Every gaze fixed on him. Humans, scarred and desperate. Nysha, arms folded like a blade yet to be drawn. Even the elves on the platforms above, who pretended not to eavesdrop, leaned closer with ears sharpened by suspicion.
Ashwing stirred in his mind, a flutter of scales and childish brightness. 'They're all staring at you again, Lind. You should say something heroic. Or scary. Or both. Dragons always make their speeches dramatic.'
Lindarion's lips twitched faintly, though his eyes remained grave. "Three months," he said, his voice carrying across the square. "Three months to prove our worth. That is the decision of Vaelthorn and Sylwen Ironbark."
He let the names linger, weighty with the authority they carried. "If we waste it, we are cast out. If we use it, if we build, train, strengthen, then they will have no choice but to see us not as burden, but as force."
Nysha's shadows hissed faintly, curling like smoke around her boots. "And if they still decide against us?"
