Chapter 376: Scouting (2)
The return march was worse. Every step was heavier, as though the land sought to swallow them whole. Shadows lengthened unnaturally, stretching like claws across the ground.
The scouts spoke less now, their earlier mutters choked silent. The commander walked stiff at Lindarion’s side, his jaw set. Only Nysha still looked outward, shadows stretched thin like webs across their path.
Halfway back, the youngest scout stumbled. His foot caught on something buried shallow in the ash. He cursed, dropping to his knees, and brushed at the dirt.
Not wood. Not stone. Bone.
The ash fell away to reveal a skull, jaw wrenched open in a silent scream. More brushing revealed another, then another, an entire pit of them, stacked and buried like refuse.
The boy reeled back, gagging. The others froze, fear sparking sharp.
Nysha’s shadows recoiled violently. Her voice was a hiss. "This was not battle. This was harvest."
The commander’s face turned gray beneath his scars. He looked to Lindarion, waiting, desperate for an answer.
Lindarion’s chest ached. His shadows twitched, hungry, but he forced them still. His voice was iron. "Cover it. Leave it."
The boy looked horrified. "But—"
"Leave it." The command cracked across the silence like a whip.
The scouts obeyed, though their eyes burned with unease. Ash was dragged back over the skulls, hiding them once more beneath a false earth. But the silence afterward was heavier.
No one spoke again until the cavern mouth yawned open before them.
—
When they descended into the flickering firelight, the humans below lifted their heads in hope.
"Did you find them?" voices called.
"Was it safe? Were there signs?"
Lindarion did not answer. He let the commander step forward, voice gravel-thick. "Empty land. Burned villages. Nothing left."
The crowd murmured, unease cutting through the fragile thread of hope.
Lindarion’s shadow curled close around him. He met Nysha’s gaze across the firelight. She said nothing, but the bitterness in her eyes burned brighter than flame.
Because they both knew the truth.
There was no safety above.
No life to reclaim.
Only a silence carved by hands older, colder, and crueler than the humans could ever dream.
And somewhere, in that silence, Dythrael waited.
—
The cavern was heavy with smoke, torchlight guttering against blackened stone. The scouting party had barely returned before the whispers began, rippling like cracks across brittle faith.
"They found nothing."
"Only ash."
"No hope above."
Lindarion stood apart from the mutterings, his cloak still streaked gray from ash, the sword at his hip humming faintly, restless. Shadows curled around his boots, invisible to all but Nysha. His chest ached, not from the march, not from the corpses buried beneath the ground, but from the weight pressing closer with each hour.
The humans had seen his blade carve through monsters. They had seen him stand while others fell. They would cling to him until their knuckles broke, until their faith devoured him.
The commander barked orders to quiet them. His voice was smoke-scraped, strained. "Enough. Save your breath for what comes. Prince—" He turned to Lindarion, the title raw in his mouth. "We speak now."
The crowd parted reluctantly, drawn by curiosity, by desperation. Lindarion followed the commander toward the central fire, Nysha moving at his side. Ashwing slithered after them, scales dulled from soot, eyes sharp.
They gathered around a stone slab dragged to serve as a table. The commander stood opposite Lindarion, his scarred face hard, eyes burning with something between reverence and suspicion. Two of his lieutenants lingered nearby, gaunt but sharp-eyed men who had survived too long to die easily.
Nysha leaned against the slab, her shadows twitching restlessly. She had not spoken since they’d left the surface.
The commander placed both hands on the stone. His knuckles were raw. "We saw what waits above. Nothing. No food, no allies, no shelter. Only corpses and smoke. If that is all this land offers, then we rot here until the tunnels bury us."
One of the lieutenants spat into the dirt. "Better buried than butchered. At least the stone won’t mock us."
The other sneered. "Spoken like a coward. You’d rather choke on dust than take a blade in your hand?"
The commander’s glare silenced them both. Then his eyes returned to Lindarion. "Prince, your word brought us above. Your word brought us back. Now speak. What path do we carve?"
The cavern hushed. Dozens of hollow faces turned toward him, their whispers choking off into silence.
Lindarion let the weight of their eyes press against him. He did not bow beneath it.
His voice was quiet, but each word carried across the chamber. "What we found was not emptiness. It was warning."
The humans shifted uneasily.
Nysha’s eyes flicked toward him, shadows curling tighter. She said nothing, but he felt the weight of her stare: careful.
Lindarion’s gaze swept the crowd. "Villages emptied. Corpses left where they chose. That was no accident. That was orchestration. Someone is moving them—your kin, your children, your blood—taken before fire ever touched their homes."
A ripple tore through the humans, grief tangled with fury. Mothers clutched children closer. Men clenched fists around blunt blades.
The commander’s jaw clenched. "And where are they taken?"
Lindarion’s voice hardened. "Far. Beyond what you can reach alone. Beyond what even I can reach with shadows alone. But I know this: they are not gone. Not yet."
Murmurs swelled. Hope sparked, fragile, trembling.
Nysha’s lips parted, but she swallowed her words. Her eyes burned crimson in the firelight.
Lindarion rested his hand on the sword. Its hum vibrated faint, eager, feeding on the crowd’s heat. He forced it silent. "If they are chained, then chains can be broken. But to march blind is suicide. We need ground. We need allies. We need a map of the enemy’s reach."
The commander’s eyes narrowed. "You speak as if we have time."
"We do not." Lindarion’s tone was iron. "But rushing headlong is death. You’ve seen what waits above. Empty fields. Burned earth. Corpses. That is not war—it is bait. They want you to break yourselves against their silence."
The lieutenants exchanged uneasy glances. One finally spoke. "Then what? We cower underground until the gods strike?"
Lindarion’s gaze snapped to him. Shadows curled faintly along his shoulders. "You mistake patience for cowering. I do not."
Silence cracked sharp around the words.
Nysha finally spoke, her voice low, cutting. "He’s right. The land above is not dead—it’s listening. If you march too soon, you march into its jaws."
The commander’s lips pressed thin. He looked between her and Lindarion, weighing, measuring. Then he gave a slow nod. "Then we plan."
The crowd shifted uneasily, but the words carried weight.
The commander leaned forward, voice dropping. "Supplies are low. Our people starve. We can last perhaps a month in these caverns before the weak fall first. Food must be found. Weapons repaired. If scouting again is suicide, then where do we turn?"
Lindarion’s eyes lowered briefly, closing against the burn in his chest. He saw again the skull pit, the faceless dolls, the silence carved into ash. His father’s missing arm. Dythrael’s silver gaze.
’Selene.’
Her warmth stirred faintly in his mind, but he did not draw her fully. He only needed her echo.
’Guide me.’