The smoke hadn't cleared.
And Lindarion's patience had finally cracked.
Ashwing stood like a statue in the center of the square, tail coiled defensively, wings half-unfurled, golden eyes scanning every roof. The stone under his claws was scorched black, the scent of burnt metal thick in the air.
Screams echoed from deeper inside the city, but no one else tried to approach. No soldiers. No resistance. Just more silence.
Then—
Wind shifted.
Lindarion's head snapped up.
From the spire at the far end of the square, past the market stalls and shattered homes, a shape rose. Not jumped. Flew.
It wasn't a casual lift.
It was control.
Like gravity had just politely stepped aside.
They came up slow.
