Ashwing's tail lashed once, a silent reprimand. The little dragon pressed harder against his leg, as though reminding him to stay rooted.
Lindarion straightened, voice even when he spoke again. "Fortify the cavern. Set watches at every tunnel mouth. No torch unlit. No ear deaf to stone shifting." His hand dragged across the parchment, circling the passages. "Maeven will return. Dythrael may not show himself yet, but his shadow will. Be ready to bleed, and bleed together."
The commander nodded, sharp, relief flickering through exhaustion. Orders steadied him more than hope ever could. He gathered the scraps, already barking for men to dig pits, sharpen stakes, stack rubble into barricades.
Nysha stayed where she was, watching Lindarion with a gaze too heavy to ignore.
Finally, she moved closer, her voice a low whisper meant only for him. "You spoke his name as though it belongs to you. Like you've carried it for years."
