Chapter 374: Facing him (2)
The battlefield stank of smoke and ruin. Corpses twisted in the dark, their limbs reaching like broken branches. Lindarion stood in the center, hunched, his blade planted into the soil to keep his body upright. Every breath rattled his chest. His blood marked the ground in shallow pools.
No trace of silver eyes remained. No trace of laughter. Dythrael was gone, as if he had never existed.
But the memory of him lingered, untouchable, infinite.
Selene’s warmth pulsed once more through his veins, sealing cracks that would have left him in the dirt. She whispered gently, "Enough for now, Master. Let them not see your wounds."
He exhaled shakily. "...Sleep, Selene."
Her presence dimmed, folding back into silence.
The world’s weight crashed into him. His knees nearly gave. He forced himself upright, pressing his will into his muscles until obedience became survival. His grip on the sword tightened, shadows curling faintly along its length, masking his tremor.
’Not here,’ he told himself. ’Not now.’
The humans could not see weakness.
He turned from the battlefield and descended the jagged path back toward the cavern mouth. Each step jarred his ribs, each movement dragged fire through his bones. His body screamed for rest, but his pride was louder.
The cavern swallowed him in flickering light and low chants. The humans were still awake, still laboring. Smoke and sweat choked the air. Barricades had been raised. Oil pits glimmered black. And through it all, their voices rose and fell in rhythm.
When they saw him, they stilled.
Dozens of eyes turned, wide, hollow, fever-bright. Their whispers bled into one another, not words but awe. He could feel it press against his skin, a weight heavier than stone.
The commander was the first to move. He stepped forward, exhaustion carved into his face, blood dried along his armor. He bowed his head, not deeply, but enough. "Prince. You returned."
Lindarion’s throat clenched. Returned? He had been broken above, torn apart by a ghost. But here, to them, he was whole. He could not shatter that illusion.
"I did," he said, voice steady despite the cracks burning his ribs. "The ground above is clear. For now."
The commander’s jaw loosened in relief. Around them, murmurs rose, swelling like a tide. He went above. He faced the night. And he returned.
A child peered from behind her mother’s cloak, her eyes wide. When Lindarion’s gaze flicked toward her, she ducked away, whispering, "The prince keeps the dark away."
It was a knife twisting under his ribs.
Nysha stood apart, shadows folding tight around her like a second skin. She watched him with eyes too sharp, too knowing. She said nothing, but suspicion burned in her stare.
He ignored it. He had to.
"Rest while you can," he told the humans, his tone sharp enough to cut the murmur. "Maeven will not wait long before striking again."
The commander bowed his head. "We’ll follow your orders, Prince. Whatever you say."
Lindarion inclined his head once, then moved deeper into the cavern, every step slow, measured, hiding the stagger in his bones.
The firelight clawed shadows across the walls. Humans parted for him, some bowing their heads, others pressing hands to their chests as though in prayer. He let them. He could not tell them the truth, that the creature behind their suffering had shown itself, and that he had been nothing before it.
If he told them, the fragile faith holding them together would snap like rotted rope. They would scatter. Despair would devour them whole.
He could not allow it.
So he wore silence like armor.
When he reached the far side of the cavern, where the firelight dimmed and fewer humans gathered, Nysha followed. Her shadows whispered against stone as she stepped into his path.
"What happened above?" she asked softly. Her voice wasn’t sharp, but it cut nonetheless. "You’re bleeding. Your shadows shake. You didn’t just clear corpses."
His jaw locked. "You doubt me already?"
"I don’t doubt you," she replied, her crimson eyes narrowing. "I doubt the silence you wear."
For a heartbeat, he considered telling her. Of the silver eyes. Of the laughter. Of the truth that his father had been broken, and that he himself had stood against nothing more than an echo, and lost.
But the cavern buzzed with human whispers. Too many ears. Too many desperate hearts clinging to his shadow.
His gaze hardened. "What matters is that the ground above is empty. Nothing more."
Nysha’s lips pressed thin, as though she wanted to argue, but her shadows pulled tight around her, smothering the words. She stepped aside, though her eyes burned holes into his back.
He moved past her, settling near the stone where Lindarion had first lain half-dead. The sword rested against his shoulder, its faint hum blending with the fire’s crackle.
He sat, back straight despite the pain. His eyes closed, briefly, as though in meditation. In truth, he was holding his body together with sheer will, refusing to let the tremor take him.
The cavern quieted. The humans drifted into uneasy sleep, their breaths rising like fragile waves. Guards kept their posts near the barricades, though even they nodded at times. The chanting dulled, faded, but the echo remained in the stone.
Nysha lingered in the dark, shadows curling at her feet. Watching. Waiting.
He did not look at her. He could not afford the questions.
Instead, he lowered his head, whispering only in thought, where no ears could reach.
’Selene.’
Her warmth stirred, faint, half-asleep. Yes, Master?
’If I tell them the truth, they’ll break.’
Then you will not tell them. Her voice was calm, gentle. Your burden is not theirs. You are the wall between despair and dawn. Let them see only the wall.
His chest ached at the weight of it. "A wall crumbles," he murmured aloud before he could stop himself.
Selene’s voice wrapped around the thought, soft as a mother’s hand. Then I will hold you together when you crack.
Silence pressed in, heavy and suffocating. The only sound was the fire’s hiss and the distant drip of water down stone.
Lindarion opened his eyes. Across the cavern, the humans slept in clusters, clinging to one another.
Their faces, though gaunt and scarred, looked peaceful for the first time since he had arrived. They believed they were safe because of him.
A lie.
But a necessary one.
His hand tightened on the sword’s hilt, the shadows stirring faintly, alive, restless. His chest burned, his ribs screamed, his core ached from strain. None of it mattered.
He would not let them see him falter.
He would carry the illusion as long as he had to.
Because if Dythrael returned, not a shadow, not a whisper, but in flesh and blood, these humans would die screaming before they ever touched him.
Unless Lindarion stood.
Unless he lied.
Unless he bore the weight of their fragile faith.
He leaned his head back against the cold stone, closing his eyes once more.
And in the dark, with only Selene’s warmth curled faint inside him, Lindarion made his vow.
No matter how deep the shadows.
No matter how heavy the lie.
He would not break before they did.