They pressed on until the cavern narrowed again, the stench of burnt flesh trailing them. Hours blurred into the rhythm of boots against stone, torchlight catching on jagged walls, every echo carrying too far. The humans whispered occasionally, prayers or mutters, but they kept moving.
Lindarion walked at the head, eyes forward, every sense sharp. His chest still ached faintly, a reminder of Maeven's strike, of how close he had been to breaking. Selene's warmth lingered in his blood, faint but steady.
He did not call for her. Not yet.
The deeper they marched, the heavier the air became, thick with something unseen. The humans shifted uneasily, some coughing, some muttering about rot. The commander gave them no reprieve. "South until we find open ground," he rasped. "Or until we die."
Lindarion's hand brushed the hilt of his sword. His thoughts were a single iron vow.
'If Dythrael's shadow stretches this far, then I will cut it here. No matter how many falls before me.'
