Nysha flinched at the coldness in his tone.
Ashwing's tail lashed once, a crack against stone. His little head lifted, eyes narrow, nostrils flaring as if scenting something beyond the corpses. A growl rumbled in his chest.
Lindarion turned his head slightly. "What is it?"
Ashwing gave a sharp hiss.
The soldier behind them scrambled backward on hands and knees, eyes widening. "They're—gods, they're moving—!"
At the crater's edge, one of the corpses twitched. Then another. Broken spines cracked as heads jerked upright, jaws slack, black ichor spilling like tar. Eyes glowed faintly, not alive, not dead. Maeven's leash still clung even in ruin.
The soldier screamed.
Lindarion raised his blade.
