Chapter 375: Scouting (1)
The air above ground was not air at all, but ash pretending to breathe. It clung to the tongue, turned each inhale to grit, and swallowed sound in a haze that smeared the ruined horizon. What had once been fields lay broken, charred furrows of earth cracked like old bone. Smoke bled from the carcasses of trees. The sky itself sagged low, a lid of gray pressing the world into silence.
Lindarion moved first, his cloak heavy with soot, his boots whispering over brittle soil. The sword hummed faintly at his hip, its hunger restless but chained. Shadows curled in threads behind him, obeying his restraint. He did not look back until the crunch of footsteps followed.
Nysha came next, her crimson eyes glowing faint in the haze. Shadows moved with her like second skin, curling and uncurling with her breath. She did not speak. She did not need to. The tension in her jaw, the restless coil of her hands, said enough: she hated the open air, hated the silence more.
The humans trailed behind. The commander, his scarred jaw set like carved stone, kept to Lindarion’s right, one hand never straying far from the hilt of his blade.
Five more accompanied him, scouts, thin as famine, weapons patched with scavenged iron. They walked like men who had buried too many and learned not to ask for tomorrow.
No one spoke at first. Words felt intrusive here, like breath in a crypt. Only the caw of a distant crow, too sharp, too clean, cut the silence.
Lindarion’s gaze traced the horizon. Nothing moved. No mutants, no demons, not even carrion-beasts to feast on the scattered corpses left from the last battle.
And there were corpses, hundreds, maybe thousands. Human and mutant alike, twisted in grotesque knots of death. They lay where they had fallen, as if time itself refused to touch them.
One of the younger scouts gagged as they passed a mound of bodies, their flesh already splitting open from within, maggots slicking the ground beneath. The commander shot him a look sharp enough to carve silence, and the boy swallowed it down.
Lindarion said nothing. His chest ached with each inhale of decay, but he did not falter.
Nysha’s voice came at last, low and strained. "Too quiet."
The commander grunted. "You wanted noise?"
"Noise means life," she snapped. Her shadows bristled, spreading across the ground like feelers. "This is not life. This is staged."
The commander’s lips pressed thin. He did not argue.
Lindarion halted. The group froze behind him. His eyes swept the distance, ravaged earth, burnt husks of villages reduced to black skeletons. Wind dragged ash over bones like a shroud. Not even tracks remained.
"Dythrael," he murmured.
The name pulled at the air like a blade unsheathed. Even the commander stiffened, though he did not know the weight it carried.
Nysha’s eyes narrowed. "Do you think he was here?"
Lindarion’s fingers brushed the hilt of his sword, shadows twitching faintly in reply. "No. If he had stood here, there would be no corpses to rot." His gaze hardened. "Only ash."
The humans shifted uneasily, glancing at one another. One muttered a prayer under his breath, too soft to catch.
The commander broke the silence. "If this Dythrael is far from here, then who did this?"
Lindarion’s eyes met his. For a heartbeat, he considered lying, softening, giving them something mortal enough to fight. But lies bred weakness, and weakness bred graves.
"Maeven," Lindarion said. His voice carried like iron across stone. "But Maeven does not act without a leash."
The scouts’ faces paled. The commander’s jaw tightened. He looked out over the field of corpses, then spat into the ash. "Then we are walking into a graveyard left for us."
"Graveyard, or warning," Lindarion answered.
They pressed on.
—
Hours bled into one another. The world did not change. Every ridge, every scorched hill, every twisted carcass of a tree looked the same. It was a landscape caught in repetition, as though they walked in circles within some god’s forgotten memory.
The humans began to mutter among themselves. Low, nervous, teeth clenched around words they thought Lindarion couldn’t hear.
"Not natural."
"Cursed ground."
"He leads us into shadow."
He let them speak. Fear was better voiced than swallowed. Fear kept men alive.
Nysha stayed close. Her shadows curled tighter with each step, restless. At one point she leaned closer, her voice meant only for him. "They’re unraveling. If this continues, they’ll turn on you."
Lindarion’s gaze stayed on the horizon. "Let them."
Her eyes burned. "And if they don’t stop at whispers?"
"Then they’ll learn what becomes of traitors." His tone was steel, but his chest ached beneath the words.
Nysha studied him, lips pressed tight, then turned away. Shadows hissed along the dirt like serpents.
—
By the time the sun sagged low, though the sky’s gray hardly shifted, the party reached the bones of a village.
Houses sagged in heaps of ash and timber. A well stood cracked, its stone walls blackened with soot. Dolls, charred faceless, lay half-buried in the dirt. Silence pressed heavier here, as though the earth itself grieved.
The scouts fanned out, blades drawn. They moved too quickly, too loud, their nerves scraping at every shadow.
The commander barked at them, his voice harsh but hoarse. "Slow. Careful. Check the houses."
The men obeyed, though fear made their hands clumsy. They vanished into the shells of ruined homes, their movements echoing too loud in the silence.
Nysha crouched near the well, her fingers brushing the scorched stone. Her shadows seeped into the cracks, searching. "Nothing. No mana traces. No struggle." Her voice darkened. "As if they were erased."
Lindarion knelt beside her, his eyes narrowing on the ash-slick earth. ’Selene.’
Warmth stirred in the back of his mind, slow, reluctant, like a hand brushing against his shoulder. "Master."
’Tell me what I see.’
Her voice was soft, sorrowful. Not slaughter. Not battle. This village was emptied before fire touched it.
His jaw clenched. ’Where were they taken?’
"Far. Too far for me to touch." She hesitated, her warmth faltering. "But I feel chains. Old chains."
His fingers tightened on the edge of the well. He exhaled sharply, forcing her back to rest. The warmth receded, leaving only the hollow air.
Nysha’s eyes flicked to him, suspicion sharp, but she said nothing.
The scouts returned one by one, shaking their heads. "Nothing," one rasped. "Not even bones."
The commander cursed under his breath, dragging a hand down his scarred face. "Burned land, empty homes, and corpses only where they choose to leave them. This isn’t war." His gaze cut to Lindarion. "This is theater."
Lindarion rose to his feet. His cloak dragged ash as he moved. "Then play your part. We march back before night."
The scouts looked relieved, though fear still clung to them like cobwebs. They wanted walls around them, fires to keep shadows at bay. They wanted to believe that their prince carried certainty enough for them all.
But as the party turned back toward the caverns, Lindarion’s eyes lingered on the horizon. Smoke drifted where no fires burned. Ash swirled where no wind stirred.
And somewhere, far beyond sight, a silver gaze watched.