Chapter 373: Facing him (1)
The ancient demi-human stepped forward, each movement so fluid it seemed the world bent to let him pass. His presence alone thickened the air, as though the land itself bowed.
"I faced your father once," Dythrael said. "Did you know?"
Lindarion froze, his throat tightening despite himself.
"I went to him with his crown and his fury," Dythrael continued, voice like silk wrapping barbs. "He bled well. He screamed better. But in the end—" Those silver eyes sharpened. "He crawled away without his arm."
The world tilted. Lindarion’s breath caught, chest clenching around a weight heavier than the sword. His father, broken, maimed, and he hadn’t been there.
The shadows surged in him, a storm clawing to be unleashed.
Dythrael’s smile widened at the flicker of rage. "Ah. You didn’t know every detail. How sweet. To think the mighty prince of Eldorath fights blind, while the world burns at his feet."
The humans’ voices rose faintly in the cavern below, chanting his name, hammering faith into stone. They thought him salvation. They thought him fire.
And here, in the ash of their world, the true fire stood before him, untouched, unbroken, infinite.
Lindarion’s grip trembled, not from fear but from fury so sharp it threatened to spill through his skin.
’Selene.’
Her warmth answered instantly, rushing into his veins like light through cracks. "Master."
’Stay with me. Not to strike. To hold me steady.’
"Always."
Her voice wrapped around him like arms unseen, soft, grounding. The rage steadied into a blade’s edge.
Lindarion lifted his sword, shadows screaming for release. His voice was ice.
"You touched my father. You scarred him. I will carve those scars into your soul until you beg for the end."
Dythrael’s laughter rolled across the field, calm, endless, as though the world itself laughed with him.
"You are welcome to try, little prince. I have waited centuries for a Sunblade worth breaking."
The ground shivered. Smoke curled higher.
And the night split open.
—
Shadows burst from Lindarion’s blade, tendrils whipping across the battlefield like a storm of living darkness. The corpses of humans and mutants alike were flung aside as the void tore the soil open.
But Dythrael did not move.
He simply lifted one hand. The air folded, bent, and the shadows collapsed into themselves, vanishing as though they had never existed.
Lindarion’s eyes widened. The force of the backlash ripped into his chest, forcing blood from his lips. His body staggered, ribs cracking under invisible weight.
"Pathetic," Dythrael murmured.
And then he was there. One heartbeat, twenty paces away. The next, a breath before Lindarion’s face.
Claws of pale light slashed down. Lindarion barely raised his sword in time. The impact screamed through the air. Shadow met radiance. The ground buckled, stones exploding outward.
Pain lanced through his arms as the force hurled him back. He hit the ground hard, skidding through mud and blood. His bones howled. His sword hummed violently, barely clinging to form.
Selene’s voice whispered through his skull. Steady, master. Rise. He is not invincible.
Lindarion forced air into his lungs, staggered upright. His vision blurred, but his fury burned clearer than ever.
"I will kill you," he spat. His voice cracked but did not waver.
Dythrael tilted his head, studying him with the mild curiosity of a scholar dissecting insects. "No. You will dance. And then you will break."
He blurred forward again.
Lindarion struck, shadows erupting in a storm of blades. Dozens of strikes slashed from every angle, faster than mortal eyes could track.
Every one was caught. Dythrael wove between them like silk drifting on wind, his fingers brushing each strike aside as if redirecting children’s toys. Shadows splintered into nothing beneath his touch.
And then his hand drove into Lindarion’s chest.
The world inverted. Agony ripped through him, his ribs snapping inward. He was thrown back again, blood spraying the ground in a crimson arc.
The earth cracked as his body smashed into it. His ears rang. His breath came ragged, wet.
"Master—!" Selene’s voice surged through him, desperate warmth forcing his core to hold together as cracks spidered across it. Do not yield!
"I—don’t—" His words broke in his throat. His vision swam. But his grip did not loosen on the blade.
Dythrael’s silhouette stepped through smoke. Silver eyes glowed faint, calm, patient. "So fragile. So loud. You burn your life for scraps of hope. You are nothing like your father. He at least endured."
The words struck deeper than the blows.
Rage seared through Lindarion’s chest. He forced himself upright again, shadows curling into wings around him, dripping venomous night.
"I am more than my father," he growled. "I am his heir. And I will surpass him."
Dythrael’s smile sharpened. "Then show me."
The battle became a blur.
Shadows screamed. Light answered. Each clash shattered the ground, tore corpses into mist, ripped trenches into the earth. The world itself seemed to reel under the force of it.
But no matter how many strikes Lindarion loosed, no matter how deeply he dug into the abyss within himself, Dythrael was always beyond reach. Untouched. Unshaken. A god watching a child drown.
Blood soaked Lindarion’s robes. Bones cracked with each movement. His core blazed too bright, searing him from within.
And still he refused to fall.
’Selene—’ His thoughts were raw, ragged. ’If I falter now—’
"You will not." Her voice was steel wrapped in warmth. "I will not let you."
Her power steadied him, just enough to rise again, just enough to swing once more.
Dythrael’s laughter rippled across the battlefield. "Yes. Yes! Show me despair, little prince. Show me how your fire dies."
And then, as suddenly as it had begun—
He vanished.
The weight crushed Lindarion’s body one last time, shadows imploding, blood spraying from his mouth. He slammed to his knees, sword digging into the ground to hold him upright.
The battlefield fell silent.
No silver eyes. No laughter. No trace.
Only ruin. Only corpses.
Lindarion gasped for breath, vision trembling, body barely held together by Selene’s unseen embrace. His rage flared, then faltered, swallowed by the realization seeping cold through his bones.
"...an illusion," he rasped.
Selene’s voice softened. "Yes. His hand was never here. Only a shadow, a taste of his power. Enough to mock. Enough to warn."
Lindarion’s chest shook, torn between fury and despair. "I fought a ghost. And it destroyed me."
"No." Selene’s voice was firm, almost scolding. "You stood. You did not yield. That is what he came to see."
Her warmth wrapped tighter, steadying his breaths.
Below, faintly, the humans’ chanting still echoed through the cavern. His name, their faith, hammering the dark.
They thought him salvation. They thought him invincible.
But here, on a field of corpses, he had been broken by nothing more than a shadow.
His hand clenched on the sword until his knuckles split. His eyes burned through blood and smoke.
’Dythrael. You scarred my father. You mock me with ghosts. But I swear, when we meet in flesh, I will tear your name from the bones of this world.’
Selene’s voice whispered gently, like a lullaby against his fury. "And I will be with you, Master. Always."
The night wind dragged across the battlefield, carrying the stink of blood, rot, and burned ash.
Lindarion rose. Broken, staggering, but standing.
The humans below would never know he had lost.
But Dythrael would.
And that was enough to carve the vow deeper into his soul.