The cavern stank of smoke and rot. Already the humans dragged corpses into heaps, black ichor smearing across the stone as torches hissed. Fire crackled low, the heat sickly rather than warming. The smell clung to the throat, thicker than ash.
Lindarion stood where he had cut down the last of the mutants, shadows receding from his frame like reluctant servants. The sword at his side pulsed faintly, a reminder, but his grip had loosened. His chest burned, every rib bruised, but he forced himself still. Weakness here would unravel everything.
The commander approached, boots grinding bone shards into dust. His face was haggard, but his eyes carried something new, fervor where despair had once hollowed them. He bowed his head slightly, not fully, but enough.
"My lord," he rasped. "We will do as you said. But we need more than fire and corpses to stand against him. You saw what your power did. Ours…" His hand flexed uselessly. "…ours will not hold."
