Chapter 440: The Balance
"That’s not saying much," she muttered, then sighed. "You think whatever’s down there will wait for you to come knocking?"
"It hasn’t moved yet," Lindarion said quietly. "That means it’s either gathering strength, or waiting to be found."
Nysha folded her arms. "And you’re volunteering to be its messenger."
He didn’t answer. The silence between them said enough.
She exhaled, frustration bleeding through the hard edge of her voice. "Fine. But if you die, I’ll drag you back just to kill you again."
Ashwing snorted. "You could try, shadow girl, but I’d bite you first."
Nysha rolled her eyes. "You wouldn’t bite anyone."
"I might nibble."
Lindarion’s smile ghosted across his lips. Then, more softly, "Take care of them. The soldiers still train by instinct. They’ll need direction if something shifts."
Her gaze lingered on him. "You talk like you’re not coming back."
"I talk like I’ve seen enough war to know I can’t promise otherwise."
For a moment, something unspoken flickered between them, respect, unease, perhaps even fear.
Then Nysha’s expression steadied, and she gave a single, curt nod. "Don’t take too long. The forest may tolerate you, but if the World Tree senses imbalance again, I’ll burn the roots myself to find you."
"That would be unwise," Lindarion said, his tone dry. "But I admire the sentiment."
When she turned to leave, her shadows followed reluctantly, like living smoke fading into the trees.
As she vanished, another presence approached from the lower stair, a heavier tread, the clink of armor. General Arven stepped forward, his expression taut. Behind him, a handful of Lorienyan guards stood silently, their green-trimmed cloaks blending with the mist.
"Prince Lindarion," Arven said, bowing slightly. "We’ve prepared rations and maps for the southern routes, though they are... outdated. No one has crossed the Sunless Marshes in decades."
Lindarion accepted the rolled parchment, tucking it into his belt. "It will suffice."
Arven hesitated, glancing toward the pale light filtering through the canopy. "If we sense movement, we’ll send word. But forgive my bluntness, my lord, if you’re alone out there, we won’t be able to reach you in time."
Lindarion looked down at him, golden eyes calm but carrying that quiet gravity that silenced argument. "Then let’s hope I don’t need you to."
The general swallowed, then nodded once. "May the Tree’s breath guide you."
"And yours," Lindarion replied softly.
When Arven and the guards withdrew, the terrace was empty again. The sun had just cleared the horizon now, spilling threads of light through the mists.
They shimmered faintly against the runes etched into Lindarion’s armor, subtle, living things that pulsed once in response to the dawn.
Ashwing stretched his wings lazily. "You sure about going alone? You could at least let me bring snacks."
Lindarion stepped to the edge of the terrace, looking out across the endless forest. The horizon rippled with faint blue-gold haze, the mana veins of the World Tree flowing outward, vanishing into the unknown south. Somewhere beyond that, the earth cracked, unseen and waiting.
"I’ll have you," he said simply.
Ashwing’s tail flicked. "That’s supposed to make me feel better?"
"Wasn’t meant to."
The dragonling gave a theatrical sigh, then spread his wings fully. "Fine. But when we come back, I’m getting an entire deer to myself."
Lindarion placed one gloved hand on the railing, feeling the hum of the Tree beneath his palm, a steady, ancient pulse, almost like a heartbeat. "Deal."
And with that, he stepped forward.
Ashwing leapt from his shoulder, body flaring with light. In an instant, his form expanded, feathers giving way to scales, wings erupting outward in a rush of white-blue flame.
The small lizardling was gone; in his place hovered the young dragon, wings cutting the mist into ribbons. His roar shook the leaves loose from the upper branches, scattering them like golden rain.
Lindarion landed lightly between the dragon’s shoulder ridges, the wind catching his cloak. The forest bent beneath the beat of Ashwing’s wings, the mists parting like water.
Below, Lorienya’s canopy stretched to every horizon, an ocean of green and gold, shimmering with sunlight. For a moment, it was easy to forget that anything dark could exist beneath such beauty.
"South," Lindarion said quietly.
Ashwing’s voice echoed in his mind, wry and young but steady. South it is.
They rose higher. The light dimmed as they broke through the mist, and the forest fell away beneath them.
The air grew colder.
From this height, Lindarion could see the veins of mana running across the land like threads of fire, some bright, some dim, some fraying.
The balance of the world was shifting, and the Tree had not lied. There was a wound deep in the weave of things, somewhere beyond the horizon.
Ashwing banked right slightly, wings glinting gold as he caught the sun. "You ever think about how weird this is? Flying toward something that probably wants to kill us?"
"All the time," Lindarion said dryly.
"Good. Just checking."
Below them, the last of Lorienya vanished into mist. The endless forest gave way to broken plains, where the air shimmered faintly, and the faint scent of ash lingered like memory.
Lindarion’s hand rested lightly on his sword hilt, the world rushing past beneath them. His gaze stayed fixed on the horizon, steady, unblinking, patient.
Far behind them, the World Tree stood like a pillar of eternity, its light dimming slightly in the dawn haze. For now, Lorienya slept in peace.
For now.
The fires burned low across the clearing, sparks drifting like slow fireflies into the canopy above. Lorienya’s forest stretched endlessly behind them, vast, golden-green and alive with the faint hum of magic that pulsed from the World Tree’s distant heart.
Even this far from its roots, the air felt rich, vibrant, untouched by the decay that had swallowed the lands beyond the southern river.
The army had made camp early that night. Scouts rested against tree roots, armor undone, their tired laughter soft and brief between the rustle of leaves.
Commanders sat in loose circles near the fires, heads bent over rough maps carved into the dirt, discussing routes and possible resistance.
Lindarion stood apart from them.
He watched the flames dance, golden light flickering against his white hair. The stars above were sharp tonight, too sharp, as if the sky itself had been scraped clean.
He could feel the quiet rhythm of the forest beneath his boots, the slow breathing of a realm that had never truly known war. It reminded him, painfully, of what peace used to feel like.
Ashwing was curled beside him, tail flicking lazily, eyes half-closed but not asleep. "You’re thinking again," the dragon muttered.
"I’m always thinking," Lindarion said without looking down.
"About them?"
Lindarion didn’t answer immediately. His gaze drifted toward the southern horizon, where the stars dimmed, swallowed by faint, shifting mists. "About what’s waiting," he said finally. "And about who’s waiting."
Ashwing tilted his head, the small scales around his eyes catching the firelight. "You mean your mother. And the other one. The ice elf."
A faint breath escaped Lindarion, something between a sigh and a laugh. "Luneth."