CHAPTER 368: PLANNING (2)

When he opened his eyes again, the commander had returned. A group of men followed him, each bearing weapons dulled by years of use. They laid them before Lindarion, kneeling without being told.

"My lord," the commander said, "we ask you to show us. How to wield them against monsters. How to strike as hunters, not prey."

The blades lay crooked and chipped, their edges jagged. Pathetic compared to the weapon humming at his side. But eyes burned behind them, desperate for knowledge.

Lindarion rose, every motion measured, pain hidden beneath steel. He drew one of the rusted swords, testing its weight. Unbalanced, brittle. Yet it would kill, if driven true.

He turned, holding it with steady hands. "Then watch."

He moved, slow at first, cutting the air with sharp arcs. He showed them where to strike, under the arm, at the neck, behind the knee.

He showed them how to fight together, one distracting while another killed. He showed them not how to win, but how to survive long enough to matter.

They watched, silent. Then they mirrored him, clumsy at first, then sharper, falling into rhythm. The cavern filled with the hiss of steel, the stomp of boots, the harsh breaths of men and women who had forgotten what it meant to train.

Hours passed. Torches guttered. Still they moved, again and again, until their arms shook and their legs faltered.

Finally, Lindarion lowered his blade. His chest ached, his mana core throbbed faintly, but he stood tall. "Enough. Rest. Tomorrow, you will train again. And the day after. Until you are blades, not carrion."

They bowed their heads, voices murmuring thanks, reverence, vows.

Lindarion turned away, cloak trailing shadows, and sank back onto his stone. Nysha watched him, eyes searching, but she did not speak.

The cavern quieted slowly, humans collapsing into sleep where they could. Fires burned low. Smoke clung heavy.

Lindarion sat in silence, eyes half-lidded, listening to the echo of his own breath. He reached inward once more, and this time, softly, he called.

’Selene.’

Her voice stirred, warm silk against his mind. "Yes, Master?"

’They will die for me. You know it.’

Her tone held no judgment, only calm certainty. "Then let their deaths build your throne of victory. It is what kings are made of."

His jaw tightened. ’I am no king.’

"No. You are a prince who commands kings without asking. She lingered, her warmth steady. Rest now, Master. When Maeven comes again, you will need all that you are."

Her presence dimmed, slipping back into quiet.

Lindarion let the silence remain. The fire crackled, shadows stretched long. Around him, the humans slept with newfound hope.

And he sat awake, staring into the flames, knowing hope was the cruelest weapon of all.

—

The stone stairs spiraled upward, slick with moisture, too narrow for soldiers to march in proper formation. The humans who had tried to follow him faltered when the air thinned, when the faint bite of wind drifted down from above. Their torches guttered, as though the surface itself sought to snuff them out.

"Prince—" the commander’s voice rasped from below, choked with fear more than smoke. "Don’t. There’s nothing left up there. Only death."

Lindarion didn’t answer. His boots carried him upward with measured steps, every ache in his body ignored, every crack in his core held together by sheer will.

Nysha walked behind him, shadows clinging to the damp stone, her breaths too quick, her eyes flicking upward as if she already knew what waited. Ashwing’s claws ticked softly against the stairs, tail lashing with restless irritation.

At the top, the door was broken. A heavy iron gate, its bars melted like wax, its hinges half-fused to stone. Lindarion raised his hand and pressed lightly. The slab of twisted metal toppled forward with a hollow clang that rolled into silence.

The world above bled red.

The sky was no sky at all, only a choking smear of ash and smoke, dim firelight leaking through in patches where the sun should have been. The air tasted of iron and rot, of old screams that had long since quieted.

Buildings lay in splintered heaps, blackened beams jutting like broken ribs. Roads that had once been cobbled were nothing but pits and smeared gore.

And the bodies—

They lay everywhere. Torn by claws, melted by corrupt mana, gnawed until faces no longer resembled faces. Men, women, children, their blood dried black along the stone. Some still clutched weapons in rigor-locked hands. Others had nothing but empty fingers.

Lindarion’s breath stilled in his chest. Not from grief, he had seen corpses enough for a dozen lifetimes, but from calculation.

’So this is what Maeven left behind.’

The silence pressed heavier than the cavern ceiling ever had.

Behind him, Nysha gagged softly, her hand rising to cover her mouth. Shadows coiled tighter around her like they sought to shield her eyes, but nothing could blot it out. Ashwing hissed low, his nostrils flaring, wings twitching as though he wanted to ignite the sky itself in answer.

Lindarion walked forward. His boots crunched over ash and bone. He passed what had once been a market square: stalls burned to black frames, a fountain clogged with bloated corpses, water long gone stagnant and red. A doll’s head stared at him from the gutter, one glass eye cracked, hair torn away.

A human soldier dared to follow him up at last. His breath caught the moment he saw the surface. He fell to his knees, trembling, one hand over his mouth. "Gods... gods, no..."

Lindarion didn’t stop. His steps drew him to the center of the square, where the earth itself had been torn apart. A crater, black glass edges still warm to the touch. Mana residue hung in the air, sharp and metallic.

Maeven’s doing. His mark.

’He’s testing his reach. How far he can spread it before it consumes him. How many he can twist before the world cracks beneath him.’

For a moment, Lindarion almost called for Selene. Almost. He could feel her warmth, patient and steady, waiting if he summoned her. But no, this he would see with his own eyes, without her voice softening the edge.

Nysha caught up, her crimson gaze wide as it swept the square. Her lips parted, but no words came. Her hand twitched as though to reach for him, then fell.

"Why bring me here?" she whispered finally, her voice raw. "So I can choke on it too?"

Lindarion’s eyes narrowed, scanning the edges of the crater. Bones melted into stone. A sword still clutched in a skeletal fist. His jaw clenched.

"I needed to see it." His voice was low, each word ground from the stone of his chest. "Not their death. His hand in it."