The fire nearest the cavern wall spat and hissed, throwing sparks that faded into the black overhead. Smoke clung to the ceiling in thick ribbons, trapped by stone. Humans huddled around the flames, their faces gaunt, eyes hollow, the weight of collapse heavy in their silence. Every cough echoed. Every scrape of steel against stone sounded too loud, like the cave itself might listen.
And every pair of eyes cut toward Nysha.
She had laid Lindarion on a slab of rock by the fire, shadows still clinging to his body like a second skin. His chest rose shallow, ragged, each breath wetter than the last. Blood stained his jaw, dried black across his pale throat. Ashwing curled beside him, scales singed, his little body coiled tight as if he'd strike the first hand that reached too close.
But the sword was what unsettled them most.
