Ashwing landed on his shoulder with an audible gulp.
"Okay," he whispered, "uh… be normal. Just be normal. Try not to glow."
Lindarion didn't respond.
His aura pulsed once not outward, not aggressive,
but like the settling of dust after an explosion.
The Tirnaeth captain swallowed.
He was tall for a dark elf—bright amethyst eyes, ash-gray skin with the faint lavender undertone common to his people. His spear was steady, but barely.
"State your name," he said, voice taut. "Slowly."
Nysha stepped between them.
"Captain Kael, stand down. This is Lindarion of Eldorath. Prince of—"
"I know who the Prince of Eldorath is," Kael snapped.
His eyes didn't move from Lindarion.
"But this is not the same man who entered that tower."
Ashwing muttered, "That's what I said—"
"Quiet," Nysha hissed.
Kael pointed the butt of his spear to the ground.
"Something awakened when you stepped inside. The tower has not stirred in centuries. Dead, silent, emptied of all presence."
