No bells. No horns. No cries.
Not even the shriek of the mutated things that had ruined the human capital.
Just burning.
Lindarion's hands stayed curled tight on the grips, his shoulders locked stiff.
Ashwing said nothing.
Not yet.
He dipped lower, wings wide, slow. A glide instead of a dive.
Every shift in the wind brought more smoke into Lindarion's lungs.
'Where are the sentries? The lookouts?'
There were always elves stationed at the outer balconies. Always someone watching the skies.
Not today.
Ashwing angled them slightly south, toward the solar bridge that once connected the upper quarters to the public wards.
Its golden stone was cracked, nearly severed, still standing, but only barely. A few broken statues lined the sides like blind sentinels.
They passed above it in silence.
"Want to set down?" Ashwing asked, his voice like a low hum in the bond. Not pressing. Just present.
Lindarion's gaze dropped to the inner quarter.
