The answer came not from the spirit, but from the air itself, a deep, resonant murmur that rolled across the canyons like thunder:
We did.
The ground trembled. Ashwing flared his wings and hissed, but Lindarion didn't move. His golden eyes tracked the shimmer that coalesced near the broken citadel.
From the mist, shapes emerged, three towering figures, their forms woven of silver and bone, each draped in the tattered vestments of ancient high priests. Their faces were carved masks of stone, emotionless, their eyes burning with faint blue fire.
"The Triarchs," Lindarion murmured.
Nysha looked sharply at him. "You know them?"
"By name only," he said. "They were the first to serve Dythrael before they sealed him. They became his wardens, cursed to remain until his end."
