The fire nearest the cavern wall spat and hissed, throwing sparks that faded into the black overhead. Smoke clung to the ceiling in thick ribbons, trapped by stone. Humans huddled around the flames, their faces gaunt, eyes hollow, the weight of collapse heavy in their silence. Every cough echoed. Every scrape of steel against stone sounded too loud, like the cave itself might listen.

And every pair of eyes cut toward Nysha.

She had laid Lindarion on a slab of rock by the fire, shadows still clinging to his body like a second skin. His chest rose shallow, ragged, each breath wetter than the last. Blood stained his jaw, dried black across his pale throat. Ashwing curled beside him, scales singed, his little body coiled tight as if he'd strike the first hand that reached too close.

But the sword was what unsettled them most.

Even bound in Nysha's shadows, it hummed faintly, a vibration that carried into the stone floor. The humans kept their distance. Children whispered, hiding behind their mothers. A soldier muttered a prayer, voice raw, as though words alone might keep the thing from waking.

The commander from before, scarred jaw, tired eyes, armor dented and crusted in old blood, stood nearest, though even he gave the blade a wide berth. His hand rested on the hilt at his side, a reflex, as if he wasn't sure who here was the greater threat: the mutants above, the cursed elf bleeding out, or the weapon twitching in the dark.

Nysha pressed her palm to Lindarion's chest, shadows spilling into him in rhythmic pulses. It wasn't enough. His body resisted. His blood slipped through every seam her magic tried to close. She bit her lip, tasting iron.

The commander's voice cut through the crackle of the fire. "You're keeping a corpse warm."

Nysha's head snapped up, crimson eyes burning through the dim. "He's not dead."

The man didn't flinch. His exhaustion had dulled any sense of fear, but his tone carried the sharp edge of command. "Then tell me what he is. Tell me why that thing—" His chin jerked toward the sword. "—follows him like a shadow that won't let go."

Her jaw clenched. She had no answer that would satisfy him, or herself.

"He saved your lives," she said instead. Her voice was soft but steady.

The commander's lip curled, a bitter twist. He gestured toward the corpses, twisted mutants torn to ribbons, their bodies scattered in grotesque shapes across the cavern floor. "You think I don't see that? I see the monsters he cut down. I see the fire, the shadows. But I also see what he is. No man bleeds shadows when he's dying. No man wields a sword that hums like it's hungry."

His eyes locked on hers. "And no man fights like that without paying a price. You really think he'll live through it?"

Nysha's hand shook against Lindarion's chest. She pressed harder, shadows thickening, willing him to breathe stronger, to prove her right.

A weak exhale rasped past his lips, flecked with more blood.

Her throat tightened. "Yes."

The commander held her gaze for a long, heavy moment. Then he spat to the side and turned away. "Keep him breathing if you can. But if that sword twitches, I'll cut his throat myself."

He walked back to his people. Whispers followed in his wake, fragments Nysha caught in the smoke.

"Elf."

"Demon girl."

"Cursed."

"Danger."

Her fingers curled against Lindarion's chest. She bent closer, her hair falling to hide her face. "Don't give them a reason," she whispered. Her voice cracked, fraying like her shadows. "Wake up before they decide you're not worth saving."

Ashwing pressed tighter against Lindarion's side, his tail flicking once, his slitted eyes glaring toward the humans. His body never relaxed, not even when the camp finally began to quiet.

Hours blurred. The fire sank to embers. The moans of the wounded dulled into uneasy sleep. Only the drip of water from the ceiling marked time in the black.

Nysha stayed awake. She hadn't moved, not once, her hands still pressed against Lindarion's chest, shadows pushing, pushing, though each attempt left her weaker. Her eyelids drooped, her breath stuttered. Her body begged to collapse.

But she couldn't.

Not while he bled. Not while they whispered. Not while the sword still hummed just inches away.

Her eyes burned as she whispered, softer now, only for him. "Idiot. You'll kill yourself before you ever beat him. And still you don't stop."

Her voice trembled. Her hands did too. Shadows leaked out uncontrolled, curling across the floor like spilled ink.

And then the air shifted.

Not from the sword.

Something else.

The smoke seemed to draw inward, folding around the space beside Lindarion's body. The shadows stilled, as if holding their breath.

