The cavern reeked of blood. Black ichor steamed off mutant corpses, their twisted limbs twitching even in death, muscles firing from nerves that hadn't yet realized they'd been severed.
The floor was slick beneath Lindarion's boots, shadows receding reluctantly from the ruin they had helped create. His chest burned with each breath, ribs aching, but he stayed upright. He would not let them see weakness.
Silence stretched, broken only by the crackle of torches and the drip of thick fluid down stone.
Then came the whispers.
"…he cut them down."
"Not even…"
"That blade… did you see the way the air—"
"Not a man. A savior."
The humans stood among the wreckage, soot and exhaustion carved into their faces. They had been beaten into the dirt too many times, buried in caverns like rats with no sun to guide them. But now their eyes fixed on Lindarion, hungry, desperate, terrified.
One man, clutching a broken spear, dropped to one knee. Not from injury. From reverence.
