Draconic.
He frowned. That meant whatever this was, it wasn't the work of demons or of Dythrael's kin, it was something native, something that had once belonged to the land itself.
The voice spoke again, this time from within the sphere. "You reek of the Old Flame. Of blood not your own."
Lindarion's fingers tightened around his sword hilt. "Then you know who I am."
"A thief of breath. A half-formed heir of storms." The voice deepened, resonant enough to shake the roots. "You should not exist."
"Yet here I stand."
The mist convulsed suddenly, tendrils of blackness lashing outward. Lindarion cut through them before they touched him, golden light searing the darkness to ash. The forest howled around him, branches thrashing, the air twisting in protest.
Each strike of his blade sent ripples through the air, mana bursts strong enough to make the ground quake. He wasn't fighting a creature. He was fighting the infection of the world itself.