Nysha's pulse stumbled. She sat straighter, eyes darting to the dark where the firelight didn't reach.

A shape took form. Slowly, like a figure stepping through water.

A woman, tall, her presence filling the hollow without a sound. Long hair spilled down her back, darker than the cavern stone, darker than Nysha's own shadows. Her dress was black, simple but flawless, flowing as though a breeze touched it though no air stirred here. Her skin was pale, her eyes like glass catching starlight.

She knelt beside Lindarion without hesitation, her hand hovering just above his chest.

Nysha surged forward, panic sharpening her voice. "Don't touch him."

The woman glanced at her, calm, steady, her expression unreadable. Her voice, when it came, was soft, not loud, not booming, just… certain.

"I am already bound to him."

Nysha froze. The words rooted her where she sat. Her shadows wavered, unsure. "…Bound?"

The woman didn't explain. She pressed her hand to Lindarion's chest. Light pulsed under her palm, not bright, but deep, a glow that seemed to come from beneath the skin itself, threads weaving through his veins, binding torn flesh, steadying breath.

Nysha's mouth went dry. She felt the shift instantly. The shadows she'd been pouring into him recoiled, not needed. His blood slowed. His chest rose stronger, steadier.

Ashwing hissed low, the sound sharp. He didn't strike, though. His eyes fixed on the woman with something closer to recognition than hostility.

Nysha's voice cracked. "Who… are you?"

The woman did not look at her. Her focus stayed on Lindarion, her touch moving to his temple, another glow pulsing beneath her fingers. His eyes fluttered, his lips parting, a faint sound slipping free, not words, just breath, but stronger than before.

The woman spoke, still calm, still certain. "I am Selene. His servant. His inheritance."

The word servant jolted Nysha. Her shadows shivered, retreating slightly as if the very air had told them to yield.

She shook her head, confusion choking her. "Servant? Of him?"

At last, Selene's gaze turned, her pale eyes meeting Nysha's crimson. They weren't hostile. They weren't even warm. They were… absolute.

"You are nothing to fear," Selene said simply. "So long as you do not stand against him."

Nysha's breath hitched. Her hands curled into fists. The weight of those words pressed against her chest like stone. She couldn't even speak.

Selene turned back to Lindarion. Her hand pressed once more against his chest. The glow flared, steady and final, then dimmed. His breath steadied, no longer rattling, no longer weak.

Silence followed.

Selene rose, her presence towering though she hadn't grown an inch. She looked down at Lindarion once more, then stepped back, fading as quietly as she had arrived, her form dissolving into shadow and smoke.

Nysha stared at the empty space, her body trembling. Her shadows clung close to her skin, frayed and shaken. She looked down at Lindarion, his chest rising strong, his face still pale but alive.

Alive.

Her throat tightened, eyes burning. She leaned closer, brushing a strand of hair from his bloodstained cheek. "Idiot," she whispered again, but this time her voice cracked with relief instead of fear.

His lips parted faintly. A rasp slipped through. "…Nysha."

Her heart lurched.

She bent closer, clutching his hand tight. "I'm here."

His eyelids fluttered, but didn't open fully. His grip was weak, barely there, but it was real.

Ashwing pressed his snout against Lindarion's jaw, his little body vibrating with a low sound almost like a purr.

Nysha let out a shaky laugh that broke halfway. She pressed her forehead to his, eyes closed, tears slipping despite herself.

"You're not allowed to die," she whispered. "Not while I'm here."

The fire cracked. The humans stirred in their sleep, unaware of the presence that had passed among them.

Only Nysha knew.

Only Nysha had seen.

And though relief burned through her chest, so did fear.

Because whoever Selene was, whatever she was, she hadn't come from the sword.

She had come from him.

And Nysha had no idea what that meant.

—

Darkness pressed against the edges of his vision. Not the heavy kind of sleep, nor the jagged blur of pain, but something softer, almost weightless. His body felt far away, his breath shallow, yet steady. For a moment, Lindarion wondered if he had finally slipped beyond.

Then warmth touched him.

A voice followed, brushing against his mind like silk, steady and clear where everything else was fractured.

"Awaken, Master."