Chapter 446 446: Effectiveness (2)
The second half of the day was spent with the mages. Lorienyan spellcraft had always been fluid, built around harmony with nature, light, water, growth, wind. What Lindarion taught them today bent that harmony into precision.
He drew runes in the air with his finger, each stroke leaving a glowing trail. "Mana without intent is just air that burns. Control your circle. Trim what's unnecessary."
Thalan's students watched as he demonstrated, conjuring a sphere of blue fire that condensed, then folded into itself, shrinking to the size of a marble but pulsing with impossible density.
"Containment," Lindarion said. "Power does not mean expansion. It means compression, turning chaos into order."
One of the younger elves, nervous, attempted the same. His sphere collapsed prematurely, bursting into a cloud of harmless sparks. Lindarion flicked his wrist, dispersing the mana before it could backfire.
"Do it again," he said gently. "But this time, stop trying to impress me."
By the third attempt, the sphere held. Smaller, weaker, but stable. Lindarion gave the elf a single nod.
Ashwing yawned from his perch on a rock. "You're turning them into little versions of you. Cold, focused, scary."
Lindarion didn't look at him. "Better that than dead."
As evening approached, Nysha gathered the officers on the upper platform. The sun filtered through amber leaves, casting long shadows across the map table.
"Casualty drills successful," she reported. "No mana fractures today. Thalan's adjusted the rhythm of incantation sequences, they're holding up better."
"Good," Lindarion said. "Have the scouts report to me at dawn tomorrow. I want the southern ridges charted before we march."
One of the commanders hesitated. "You still think the corruption's spreading faster?"
He nodded. "I can feel it. Every night it hums louder."
The silence that followed wasn't fearful, it was steady, sober.
Then Nysha leaned forward. "And if the hum becomes a roar?"
Lindarion met her eyes, calm as ever. "Then we roar louder."
That night, as the forest slept, Lindarion remained awake on the terrace overlooking the moonlit roots. The training field below shimmered faintly with mana residue, like a thousand tiny stars reflected in dew.
Ashwing coiled nearby, small tail twitching in dream.
The prince's eyes traced the southern horizon, where darkness waited, just beyond sight. Somewhere out there, Luneth. His mother. The prison of shadows Dythrael had woven to mock him.
The night wind whispered through the branches, carrying fragments of voices, the song of Lorienya itself. He closed his eyes and listened.
There was peace in it, and a promise.
Tomorrow, they would train again. And the day after that. Until Lorienya was no longer a sanctuary of dreamers, but the spearpoint of the dawn.
Morning came early, the kind of morning that glowed pale gold through the mist before the sun even rose. The roots of the World Tree glimmered faintly, alive with quiet power. Dew sparkled on the canopy bridges like veins of glass. And below, the training fields filled with motion again, boots, bows, voices.
But this dawn was different.
The sound of horns didn't just echo across Lorienya, they answered other horns. Deeper, metallic, harsher.
The humans had arrived.
Lindarion stood on the high terrace with Nysha and Thalan as the first battalions emerged from the forest edge, three hundred soldiers, armored in steel dulled by travel, bearing banners of sun and flame.
Their discipline was rigid, every step deliberate. Behind them came mages, crossbowmen, supply wagons creaking with the strain of the climb.
The contrast was stark, Lorienyan grace and mortal grit. Elves moved like wind; humans moved like earth.
Ashwing stretched his wings and muttered, "They look miserable."
"They've marched through half a continent of rot," Nysha replied. "They are miserable."
Lindarion said nothing. His golden eyes narrowed slightly as he watched them approach. The human commander, a broad man in iron-grey armor, halted before the assembled elven captains and bowed deeply.
"Commander Halric of the Northwatch Division," he said, his voice rough but formal. "We come under treaty banner to stand with the prince of Eldorath."
Lindarion inclined his head. "Then stand you shall. Lorienya welcomes you."
Behind Halric, whispers rippled among the soldiers, the sight of Lindarion was enough to still breath. White hair that shimmered like moonlight, eyes molten gold, his presence impossibly calm, almost unreal. To them, he looked more spirit than flesh.
Halric straightened slowly, scanning the elven ranks around them. "Permission to speak freely, Your Highness?"
"Granted."
The commander's expression tightened. "My men aren't used to… this. Trees taller than fortresses. Magic that hums under their feet. They're uneasy."
"Unease is natural," Lindarion said. "Fear becomes weakness only when left to fester. Let them see what strength grows from peace."
Halric nodded once, though skepticism flickered in his eyes.
By midday, the two armies shared the same field, and it was chaos.
Humans shouted orders too loudly; elves moved in silence and took offense at the noise. Human sword drills clashed with elven rhythm, creating confusion at every junction. Archers from both sides argued over form. Mages bickered over casting sequences that disrupted the natural mana flow.
The forest itself seemed to recoil slightly from the friction.
"Gods above," Nysha muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. "They'll kill each other before Dythrael even notices us."
"They're not used to harmony," Thalan said softly. "We live by it. They live by struggle."
Lindarion stepped forward, watching two squads arguing near the archery lines. A human sergeant barked something crude; an elf hissed in reply, his hand already on his bow.
"Enough," Lindarion said.
The word didn't carry like a shout. It didn't need to.
Every voice died instantly.
He walked into the center of the field, gaze sweeping between both sides. "You see difference," he said evenly. "But difference is not division. You fight for the same dawn, whether you draw breath from forest or forge."
He gestured to the field. "You think strength is in your style, your heritage, your weapon. It is not. Strength is in adaptation. Those who cannot change will burn when the storm comes."
A murmur rippled through the lines, not argument, but shame.
Lindarion turned to Halric. "Pair them. Human with elf. One sword, one bow. One who listens, one who leads. Switch every hour."
Halric blinked. "That's madness."
"It's unity," Lindarion said. "Or you can march south alone."