Lindarion stepped forward. His new core thrummed, responding not to the humans' fear but to the walls themselves. The carvings… they weren't inert. Not entirely. They whispered, faint as wind through leaves, fragments of meaning pressing into his skull.
[System Alert: Unknown script detected.]
[Translation protocols: initialized.]
[Partial decoding…]
Symbols unraveled before his eyes. He read them not as words but impressions, old echoes that resonated with the mana in his veins.
"…blood of the sky-born… flame tempered in scale… covenant bound by marrow…"
His jaw tightened. The demi-dragons, their legacy lay buried here. Not myth, not rumor. Proof, carved in stone.
The commander glanced at him. "Do you understand it?"
"Enough," Lindarion said, his tone clipped. He would not reveal more. Not when the truth pressed so close to his system, not when the walls themselves whispered like they belonged to him.
Ashwing stirred again. 'Feels like home.' His thought brushed warm, confused. 'But I've never been here. Have I?'
'No,' Lindarion told him. 'But your kind… perhaps theirs walked here once.'
The little dragon's tail coiled tighter. 'Don't like it. Smells like bones.'
They pressed deeper. The chamber funneled into narrower corridors, torchlight throwing long shadows across walls etched with ever-more frantic carvings.
The images grew darker, claws tearing cities, wings blotting skies, men and women kneeling beneath dragon-shaped thrones.
The humans muttered prayers under their breath. Some spat, as though to ward off evil. Others stared too long, as if trapped in fascination.
Nysha moved closer to Lindarion's side, her whisper edged. "These drawings… they worshipped them."
"Not worship," Lindarion murmured back, voice low enough only she could hear. "Obedience."
Her eyes flicked to him, sharp. But she didn't press. She never did, not in front of others.
[System Notice: Core resonance adapting.]
[New trait acquired: Dragonic Affinity.]
[Effect: Enhanced perception of draconic mana, bloodlines, and relics.]
The message burned against his mind. He exhaled slowly, keeping his expression still.
'More gifts. More chains.'
Ashwing's little head lifted again. 'What did it say?'
'Nothing you need to worry about.'
'You're lying.'
He ignored him.
The corridor spilled into another vast space, this one a sanctum, wide and circular, its ceiling lost to shadows beyond torchlight. Pillars lined the edges, carved in the shapes of dragons rearing upward, their stone scales flaking with age.
At the center rose a platform, an altar of black stone cracked but unbroken. Strange grooves lined its surface, channels that hinted at liquid once poured to flow in patterns, ritualistic, binding.
The humans froze. Fear rippled through them like a sickness.
The commander drew his sword halfway, voice hoarse. "This is no place for us."
Nysha's shadows flared faintly. Her gaze fixed on the altar. "It's older than any of us. And still awake."
The air throbbed. Lindarion felt it too, the pulse beneath the stone, faint but steady, like a heart that refused to die. His new core resonated with it, dragging his breath shallow.
[System Alert: High-density mana detected.]
[Warning: Interference risk. Core synchronization unstable.]
His hand pressed against his chest again. It was too much, too fast, power surging where he had no space to hold it.
Ashwing hissed softly, low and restless. 'It's calling you. Don't answer. Don't. Don't.'
'I'm not,' Lindarion thought, though his grip on the sword tightened. 'But if I don't… it may come anyway.'
The commander turned to him, suspicion threading through his exhaustion. "Elf prince. What do you see?"
Lindarion's eyes locked on the altar, the grooves where blood had once flowed. He thought of the demi-dragons, of covenants carved in bone, of Selene's warmth sleeping in the back of his mind.
And he lied.
"Stone," he said evenly. "Old stone. Nothing more."
The commander's stare lingered, sharp, but he nodded slowly, sheathing his blade. The humans shifted, uneasy, but did not argue.
Nysha's gaze burned into him. She knew. Not the truth, but the weight of it. The silence between them was enough.
He turned away before she could speak, forcing his core to still, forcing the resonance to drown in restraint.
The temple waited. The altar pulsed. And Lindarion walked deeper into the shadows, carrying power he could not reveal, with only a childish dragon on his shoulder to whisper the fear he refused to voice.
—
The altar's silent pulse clung to them even as they turned away. Torches guttered, shadows twitching too long against the carved walls, but none of the humans dared to linger.
Their boots scuffed the dust in hurried, uneven strides, the rhythm of men desperate to leave a room they should never have entered.
"Keep formation," the commander barked, his voice frayed from strain. "No stragglers. We move."
The words cracked through the tension, though they did little to hide his own unease. His knuckles were white on the hilt of his sword as he kept throwing glances over his shoulder at the altar, as if expecting it to rise and follow.
Lindarion remained at the rear, his hand steady on the hilt of his weapon. The hum of his newly advanced core hadn't dimmed, and every step sent faint tremors of energy rippling through his veins.
He masked it well enough, his breathing calm, his face unreadable, but the strain of containing it gnawed at him.
Ashwing clung tighter to his shoulder. The little dragon's tail twitched, his claws kneading fabric. 'It still feels like it's staring. Even though we're not looking.'
'Ignore it,' Lindarion answered in thought, his eyes sweeping the shadows of the corridor ahead.
'Easy for you,' Ashwing muttered, his voice a half-grumble. 'My nose won't stop smelling it. Like burnt scales and blood. Yuck.'
Lindarion's lips pressed into the faintest curve of a smile, but it didn't last. He pushed forward, matching the humans' pace as they filed deeper into the temple's winding halls.
Nysha walked several paces ahead, shadows whispering faintly at her heels. Her posture was taut, her crimson eyes sharp.
She hadn't spoken since the altar chamber, hadn't looked at him, but he could feel her silence pressing heavier than words. She knew something had shifted.
The corridors stretched endlessly, carved stone giving way to collapsed passages, rubble choking old doorways. The humans carried their torches high, muttering prayers as they passed cracked murals of winged figures with claws outstretched.