Before Lindarion could reply, a knock came at the door. A tall elven guard stepped in, his armor shaped of overlapping wooden plates polished to a mirror sheen. His brown hair was braided with vines, his expression unreadable.
"The council awaits you, Prince Lindarion," he said, voice formal but clipped.
Nysha stiffened, but Lindarion only nodded, stroking Ashwing's scales once before standing. The dragon stirred but didn't lift his head.
"I'll return," Lindarion murmured to Nysha. She didn't reply, only tilted her chin in silent warning.
The walk to the council chamber was longer than he remembered.
Elven guards lined the bridges that stretched between trees, their gazes sharp, tracking his every movement. The city itself was breathtaking, spiraling staircases carved from bark, crystal orbs humming with faint mana, children darting across suspended walkways with laughter that rang like bells.
But beneath the beauty was a silence he couldn't ignore. Whispers trailed him. Not loud enough to catch words, but clear enough in tone: suspicion, fear, curiosity.
By the time they reached the hollowed trunk of the World Tree where the council chamber was rooted, Lindarion's jaw was tight.
The doors opened, and the chamber was as it had been the night before: a vast circle of carved root and woven vine, glowing with rune-light. The councilors were already seated, faces grave. At the center sat Vaelthorn Ironbark and Sylwen, king and queen of Lorienya, their presence a tide of command.
"Prince Lindarion of Eldorath," Vaelthorn intoned, his voice a deep rumble that vibrated through the chamber walls. "Step forward."
Lindarion obeyed, each footfall echoing against the root floor. He stopped at the circle's center, where light pooled faintly, spotlighting him beneath the weight of a dozen stares.
He did not bow.
Vaelthorn's eyes narrowed faintly, but the king said nothing of it. Sylwen's lips curved ever so slightly, as though amused by the defiance.
The silence stretched until Vaelthorn spoke again.
"You came to us at nightfall, asking sanctuary for yourself, your companions, and the mortals you shelter. The council has spoken. The choice was not simple."
The words struck like a hammer, though Lindarion kept his face impassive.
Sylwen leaned forward, her voice softer but no less cutting. "Your presence here stirs unease. You bring shadows, blood, and fire into our branches. Some would see you turned away."
A hiss of agreement rippled from Thariel, who sat two seats to her left. The hawk-faced councilor's gaze burned into Lindarion with open disdain.
"But," Sylwen continued, her tone hardening, "others see the truth as well. That you did not come here by whim. That you bled to bring these mortals out of ruin, when no one else would. That your bloodline is not one we can dismiss."
"Your father," Vaelthorn said suddenly, leaning forward, his gaze like stone, "is he alive?"
The question struck sharper than any blade. Lindarion's grip tightened on the hilt at his side.
"I don't know," he said finally, his voice low.
A murmur spread across the chamber. Some eyes softened, others hardened.
"Then hear our judgment," Vaelthorn said. His voice carried finality. "The mortals you shelter may remain here in Lorienya. For a season only. They will not dwell in the heart of the city, but on the forest's edge, beneath guard. If they prove themselves dangerous, they will be removed."
Lindarion's chest tightened. Relief and anger warred within him, relief that they were not cast out to die, anger at the conditional leash wrapped around their throats.
"And me?" he asked, his voice cutting.
Sylwen's gaze met his, unreadable. "You may remain as well. You are not our enemy, Lindarion Sunblade. But nor are you yet our ally. You walk on the blade's edge. Where you fall is still yours to choose."
The chamber fell silent again.
Lindarion let the words settle, his mind racing. He thought of the humans below, clinging to him like flame to tinder. He thought of Nysha, of Ashwing, of Selene still silent within his core. He thought of his father, somewhere in the world, maimed, lost.
Finally, he inclined his head, not a bow, but an acknowledgment. "Then I will see that they prove themselves. And if your edge cuts me, I will not fall quietly."
Gasps echoed. Thariel slammed a hand on the table, outrage flaring. "Arrogant boy—"
"Enough," Vaelthorn thundered, silencing him. His gaze locked on Lindarion. For a long moment, the air thickened, king and prince measuring one another.
Then Vaelthorn leaned back slowly, a mountain shifting into stillness. "Very well. So it is decided."
The runes along the chamber walls dimmed, signaling the end of the session.
Lindarion turned to leave, his steps steady, though his chest burned with every heartbeat.
As the doors opened behind him, Sylwen's voice followed softly, almost too quiet to hear.
"Storms do not ask where they may break. They choose their own sky."
—
Lindarion's steps as he descended from the council hall carried no calm. Each thud of his boots against the carved wood was heavy, a rhythm that made elves pause and humans shift uneasily as he passed. His face betrayed little, yet his silence said more than words.
Nysha was the first to see him. She stood by the railing overlooking the lower tiers, crimson eyes narrowed, her arms crossed in a coil of irritation. The shadows at her feet twitched like restless fingers. She didn't speak until he was close enough that only he could hear.
"Well?" she said, her voice edged with bitterness. "Did the forest king and queen bless you with their eternal wisdom?"
Lindarion stopped, his gaze steady on hers. For a heartbeat, silence pressed between them. Then he exhaled slowly. "They will allow us sanctuary. Food. Shelter. Protection within their borders."
Nysha arched a brow. "Sounds generous. What's the catch?"
His jaw tightened. "Three months. That is the time they grant. At the end of it, they will judge whether we remain, or leave."
A sharp laugh escaped her, though it carried no mirth. "So we are tolerated pets. Fed and sheltered until the masters decide if we're worth keeping."
Behind them, the humans gathered in the open square, their rough clothes and weary faces stark against the elegance of Lorienya's tree-homes. The commander, broad-shouldered, scarred, and still limping from wounds not yet healed, stepped forward as he caught Lindarion's words.
"Sanctuary," he repeated, tasting the word like iron. "Sanctuary means safety. We'll take it."
A murmur rippled through the others. Relief, hope, yet also unease. Some clenched their fists. Others bowed their heads, muttering prayers. A young woman whispered, "Three months is better than nothing. Three months of peace…"
But an older man, his beard streaked with gray, spat into the soil. "Three months chained is still chained. They don't trust us. They never will. Elves never do."
The commander's hand snapped up. "Enough." His voice cut sharp, though his own eyes betrayed the same doubt. He turned to Lindarion. "Prince, what say you? You brought us here. You stood before their judgment. Do we bow to their leash?"