They pressed on until the cavern narrowed again, the stench of burnt flesh trailing them. Hours blurred into the rhythm of boots against stone, torchlight catching on jagged walls, every echo carrying too far. The humans whispered occasionally, prayers or mutters, but they kept moving.
Lindarion walked at the head, eyes forward, every sense sharp. His chest still ached faintly, a reminder of Maeven's strike, of how close he had been to breaking. Selene's warmth lingered in his blood, faint but steady.
He did not call for her. Not yet.
The deeper they marched, the heavier the air became, thick with something unseen. The humans shifted uneasily, some coughing, some muttering about rot. The commander gave them no reprieve. "South until we find open ground," he rasped. "Or until we die."
Lindarion's hand brushed the hilt of his sword. His thoughts were a single iron vow.
'If Dythrael's shadow stretches this far, then I will cut it here. No matter how many falls before me.'
And still, the cavern waited.
Unbroken silence.
Unseen eyes.
The march had only just begun.
—
The southern tunnels opened into ruin.
What first struck them was the silence. No dripping water, no scratching vermin, no whispers of wind. Just stillness, oppressive, absolute. Then the torches lit the walls, and the breath of every soldier hitched.
Carvings sprawled across black stone, entire murals etched in lines so precise they seemed burned into the rock itself. They weren't elven, nor human, nor demonic.
The figures were taller, broader, their bodies caught mid-shift between scaled beasts and men. Wings, tails, jaws filled with jagged teeth, yet their eyes had been drawn with eerie care, bright slits that glowed faint in torchlight.
"Gods preserve us," one of the men whispered, clutching his blade tighter. "Demons lived here."
"No." The commander's voice was low, wary. "Not demons. Something older."
The village stretched beyond the first hall, tunnels breaking into collapsed homes carved straight from the cavern walls. Shattered pottery crunched under boots.
Half-buried statues loomed at the corners, serpentine figures with crowns of horns, hands spread as if offering something unseen.
The air reeked of ash though no fire burned.
Ashwing shifted on Lindarion's shoulder, his scales prickling, throat vibrating with a low hiss. His lizard form was small, but his unease was vast, the sound pressed sharp against Lindarion's ear. The bond between them pulsed with warning, an instinctive recoil.
'You feel it too.'
Ashwing's tongue flicked once, tasting the stale air. His tail lashed, claws digging faintly into Lindarion's cloak.
The soldiers moved hesitantly, every step louder than it should have been. One brushed against a wall and flinched back as dust and something blacker than stone trickled down.
Another picked up a broken shard of pottery, only to drop it as the surface seared his palm.
"Stay sharp," the commander barked, though his own hand trembled where it rested on his hilt. "We scout, nothing more. Keep torches high."
Nysha lingered near Lindarion's side, her crimson eyes narrowed. Shadows flickered faintly around her ankles as though even they were unwilling to touch the floor. "This place isn't dead," she whispered. "It remembers."
Lindarion didn't answer. His gaze was fixed on the central mural. Unlike the others, this one was untouched by time. Half-dragon, half-man figures encircled a great spiral, a serpent devouring its own tail. Ouroboros.
His pulse throbbed once, hard.
[System Alert: ███ anomaly detected.]
[Warning: Incompatible architecture.]
[Data—corrupted.]
[Quest: ——— ERROR]
The words flickered red across his vision, then shattered into static.
He clenched his jaw, suppressing the twitch of his hand. No one else saw. No one ever would.
The system stuttered again.
[Blood resonance identified.]
[Lineage—cross contamination: Draconic/Human.]
[Warning: Unstable inheritance present within vicinity.]
The alerts dissolved before he could seize them, vanishing like smoke. His chest tightened. 'Draconic blood.' His gaze shifted subtly toward Ashwing, then back to the carvings.
"…Prince." The commander's voice cut through his thoughts. "Your eyes."
Lindarion blinked, then realized the faint crimson gleam had surfaced, betraying strain. He forced the glow down with a breath and met the commander's gaze coldly. "Focus on the path, not me."
The man stiffened, nodded, and turned back.
The deeper they walked, the worse it grew. Homes lay in shattered heaps. Bone fragments glimmered faintly in torchlight, too large for humans, too misshapen for elves.
Some bore claw marks that seemed to twist into spirals rather than straight lines, as though the wounds themselves resisted natural form.
The murals changed too. At first they had shown proud demihumans, half-dragon, half-human hybrids, standing tall, ruling, crowned. But deeper in the village, the lines grew frantic. Wings shriveled, bodies hunched, faces split in agony.
The final mural they found was nothing but chaos, demihumans tearing at each other, their spirals fracturing into jagged shards.
Nysha's voice was barely a whisper. "They destroyed themselves."
"Or someone destroyed them," Lindarion murmured.
Another flicker.
[System Notice: Residual curse energy—detected.]
[Origin: ██ Demihuman collapse.]
[Threat Level: Suppressed.]
[Do not engage.]
The last words burned brighter than the rest before dissolving into static.
"Prince." The commander's voice carried tension, almost fear. "This place… there is nothing for us here. Only death. We should burn it and leave."
The soldiers muttered agreement, shifting uneasily, torches shaking in their hands. Some made gestures against evil. One spat into the dirt.
Lindarion looked over them. Their eyes were hollow with exhaustion and fear, but hope clung to him like chains. They wanted him to decide.
Ashwing growled low, his scales rippling with unease. Nysha's gaze found his, crimson and steady, waiting.
'If I reveal what I've seen, they'll panic. They'll tear themselves apart before Maeven strikes again.' His hand brushed the hilt of his sword. 'No. This secret remains mine.'
He spoke aloud, voice cold and sharp. "We move on."
"But—" one soldier started, only to wilt under his glare.
"We march south," Lindarion continued, final. "This ruin belongs to ash and memory. Nothing more."
The commander hesitated, then bowed his head. "As you command."
The soldiers filed out quickly, eager to leave the weight of the ruins behind. The torches dimmed as they passed through the broken gates, shadows peeling away from the carvings as if relieved to let them go.
Nysha lingered. Her gaze stayed on him, searching. "You know something."
He met her eyes but said nothing. His silence was answer enough, but not one she could use. Shadows flickered at her wrists before she let them fade. She followed the others without another word.
Lindarion stood a moment longer, his eyes fixed on the spiral. The serpent devouring itself glimmered faintly, as if lit from within.
[System Notice: Observation incomplete.]
[Return advised.]
[Master protocol override required.]
The words vanished into static, leaving only silence.
Ashwing hissed once more, impatient.
Lindarion exhaled slowly, then turned his back on the mural. "Not today."
And he followed his soldiers into the dark.