The words hit harder than any blade.
Lindarion's hand brushed the hilt of his sword, not for strength, but for steadiness. He remembered Selene's warmth, Ashwing's childish laughter. He remembered the humans kneeling, Nysha's silence.
He lifted his chin. "I am Lindarion. Not heir. Not rebel. My path is my own."
Sylwen's lips pressed thin. Vaelthorn leaned back slowly, studying him like one studies the shape of a storm.
Finally, the queen spoke again, her voice quieter but sharper than her husband's thunder. "You were a boy when we last saw you. You are a man now, with shadows in your wake. If you would ask for sanctuary here, you must answer truly."
Her gaze pierced him. "What is it you seek in Lorienya?"
Lindarion bowed his head briefly, then straightened, his voice steady. "I ask sanctuary for them. The humans I brought, wounded, starved, hunted. They have no other refuge. Their world has been torn to ash by Maeven's corruption. If they are turned away here, they will die."
A murmur swept the council like a rustle of leaves in harsh wind. Sylwen's eyes softened faintly, but she did not yet speak. One of the elder councilors, a woman draped in moss-colored silk, leaned forward, her mouth thin.
"And why," she asked, "should Lorienya spend its lifeblood sheltering mortals who are not of our kind? They multiply recklessly, scar the land, and fight wars not theirs to fight. We have kept our peace beneath the World Tree. Our people thrive because we have not bled for them."
Another voice, sharper, joined. "You bring danger, Prince. Already your blade stinks of shadow. We have seen it hum. Shall we invite corruption to the heart of the World Tree as well?"
Lindarion's grip tightened around the hilt at his side, but he forced his hand to still. His jaw ached with restraint.
"I have fought beside them," he said, low but clear. "I have seen them resist when they had no strength left to rise. You call them reckless, yet it is their blood that stains the caverns below, not yours. Without them, without their defiance, Maeven's armies would already flood these roots."
The moss-cloaked elder's eyes narrowed. "Bold words for a prince who drags ruin behind him."
Sylwen shifted then, her voice soft but carrying. "And yet, would you deny that ruin has already reached every border but ours? Would you say that Lorienya's boughs will stand untouched forever? The prince brings warning as much as plea."
Vaelthorn's gaze remained steady on Lindarion. "We do not act from fear. We act from wisdom. Tell us, child of Eldrin, what binds you to these mortals so fiercely that you would demand we alter centuries of silence for their sake?"
Lindarion's throat tightened. For a moment, he saw them, faces bent in firelight, hollow eyes clinging to hope they had no right to. He heard their voices calling him savior, begging for command. He thought of Nysha, shadows trembling as she stitched his chest together with her own life.
"They believed in me when there was nothing left to believe in," he said. His voice scraped raw, but it held. "I cannot cast them aside. Not when they followed me into the dark. Not when they would already be dead without me."
The chamber stirred again, mutters sharp and doubtful.
"Attachment clouds him," one councilor sneered. "He bleeds for cattle."
"Better cattle than cowards," Lindarion snapped before he could bite the words back. The chamber hushed instantly, silence deep as earth.
Vaelthorn's brow arched. Sylwen's lips parted faintly in surprise.
The prince drew a steadying breath, forcing his tone back into steel. "I do not ask you to bleed for them. I ask for a chance. Give them soil to stand on, air to breathe. I will take responsibility for what comes. But if you turn them away—" His gaze cut across the chamber. "—their deaths will stain your silence."
Sylwen was the first to look away, her jaw tight. A councilor muttered, "Arrogant." Another whispered, "Like his father."
At that, Lindarion lifted his head sharply. His father's name burned on his tongue.
"My father," he said, voice taut, "where exactly is he?"
The air grew still.
Vaelthorn's eyes did not waver, but something unspoken flickered there. Sylwen's expression faltered, sorrow threading through her calm.
Finally, Vaelthorn spoke. "We do not know."
Lindarion's chest tightened, his breath catching before he could master it. "What do you mean?"
"He came south, beyond our borders," Sylwen said gently. "We heard whispers of his battle. Of his wound. But his trail vanished in smoke and silence. No word has reached us since."
The shadows inside Lindarion clawed against his ribs. His grip on the hilt trembled. He had imagined many answers, imprisoned, recovering, even dead, but not absence. Not this emptiness that gave nothing to cut, nothing to curse.
"He is alive," Lindarion said at last, the words brittle. "He has to be."
No one answered.
The councilors sat in silence, watching him. Some with pity, most with cold detachment. The son of Eldrin, fractured before their eyes.
Selene's warmth brushed faint against the edges of his mind, unseen by all but him. Steady, Master.
He straightened, forcing his voice into command. "You do not have to fight beside me. But I will not abandon them. If Lorienya refuses sanctuary, then I will march with them myself. Through your forests if I must. Decide if you would rather them live under your boughs or rot outside your gates."
The words rang through the chamber like a challenge.
Vaelthorn's gaze held his for a long, unbearable moment. Then the king leaned back in his livingwood throne. "We will deliberate."
Sylwen's voice softened. "You will have your answer by dawn."
The guards moved to escort him out. Lindarion did not bow. He turned on his heel and walked, shadows trailing in his wake.
Beyond the chamber, night air brushed his skin, carrying the scent of leaves and clean water. For a moment, he stood still beneath Lorienya's stars, fists clenched at his sides, breath burning his lungs.
His father lost. The humans' fate hanging in debate. And himself, caught between crown and shadow, prince and weapon.
Nysha waited in the courtyard, eyes catching the starlight. She said nothing, only searching his face.
"They don't know," he said at last, his voice low. "No one does."
Her shadows stirred, uncertain, but she did not move closer.
Ashwing twitched his tail from Lindarion's shoulder, little eyes uncharacteristically somber. We'll find him, he said into Lindarion's mind, voice childlike but firm. We will. I promise.
Lindarion closed his eyes. For a moment, the weight of everything pressed too heavy. But when he opened them again, the fire still burned.
If the council would not grant sanctuary, then he would carve it himself.