The realization came quiet and sharp.
He stepped carefully through the wreckage, eyes narrowing. There were no drag marks. No trails of blood suggesting someone had crawled or been pulled.
'They moved fast. Clean. They weren't looking to slaughter everyone. They were looking for someone.'
Ashwing grunted. "You're thinking what I'm thinking?"
Lindarion didn't answer.
He was already moving again.
Down the side hall. Up the stairs that led toward the royal wing.
The air shifted here.
Cooler.
And heavier.
His core pulsed once in warning.
It wasn't pain. Not exhaustion.
It was pressure. The residue of power. Something old. Something that didn't belong here.
He stopped at the top of the stairs.
The door to his mother's quarters was hanging by one hinge.
The frame melted slightly on the left.
Inside—
His fists clenched.
More scorch marks.
A wall collapsed inward.
Furniture torn in half or snapped like kindling.
And blood.
Not a pool.
Not fresh.
