Chapter 430: Training (4)
Thalan dismissed the troops at last, sweat-soaked and breathing hard but standing taller than before. The forest itself seemed to hum approval, as if acknowledging their effort.
He turned to Lindarion, bowing deeply this time. "You’ve given us more in a morning than years of routine, my prince."
Lindarion shook his head. "You gave yourselves that. I merely reminded you of what lies beneath comfort."
Thalan smiled faintly. "Still, I suspect the young ones will speak of this day long after we’re gone."
Ashwing flicked his tail. "Of course they will. You all looked like confused squirrels for the first half."
A ripple of laughter spread among the soldiers, light, cautious, but genuine.
Lindarion allowed himself the smallest of smiles. For the first time since arriving in Lorienya, the air felt lighter.
But beneath that calm, he still felt it, the faint tremor of something distant. A ripple in the weave of mana that did not belong to the forest.
He turned his gaze south, golden irises catching the sun. Whatever stirred beyond Lorienya’s borders had begun to whisper again.
And though today was peace, he knew peace never lasted.
—
The training fields dimmed under the canopy’s twilight glow. The gold-green shimmer that had bathed Lorienya all day now softened into a dusky silver, and the air grew cool enough that every breath carried a trace of mist.
The Lorienyan soldiers moved like shadows between the trees, the clatter of wooden blades and the low rhythm of breath and stance drills echoing faintly.
Lindarion stood at the edge of the clearing, arms crossed, his golden eyes reflecting the lantern light like distant stars. The day’s final drills had gone long, deliberately.
The men and women of Lorienya were disciplined, elegant in motion, but too used to fighting in harmony with the forest. Their forms flowed, their steps danced, but they lacked the sharp, merciless precision that war demanded beyond their borders.
He had seen it in every movement, grace without hunger.
Nysha leaned against one of the great roots coiling through the earth behind him, her crimson eyes flicking lazily over the sparring soldiers. "They move like wind in a cage," she murmured.
"They’ve never had to fight for air," Lindarion replied softly.
Ashwing, now resting on a branch overhead, snorted. "They fight too carefully. It’s like they’re scared to hurt the grass."
"They are," Lindarion said. "To them, this forest is family. The trees bleed with them. The roots hear them. They fight to protect, not to destroy."
"And that’s a weakness?" Nysha asked, arching a brow.
"It’s a limitation," he said. "But not one without strength."
A burst of laughter broke the quiet, two younger soldiers, flushed and panting, had stumbled out of formation, collapsing onto the grass.
Their instructor barked at them to rise, but the command held no true fury, only exhaustion. Lorienyan discipline was like the forest, gentle, patient, certain the storm would pass on its own.
Lindarion watched them without judgment. His mind wandered, back to Eldorath’s courts, where even training fields had felt like battlefields. There, mercy was a mistake.
A misstep was punished not by scorn, but by steel. He could still remember the scent of sweat and iron as his tutors drilled perfection into his muscles until his hands bled.
He had hated it once. Now he understood it.
Nysha’s gaze slid toward him. "You’re thinking about home again."
"I’m thinking about what it means to survive," he said. "They’ve never tasted the kind of war that leaves nothing standing."
The last drill ended. The soldiers sheathed their practice blades, bowed to their instructor, and began to disperse. Some passed Lindarion with subtle glances, respect, fear, reverence, all tangled. He caught one murmur as a pair of young warriors passed by.
"That’s him... the one who made Thalan kneel."
"He didn’t kneel," the other hissed back. "He bowed. There’s a difference."
"Difference doesn’t matter when the air itself bends for him."
Lindarion said nothing, but his eyes followed them as they vanished down a winding root-bridge into the deeper city.
The instructor approached, Thalan, weary but dignified as ever. Sweat darkened his tunic, his hair plastered against his forehead. "They are improving," he said, voice quiet, proud but not self-congratulatory. "Slower than I’d like, but the rhythm is returning."
Lindarion inclined his head. "They learn from your example."
Thalan smiled faintly. "You flatter me, Prince. But I think they learn more from your shadow than from my words."
"That is not my intent."
"Intent rarely matters when the air shifts," Thalan said softly, looking up toward the shimmering canopy. "Even the trees seem to listen when you move among them. They can feel what you carry."
Nysha pushed off the root, stretching. "They’re scared of him," she said bluntly. "But fear works."
Thalan didn’t look at her. "Fear burns quickly. Respect lasts longer."
Lindarion’s gaze drifted toward the fading horizon. The last rays of light filtered through the branches like molten glass. "Then let them learn both. The world outside Lorienya won’t wait for them to find courage."
The instructor bowed. "I will see to it."
When Thalan left, the clearing fell quiet again. Only the whisper of leaves and the soft hum of insects filled the air.
Ashwing climbed down from his branch, landing neatly on Lindarion’s shoulder, his silver eyes flicking to the empty training field. "You think they’ll survive out there?"
"If they stay together," Lindarion said. "If they remember that control is stronger than rage."
"You say that, but when you fight, you look like rage itself."
"That’s because I know what it costs to lose it."
Nysha turned her gaze toward him, expression unreadable. "And what will it cost you this time, Lindarion?"
He didn’t answer. His eyes lifted toward the distant glow that marked the heart of the World Tree, its pulse faint but constant, like a heartbeat beneath the world.
Somewhere deep in that glow, the system still hummed quietly, the new fragment whispering unreadable data he couldn’t yet decipher. Every time he reached for it, it slipped away like smoke.
A promise. Or a warning.
The night deepened. Lanterns flickered between the boughs. The elves of Lorienya began their evening songs, long, ethereal harmonies that wound through the branches like rivers of light.
Lindarion stood listening. The songs spoke of peace, of roots that outlasted storms, of lives bound to the rhythm of the forest.
He wondered, not for the first time, if he could ever belong in such a world.
Ashwing nudged his cheek. "Hey."
"Hm?"
"You’re thinking again."
"I usually do."
"Well, stop. It’s loud in here when you do that."
A faint smile curved Lindarion’s lips. "Then I’ll try to think quieter."
"Good. Because I’m tired."
"Go sleep, then."
Ashwing yawned exaggeratedly. "Only if you promise not to sneak off into danger again while I nap."
"No promises," Lindarion said lightly.
Nysha snorted. "He means yes."
Ashwing squinted at her. "He means no."
The exchange, light as it was, felt almost human. For a moment, the weight of command eased, the blood, the war, the memories. It all faded beneath the simple rhythm of shared voices and the soft night wind.
But when the songs ended and silence returned, Lindarion’s golden eyes still lingered on the horizon. The peace of Lorienya held, but only for now. He could feel the edges of it, thin as glass.
Tomorrow, the soldiers would train again. Stronger. Sharper. The calm before the next storm.
And in the quiet dark, unseen by any of them, the roots of the World Tree pulsed once, faintly, as though answering his thoughts.
’I need to find them...’