Muffled. Half-lost behind a wall of cracked stone.
Ashwing lifted his head. "You hear that?"
Lindarion nodded once.
They stepped over a collapsed archway. The hallway curved, narrowing toward what used to be the Hall of Accord. The ceiling sagged in two places, but the arch at the far end still held.
A flicker of movement.
Steel glinting in torchlight.
He raised a hand.
Didn't speak.
Didn't call out.
He just stepped forward with Ashwing behind him, boots quiet on dust-covered stone.
Then one of them turned, and spotted him.
"Elven!" the voice barked. A woman's voice. Not familiar. Sharp. "Hold your fire!"
Weapons lowered.
Half a dozen elves, armored, soot-streaked, battered but alive, stood with blades drawn. Two of them were carrying a stretcher between them. A child, unconscious, lay wrapped in singed robes. Another elf leaned against the wall, bleeding down one arm.
The leader stepped forward.
