Chapter 428: Training (2)
When the field finally quieted, Lindarion turned to the commander. "You train well. But next time, I want to see what happens when the forest is gone. No roots. No branches. Just you, your mana, and your will."
The commander hesitated, then bowed deeply. "As you command, Prince Lindarion."
As Lindarion walked away, Ashwing stretched across his shoulder with a lazy flick of his tail. "You’re terrifying when you do that ’no emotion, just wisdom’ thing."
’And yet you stay.’
"Because you feed me," the dragon said cheerfully.
Lindarion almost smiled. Almost.
He paused at the terrace’s edge one last time, looking back at the soldiers beginning to regroup. Sunlight danced across their armor like ripples on water. They were strong in spirit, but spirit alone would not be enough for what was coming.
The forest whispered faintly around him, ancient voices murmuring through leaves and branches. Lorienya was peaceful, yes, but even peace had a heartbeat. And beneath it, something darker stirred, waiting to test whether their grace could withstand the storm.
Lindarion rested a hand briefly on his sword’s hilt. The metal hummed faintly, recognizing the shift in his mana.
’When the forest burns,’ he thought, ’will you still sing, or will you scream?’
The wind through the trees gave no answer.
—
The following morning dawned beneath a canopy of trembling light. Lorienya’s skies never truly burned gold like Eldorath’s dawns, they shimmered with green instead, the soft glow of sunlight diffused through millions of leaves. It gave the illusion that the whole forest breathed with its own slow pulse.
Lindarion stood in the center of the training terraces, cloak folded aside, his white hair falling loose across his shoulders.
His sword, the obsidian edge that pulsed faintly with shadowlight, hung at his side. Around him stood the Lorienyan commanders, Thalan among them, and over a hundred soldiers arranged in semi-circular lines.
Today, there would be no grace.
The platforms had been stripped of enchantment. No roots moved beneath their feet. No branches coiled to defend or assist. The elves stood on dead bark, the floor dry and unresponsive. The forest’s will was silent.
"Today," Lindarion said, his voice low but clear, "you will learn to fight when the forest does not listen."
A murmur rippled through the ranks, soft disbelief, maybe even apprehension.
One soldier, bold enough to speak, stepped forward. "Prince Lindarion," he said carefully, "our bond with Lorienya is sacred. To fight without it... is like cutting away breath itself."
Lindarion’s golden eyes flicked toward him, not cold, but unwavering. "And if breath is stolen?"
The soldier hesitated.
"Then you learn to fight with silence in your lungs," Lindarion finished.
He gestured. "Begin."
The command rippled outward. The soldiers raised their weapons, staffs, bows, curved elven blades, and began to spar, their rhythm immediately faltering without the forest’s aid. No roots responded to their calls. No mana flowed beneath their feet. Each spell cast drained only from themselves, not the earth.
Their movements slowed. Their mana flickered. Within minutes, exhaustion began to show.
Lindarion watched in silence. He didn’t intervene. He simply walked among them, his boots silent upon the bark, eyes keen and unblinking.
Thalan moved closer, sweat already tracing down his temples. "You wish to break them?" he asked under his breath.
Lindarion’s gaze didn’t shift. "No. I wish to make them remember they can bleed."
He turned his attention to one young fighter, the same elf who had lost control of his mana the day before. The boy swung his twin blades, movements sharp but heavy. Each strike trembled as mana bled out too fast.
"Too much output," Lindarion said quietly. "You’re draining before the strike lands."
The boy bit his lip, forcing his blades to steady. Lindarion stepped closer. "Listen," he said softly. "Mana isn’t just power. It’s rhythm. Like breathing, like heartbeat. Find that rhythm, yours, not the forest’s."
He reached out, tapping a finger against the boy’s chest. "Here."
The boy blinked, confused, but then inhaled, letting his core settle. The tremors in his aura began to ease. When he swung again, the strike landed clean, efficient.
Lindarion gave a faint nod and moved on.
Above, the branches whispered faintly in the wind, as if the world tree itself was watching.
Ashwing sat nearby on a broken root, tail curled around his legs, watching the soldiers stumble. "They’re like hatchlings without wings," he said.
’Hatchlings learn to fly only when they fall,’ Lindarion answered mentally.
The dragon tilted his head. "And you’re just gonna keep pushing until they break?"
’Until they stop looking at the ground when they fight.’
Hours passed. The sun climbed high, then began its descent. The elves’ fine armor was streaked with dirt and sweat, their movements slower, their forms ragged.
But Lindarion saw something, beneath the exhaustion, beneath the trembling hands, there was the spark of something honest. A kind of raw determination Lorienya had forgotten it still possessed.
When the final pair stumbled to a stop, Lindarion finally raised his voice again. "Enough."
The sound of it cut through the forest, firm and absolute.
The soldiers stood in uneven lines, chests heaving. Some leaned on their weapons; others closed their eyes, heads bowed.
Lindarion looked over them all, and for the first time that day, allowed a faint flicker of approval to show. "Now," he said quietly, "you are soldiers. Not roots of the tree, but its will."
Thalan’s lips curved faintly as he leaned on his staff. "You’ve broken them and rebuilt them in one morning," he murmured.
"Not yet," Lindarion replied. "Tomorrow, they learn to move as one."
He turned away, golden eyes narrowing toward the far horizon. From up here, he could see the borderlands, faint wisps of mist curling where the forest met open plains. He could feel the mana currents in the distance, twisting wrong.
The land was restless.
Ashwing fluttered onto his shoulder again, shaking his small wings. "You’re thinking too hard again," he said, yawning. "Can’t we have one peaceful morning?"
"Peace," Lindarion murmured, "is what others build when they think the world has forgotten how to burn."
The dragon blinked. "That sounds like something out of a sad book."
"Perhaps," he said, glancing toward the soldiers beginning to recover, "but books remember what people forget."
He turned to Thalan once more. "In two days, I’ll lead them into the outer glades. Real combat drills. No illusions, no boundaries."