The words hit harder than any blade.
Lindarion's hand brushed the hilt of his sword, not for strength, but for steadiness. He remembered Selene's warmth, Ashwing's childish laughter. He remembered the humans kneeling, Nysha's silence.
He lifted his chin. "I am Lindarion. Not heir. Not rebel. My path is my own."
Sylwen's lips pressed thin. Vaelthorn leaned back slowly, studying him like one studies the shape of a storm.
Finally, the queen spoke again, her voice quieter but sharper than her husband's thunder. "You were a boy when we last saw you. You are a man now, with shadows in your wake. If you would ask for sanctuary here, you must answer truly."
Her gaze pierced him. "What is it you seek in Lorienya?"
Lindarion bowed his head briefly, then straightened, his voice steady. "I ask sanctuary for them. The humans I brought, wounded, starved, hunted. They have no other refuge. Their world has been torn to ash by Maeven's corruption. If they are turned away here, they will die."
