Each mural seemed to grow darker the farther they went, the dragons less divine, more monstrous, their forms twisted into shapes that clawed at the edge of sanity.
One of the younger men broke the silence, his voice trembling. "This isn't right. Nothing here's been touched for… for gods know how long. And yet…" He trailed off, clutching his spear tighter.
The commander's head snapped around. "Quiet. Fear feeds the dark."
But the words didn't soothe anyone. If anything, they made the silence that followed heavier.
Lindarion let the humans' fear wash past him, his focus on the resonance in his chest. His new core responded faintly to the walls, as if the entire temple carried an echo of dragonic mana.
With each step, he felt more certain: this place hadn't merely been a sanctuary. It had been alive once, a seat of power bound to something greater.
[System Notice: Core stabilization required.]
[Warning: Current Aetherial output exceeds vessel tolerance by 4.8%.]
His jaw tightened. Four-point-eight percent. Enough to matter if he lost control. Enough that one slip could collapse this entire tunnel. He forced the energy lower, compressing it until it hissed like coals beneath his skin.
They rounded a bend and entered another wide space, this one collapsed along one side, jagged rock spilling into a heap. The ceiling dipped lower here, oppressive, the murals broken into fragments.
Yet amid the ruin, faint carvings still lined the stone: half-dragon figures locked in battle, their wings shredded, their eyes burning with something older than rage.
Nysha stopped, her eyes tracing the lines. "They fought each other." Her voice was quiet, almost reverent. "Not gods. Not rulers. Enemies."
One of the humans spat into the dirt. "Good. Let them kill themselves off. The world's better for it."
Lindarion studied the broken wall. His new affinity hummed against the carvings, tugging fragments of meaning into his mind. Not war for land. Not war for pride. War for survival.
[System Alert: Fragment resonance detected.]
[Note: Traces of draconic bloodline energy—faded.]
He let the message fade. The humans would not hear this truth. Some truths shattered men before blades ever touched them.
The commander gestured sharply. "We don't stop. Move."
They pressed on.
The corridor narrowed again, winding downward.
The air grew damp, colder, and the torchlight revealed strange markings etched along the floor, circles within circles, lines intersecting at jagged angles. The humans stepped around them uneasily, some muttering about curses.
Ashwing sniffed, his little nose wrinkling. 'Smells bad. Like old smoke stuck in stone. Like something burned, but the fire never left.'
Lindarion's hand brushed his head briefly, quieting him. He could feel it too, the lingering residue of rituals long ended, mana stained into the stone itself.
They finally emerged into another chamber, smaller this time, but no less oppressive. The ceiling arched low, heavy with roots that had forced their way through the stone, curling like claws.
At the center sat a cracked statue of a demi-dragon, its once-proud wings broken, its face eroded until only hollow eyes remained.
The humans recoiled. One of the women hissed a curse under her breath, clutching a charm at her neck.
Nysha stepped closer, her shadows brushing faintly against the broken statue. "This wasn't worship," she said softly. "It was warning. Look at the eyes."
The hollow sockets seemed to stare back, empty yet accusing.
Lindarion's system pulsed again.
[System Notice: Residual draconic essence detected.]
[Warning: Core attempting resonance.]
[Override recommended.]
He shut it down instantly, burying the surge before it could surface. His knuckles whitened around his sword. 'Not here. Not now.'
Ashwing's little voice quivered in his mind. 'You're shaking. You never shake.'
'Quiet.'
'You're scaring me.'
Lindarion exhaled slowly, steadying himself. 'Then hold on tighter.'
The little dragon pressed against his neck, silent now except for the faint warmth of his scales.
The commander turned sharply to him, suspicion sharp in his eyes. "You sense something."
Lindarion met his gaze, calm, unreadable. "Only rot and ruin. Nothing more."
The man didn't look convinced, but he said nothing. He motioned for the squad to press forward again.
The humans shuffled into the corridor beyond, their torchlight spilling against cracked stone and twisted roots.
Nysha lingered a moment longer by the statue, her crimson eyes flicking toward Lindarion. Her shadows shifted, restless, as if mirroring her unspoken thoughts.
Then she turned away and followed the others.
Lindarion remained for half a breath longer, his gaze locked on the statue's hollow eyes. He could feel it even now, the faint hum of essence buried in the cracks, whispering in a language older than his blood.
[System Notice: Integration pathways available.]
[Warning: Risk of instability at current vessel tolerance.]
He ignored it, forcing the system silent. Then he turned, his boots striking stone as he followed the squad into the dark.
The temple pressed on, endless corridors winding deeper, as though it had no true end. And all the while, Lindarion carried the weight of his secret, an Aetherial core thrumming too bright, a system whispering promises too sharp, and a child-dragon clinging to his shoulder whispering fears too honest.
And none of them, neither Nysha, nor the commander, nor the humans muttering prayers behind their torches, would know how close the prince of Eldorath was to breaking the world around them with every step.
—
The soil under their boots grew softer, roots tangling through cracks in the stone as if the forest itself was forcing its way into the cavern. A faint earthy scent clung to the air, loam, moss, and damp leaves.
Lindarion slowed, his gaze narrowing. This was no ordinary ruin. They were beneath living ground.
"Not Eldorath," Nysha muttered, crimson eyes scanning the roots that stretched thick as arms across the walls. "Older. Wilder.."
Before Lindarion could answer, Ashwing stirred on his shoulder, tongue flicking. Smells like trees. I don't like it. Too itchy.
The sound of scraping reached them. Not stone falling, but something smaller. Digging.
The party fanned out, torches cutting swathes of light across the far chamber. There, crouched in the shadows, hands buried in soil. A figure, thin but unbroken, hair the same shade as the roots themselves. Pointed ears caught the light. Not human.
The humans tensed. One lifted a spear.
"Lower it," Lindarion said, calm but sharp.
The figure turned at his voice. Dirt streaked his face, brown eyes wary. He rose slowly, hands clenched, not in surrender but in defiance.
"Stay where you are," the elf rasped, voice hoarse from disuse.
Lindarion stepped forward into the firelight. His bearing was unmistakable, shoulders squared, blade at his hip, golden hair unbowed by dust or blood. "You are Lorienyan," he said evenly.
The man's breath hitched, suspicion flickering into shock. "And you…" His eyes scanned Lindarion, armor, stance, the weight of presence that only one bloodline carried. He swallowed hard. "You are no soldier. Who…who are you?"
Lindarion's voice was steady, iron wrapped in fire. "I am Lindarion. Son of Eldrin Sunblade. Prince of Eldorath."