Chapter 378: Scouting (4)
The first corpse slumped there. Not human anymore. A mutant, its body still twitching though its chest was hollowed out, ribs bent outward like broken doors. Its face had melted into a snout, jaw unhinged, eyes white and blind.
The soldiers hissed and drew tighter around their torches.
Then the sound came, wet, dragging, from the far side of the chamber. Another shape stumbled into the light. Not one. Three.
Mutants. Fresh. Their flesh still smoking faintly from the transformation, as if burned alive and not finished cooling. They screeched when the torches touched them, jaws stretching too wide, arms bending the wrong way as they rushed forward.
The humans shouted, shields up, spears ready.
Lindarion moved faster.
His blade sang low, shadows blooming outward with the cut. The first mutant’s head left its shoulders in a single sweep, the black ichor spraying warm across the stone.
The second lunged, claws flashing; Lindarion stepped inside the strike, his free hand crushing the thing’s throat before his sword carved it clean in half.
The third barely had time to scream before the shadow-edge severed its torso, the body collapsing into steaming halves that twitched and shivered.
Silence again. No struggle. No doubt.
The humans lowered their spears slowly, staring at the steaming remains. Their breaths shook. Their eyes clung to Lindarion’s back as though they’d just seen a mountain split open.
Nysha’s shadows receded slightly, folding closer to her skin. She smirked, but the sound of it was bitter. "You make it look too easy."
Lindarion wiped the blade against the ground, letting it hiss against the corrupted sludge. "Because it is."
The words hung heavy. The humans shifted uneasily. They had fought these things before, barely survived them, lost kin to them. And yet this prince carved through three as if cutting down reeds.
One soldier whispered hoarsely, "If he can do that alone—"
Harrow cut him off with a glare. "Shut it."
They moved on.
The tunnels stretched narrower again, forcing them into a line. Their torches guttered from the damp, but the dark here was alive even without wind. Black streaks ran thicker along the walls, pulsing faintly, as though something beneath the stone breathed with them.
Harrow broke the silence again, his voice sharp to cover the tremor. "We can’t fight this. Not with men. Not with steel. Two months, and it’s already taken what would’ve been safe routes south. Another month, maybe two more, and every cavern from here to the surface will choke on this filth."
"And then?" Nysha asked flatly.
"Then there’s nowhere left to run," Harrow snapped. "No trade, no food, no escape. Just stone and teeth until we’re all carcasses in the dark."
Lindarion listened, silent. His thoughts pressed cold and sharp against his ribs. Dythrael’s shadow. His leash stretching farther than any mortal could push. If this was the reach of two months, then in a year—
His hand tightened on the hilt until shadows licked across his knuckles.
Nysha’s eyes flicked to him, a small frown. She knew that grip. She knew when he was holding back too much.
The tunnel bent left, opening into another chamber. This one was worse.
Bodies lay everywhere. Dozens. Human. Soldiers, perhaps, or refugees who thought the tunnels would shield them.
Their flesh warped, half-changed, as though the corruption had caught them mid-scream and left them frozen. Arms stretched too long, mouths split to the ears.
Some still twitched faintly, as though their souls hadn’t finished leaving.
The humans gagged. One retched openly, the sound echoing too loud.
Nysha’s shadows curled tight around her legs, her voice quiet. "This wasn’t an attack. This was... harvesting."
Lindarion stepped closer, his boots crunching bone. He studied the corpses. Not fresh. Days old. Some older. And yet the corruption clung to them, kept them from rotting fully. Sustained them, even in death.
His jaw clenched. "Maeven’s leash."
"No," Nysha corrected softly. "Maeven couldn’t weave this. This is Dythrael’s hand."
Harrow swore under his breath, making a warding gesture. The soldiers murmured prayers, clutching charms.
One whispered, "If this spreads any farther—"
"It already has," Lindarion said. His voice was iron. "This is only what he leaves in his wake. You haven’t yet seen the storm."
The soldier paled, staring at the prince with hollow eyes.
Nysha touched his arm lightly, her voice low enough for only him. "And when that storm comes? Will you still carry them on your back?"
His gaze stayed on the corpses. His answer came quiet. "I will carry what I must."
They moved again.
Hours stretched, torches burning low, smoke scratching their throats. They found no more mutants, only echoes of them, scratches in the stone, ichor drying in jagged lines, a claw wedged in the wall where something had torn too hard. But no mass, no army. Only traces.
At last, the tunnel sloped down into a cavern that ended in a wall of collapsed stone. A dead end. No paths further south.
Harrow scowled, planting his sword in the dirt. "Wasted march."
"Not wasted," Lindarion said. His eyes lingered on the rockfall. The stone was cracked black, veins of corruption seeping through even here. "We know how far it’s spread."
Nysha crossed her arms, shadows curling. "And?"
"And we know it does not end here." His voice was quiet but certain. "It will move past this wall, if it has not already."
The squad fell silent, the torches flickering against their strained faces.
Finally Harrow exhaled hard, running a hand through his sweat-matted hair. "Then we go back. Report. Fortify. Pray the next tide doesn’t drown us before the walls are set."
Lindarion said nothing. His eyes stayed fixed on the black veins in the stone.
Because he knew prayers would not hold. Only the sword. Only blood.
They turned north again, torches guttering, their footsteps echoing against the veins of a world that was already rotting faster than any mortal heart could keep pace with.
—
The return march felt longer than the descent.
Their torches guttered with each step, smoke clinging low to the tunnel ceiling as though it, too, was too tired to rise. The humans walked with heads bent, their boots dragging more than marching. They carried no trophies, no signs of victory, only the heavy silence of men who had seen too much.