Chapter 422: Peace
Morning light spilled through the canopy in soft strands, touching the wooden platforms of Lorienya’s high city with gold.
The air was fresh, scented faintly of dew and sap, the quiet rustle of leaves whispering above the suspended walkways.
Lindarion stood alone on one of the upper terraces, cloak loose around his shoulders. Below, life had already begun, elven artisans shaping branches with song, children carrying woven baskets of fruit, wind-bells chiming faintly in the early sun.
It was the kind of morning that seemed untouched by history’s weight, by blood or prophecy. For the first time in what felt like months, he could simply breathe.
Ashwing was curled on the railing beside him, still in his smaller form, tail flicking lazily. The dragon’s bright eyes studied the city below.
"Everything’s so... peaceful," he muttered. "No smoke, no screams, no one trying to stab us. It’s weird."
Lindarion’s lips quirked faintly. "You’d rather they tried?"
Ashwing gave a small snort. "No. But it makes me itchy. Peace never lasts, does it?"
The prince didn’t answer right away. His gaze drifted toward the distant horizon, where the World Tree’s vast branches rose higher than clouds.
A soft pulse of energy ran through him, faint, comforting, not from the system or Selene, but from the living mana of Lorienya itself. It welcomed him now, in a way it hadn’t before.
’Peace may not last,’ he thought, ’but for those who still fight for it, even a moment matters.’
A light step behind him broke his reverie. Nysha approached, her crimson eyes sharp as ever, though her expression carried less frost than usual. She stopped beside him, arms folded loosely.
"They’re still talking about yesterday," she said. "Half the council saw it as a display of diplomacy. The other half thinks you wanted to remind them you could level their forest if you wished."
Lindarion gave a quiet hum. "And you?"
"I think you were bored," she said flatly. Then, softer, "But... you made them believe. Not through fear. Through grace. That’s rarer."
He looked at her, and for a heartbeat, something like understanding passed between them. Then Nysha sighed and leaned on the railing. "You really are impossible to read, you know. They’re all wondering what you want out of this place."
"I want them alive when Dythrael moves," he said simply.
Her jaw tightened at the name. "You think he’ll come here?"
"No," Lindarion replied. "But nothing this pure stays untouched. Lorienya’s calm is a fragile illusion. If it breaks, I need to know how deep its roots go."
Ashwing stretched, interrupting the tension. "You two sound like old people."
Nysha arched an eyebrow. "You sound like a hatchling."
"I am a hatchling," Ashwing said proudly. "But at least I know when someone’s being all gloomy for no reason. Look around, these elves would probably faint if someone sneezed too loud."
That earned him a rare chuckle from Lindarion. The dragon puffed out his chest, satisfied.
The sound of children’s laughter drifted up from below. When Lindarion looked down, he saw some of the young elves from yesterday gathered in the courtyard, practicing with wooden blades.
Their movements were clumsy but eager, mirroring what they had seen in the duel. Among them was Caleth, the boy who had shouted during the spar, now trying to imitate Lindarion’s calm stance.
Nysha followed his gaze. "You’re becoming an example," she murmured. "That’s dangerous."
"Perhaps," he said, "or necessary."
A small voice suddenly called from below, clear and nervous. "Prince Lindarion! Will you... will you come see us practice?"
It was Caleth, face flushed but determined. Around him, the other children froze, glancing at one another, then up at the high terrace.
Lindarion blinked once, then stepped lightly down the spiral walkway. Nysha muttered under her breath, "Of course," and followed, while Ashwing fluttered down lazily to perch on a fencepost.
When Lindarion reached the courtyard, the children straightened as if before a king. Their teacher, not Thalan this time, but a young woman with auburn hair tied with silver thread, bowed slightly. "Forgive them, my lord. They’re... inspired."
Lindarion inclined his head. "Inspiration is not a sin, teacher. What is your name?"
"Seren, my prince. I teach the youngest in the outer glades."
He turned his attention to the group. "Show me what you’ve learned," he said gently.
The children obeyed without hesitation. Wooden blades lifted, small feet shifted into stances they clearly didn’t yet understand, and they began their forms, uneven, energetic, but heartfelt. Lindarion watched each movement closely, not for skill but for spirit.
When they finished, breathless and proud, he said, "You fight as those who wish to protect, not to harm. That is the root of strength." He crouched slightly to meet their eyes. "If you keep that heart, your hands will learn the rest."
One of the girls, the one who had whispered during the spar, raised her hand timidly. "Prince Lindarion... can anyone learn what you did yesterday? The flowing thing?"
"The river?" he said, faint amusement in his tone. "Perhaps. But rivers don’t rush to be strong. They learn their shape by patience. By knowing every stone they pass."
The girl frowned slightly, thinking. "Then... I’ll be patient too."
"Good," he said softly. "The river remembers."
The children beamed, whispering to each other, and their teacher bowed again. "You honor them, my prince. Many of them have lost hope before they even began. Seeing you has changed that."
Lindarion inclined his head, but his voice remained quiet. "Then make sure they never lose it again."
When the lesson ended, Nysha lingered nearby, watching the way the children waved as Lindarion left. Her tone was unreadable. "You’re building something here. Whether you mean to or not."
"Hope spreads faster than orders," Lindarion said. "If it takes root here, it might reach where war cannot."
She tilted her head. "You sound like a king already."
He didn’t answer. His gaze wandered toward the horizon again, to the world tree, gleaming like sunrise itself.
They walked in silence for a while until Ashwing broke it again. "You know, for a guy who doesn’t like being stared at, you really keep doing things that make people stare."
Lindarion sighed faintly. "It isn’t intentional."
"It’s working, though," Ashwing said. "Everyone looks at you like you’re some kind of glowing statue. Even the leaves seem happier."
Nysha snorted softly. "Careful, lizard. You’ll make his ego worse."
"Impossible," Ashwing said, flicking his tail.
The three continued down the path toward the council hall, though the morning felt less formal now, less like a duty and more like a heartbeat. Birds flitted through the branches, and sunlight shifted between leaves like liquid gold. Lorienya, untouched and eternal, breathed around them.
Lindarion’s mind, however, wandered. He thought of Eldrin, his father, lost somewhere beyond the borders, and of Dythrael’s shadow still moving unseen. Yet within that shadow, this place was light.
Maybe, he thought, that light was worth defending even more than vengeance.
The sound of distant singing rose from the far terraces, elves tending to mana flowers, their voices blending with the hum of life. For a rare moment, Lindarion let the song fill him, his golden eyes closing briefly.
Ashwing looked up at him curiously. "What’s that for?"
"Nothing," Lindarion said softly. "Just listening."
"To what?"
"To what peace sounds like," he murmured. "Before the storm."
Nysha watched him from the corner of her eye, but said nothing. She knew better than to interrupt that kind of quiet.
Above them, the World Tree shimmered faintly in the sunlight, as though acknowledging his words, or warning him that even here, serenity was only borrowed.