Chapter 424 424: Council (2)
Ashwing, perched on Lindarion's shoulder, yawned loudly. "You two talk too much about serious things. Can we at least have breakfast before you go chasing ghosts again?"
Lindarion's lips twitched faintly. "You just had breakfast."
"That was an hour ago."
"You're not a void serpent, Ashwing."
"I could be," the dragon said defiantly. "If I tried."
Nysha actually smiled at that, brief, fleeting, but real.
They walked in silence for a while longer, until they reached the terrace that overlooked the southern horizon. The sunlight cut through the canopy, gleaming on Lindarion's white hair. Below them, the great roots of the World Tree coiled and glimmered faintly, alive with quiet power.
"Do you really think it's Dythrael?" Nysha asked, her tone lower now, as if afraid the branches themselves might listen.
Lindarion's gaze didn't waver from the horizon. "No. Not yet. But whatever stirs beneath the land isn't natural. And if it isn't him, it may be something older."
Ashwing's tail flicked uneasily. "Older than Dythrael?"
"Everything that lives casts a shadow," Lindarion murmured. "Even the first flames."
They stood there a long time, the forest wind winding between them. The peace of Lorienya seemed to stretch endlessly, green, golden, eternal, but beneath it, the prince could already feel the hum of change. The pulse of something vast stirring in the dark places of the earth.
When he turned to leave, the light shifted again, glancing off his golden eyes and white hair like sunlight caught in frost.
The wind through the leaves whispered faintly in a language older than any of them.
And somewhere deep beneath the forest, unseen, something answered.
—
Ashwing's wings beat once, twice, and the world dropped away beneath them.
The emerald canopy of Lorienya blurred into a living sea, the vast World Tree at its heart pulsing like a beacon of divine life. Lindarion's cloak snapped in the wind as he guided Ashwing upward, the dragon's small, disguised body glowing faintly with suppressed power.
They soared higher until the air thinned and the horizon stretched endlessly. Beyond the forest, the world changed, vibrant greens fading into dull greys and scorched plains where the breath of the world seemed to falter.
"Do you feel it?" Lindarion murmured, eyes narrowing.
Ashwing's voice echoed in his mind, quieter now. "Yeah. It's… empty. Like the land's been drained dry."
"Mana decay," Lindarion said softly. "But too sudden. It should take centuries, not months."
The wind hissed around them, carrying the faint scent of ash. Below, what had once been rolling meadows now cracked like parched skin.
Rivers twisted into half-dried veins, and at their edges, warped vegetation clawed upward, pale, pulsing, alive yet not.
Ashwing's voice was uneasy. "Those plants… they move."
"They feed," Lindarion replied. "Something's leeching mana from the ley lines. These are the remnants."
He pulled the reins gently, and Ashwing angled lower. As they descended, the ruins of an old human settlement came into view, half-buried beneath dead vines, roofs caved in, a single tattered banner fluttering weakly in the wind.
Lindarion's boots touched down in silence. The soil crumbled beneath him, dry as bone.
Ashwing landed beside him, shifting into a larger shape, no longer a lizard, but a small draconic form, scales dark silver under the light. His eyes darted about nervously. "There's… no sound. No birds. No insects. Nothing."
Lindarion nodded slowly. "Life knows where not to linger."
He walked forward, the air thick with static. A few shattered sigils burned faintly on the stone walls, old mana seals, human-made.
Defensive wards, long since broken. Lindarion traced one with his fingers; the markings pulsed briefly in response, as if recognizing him.
A whisper fluttered through his mind, not Selene, not his system, but the echo of something left behind.
[Residual mana detected. Origin: Human. Fragmentary.]
He frowned. "Ashwing. These defenses… they weren't meant to repel beasts. They were built to hold something in."
The dragon's wings folded close. "You mean they trapped something here?"
"Or tried to." Lindarion crouched, brushing dust from a half-buried sigil. "But it escaped."
The air shimmered faintly, heat waves coiling from nothing. Then, silence again. The pressure faded as quickly as it came.
Ashwing tilted his head. "You think this is connected to the weird pulse from before?"
"Yes." Lindarion's golden eyes sharpened. "But this isn't Dythrael's work. His corruption burns like black fire. This…" He touched the sigil again. "This feels colder. Older. Like frost that never melted."
Ashwing fidgeted. "You're scaring me a little."
Lindarion gave a faint smile. "Good. Fear means instinct still works."
He straightened, looking out toward the southern ridges. "We'll fly farther, past the dead plains. I want to see where this trail ends."
They took to the air again, soaring low over the barren lands. As they crossed the boundary between Lorienya's lush life and the wasteland's husk, the transition was abrupt, like stepping from sunlight into shadow.
Here, the mana veins beneath the ground no longer pulsed blue, but grey, their flow frozen. Ancient runes carved into the stones flickered faintly, languages long extinct.
Ashwing murmured, "It's like the world itself is holding its breath."
Lindarion's reply was quiet, reverent. "Perhaps it knows something we do not."
They passed over a ridge and came upon a vast scar in the land, a fissure that split the world open, hundreds of meters across, glowing faintly with mist. The energy that rose from it was neither light nor darkness but something in between.
Ashwing's eyes widened. "That's not natural."
"No," Lindarion agreed. "That's a wound."
He leapt from Ashwing's back, descending slowly as mana gathered beneath his feet. When he reached the edge of the fissure, the air trembled with energy, the same kind that had flickered within him when the World Tree changed him.
He knelt and touched the edge. His system flickered erratically.
[Warning: Unidentified energy source.]
[Analyzing…]
[Partial match: Primordial Essence – Incomplete.]
Lindarion's heartbeat quickened. "Primordial essence…?"
Ashwing crouched beside him. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means," Lindarion said slowly, "this wound wasn't made by power born of the current age. It predates the empires… predates the gods themselves."
Ashwing blinked. "So… old old."
A faint chuckle left Lindarion despite himself. "Yes. Old old."