He couldn't stand yet.
The pain was too fresh, too deep, like something had split through his ribs and stitched itself into the marrow. But his hands still worked. That was enough. Barely.
Ashwing crouched beside him, shifting between concern and irritation like a cat pacing a burning rooftop.
"You look like you got eaten by a brick wall," the dragon muttered in his mind.
'Felt like it too.'
He blinked through the dust. The courtyard was cracked down the middle. Craters where once-polished stones had been. Smoke everywhere. No more civilians.
Only the scent of burnt leather, scorched magic, and blood.
Far off, closer than he liked, something shrieked.
Not a scream.
Not human.
Something else.
The pressure still hadn't lifted. It sat on the back of his skull like a migraine made of knives.
Then boots.
Heavy. Controlled. Someone not running.
Lindarion turned his head just enough to see the one figure walking through the broken remains of the city's southern gate.
