deeper into her palms. She wanted to shrink. To hide. But something hot cracked inside her chest, hotter than shame, heavier than fear.

’If they strike, he dies. If he dies, none of them matter anyway.’

Her head lifted.

The shadows surged at her back, rising higher, curling into jagged spines and tendrils that lashed at the air. The humans staggered, some cursing, some scrambling for weapons, but she didn’t let the threads loose. She only held them high, coiled tight, showing what she could do without striking.

Her voice came low, ragged, shaking with strain but sharp enough to cut.

"I am the one keeping him alive. Question me again, and I’ll stop."

The words hung like smoke.

The soldiers froze. The commander’s jaw clenched, his hand twitching near the hilt at his side, but he didn’t draw it. His gaze lingered on Lindarion again, on the faint rise and fall of his chest, the faint sound of breath.

Finally, the commander exhaled, harsh through his teeth. "If he dies, you both die."

It wasn’t mercy. It was threat. But the tension in the cavern eased, just a fraction.

Nysha’s shoulders slumped, shadows sinking closer to her back. The cocoon around Lindarion held, his body still within it, fragile but breathing.

Her hands shook. She couldn’t hide it now. Blood and sweat mixed down her arms, dripping to the stone. Ashwing, forgotten by the humans, perched on a fallen pillar, finally slithered down. In his lizard form, he climbed onto her shoulder, tongue flicking against her temple.

Her chest cracked. The weight of it all pressed down harder than Maeven’s aura ever had.

’Why do I stay? Why do I fight for him?’

The answer was there, even if she couldn’t admit it aloud.

She looked down at his face again. Too pale. Blood still staining his lips. And despite it, his hand twitched faintly against the weave, as if even unconscious he still reached for the sword.

Her throat tightened.

She bowed her head. For him. Only for him.

The cavern walls groaned, dust falling in thin streams from the ceiling. The humans shifted nervously, the commander’s voice rising again, this time sharp and clipped.

"Move him. Quickly. If the ceiling comes down, we all die in the same grave."

Nysha’s grip tightened on the cocoon. Her voice came hoarse.

"Touch him, and I’ll break you."

The commander froze again. His men muttered, one cursing under his breath, but none advanced.

Nysha shifted, forcing her legs beneath her, forcing her body upright despite the weight of Lindarion and the shadows that strained at her core. She staggered, nearly fell, then the tendrils steadied her, holding his weight aloft like a pall of black silk.

She didn’t look back at them. She didn’t explain. She simply walked, each step deliberate, dragging the cocoon toward the far tunnel where the air was clearer.

Ashwing hissed softly, like approval.

Behind her, the humans whispered louder. Fear. Suspicion. Hatred.

She didn’t care.

Not until his breathing stopped. Not until he opened his eyes again.