Lindarion stepped beside her, his coat drawn close, sword hidden. He looked into the abyss not with caution but with hunger. The void stared back at him, but unlike Nysha, he did not blink.
Ashwing hissed once, then curled tighter in his pocket, claws scratching faintly at the cloth.
Nysha pulled the shadow wider, weaving words under her breath. The air shook with the strain. She bit down on her lip hard enough to break skin, the iron tang of blood drifting between them.
"Don't drift. If you lose me, you won't—" she began.
Lindarion stepped forward.
The darkness peeled for him. Where Nysha wrestled with the wild edges, stitching unstable lines together, his presence flattened them to silence. The shrieking echoes died. The pull that clawed at her spine eased, smothered.
Nysha froze, hands suspended mid-gesture, staring as the shadows turned placid around him. No ripples. No resistance.
"…you're not holding it back," she whispered. Her throat worked. "You're—commanding it."
