The courtyard lay silent after the gates slammed shut. Broken stone, streaks of scorched earth, and the acrid stench of charred air were all that remained of the battle.
Lindarion stood in the middle of it, swaying like a man one breath from collapse. His hair clung to his face in blood-soaked strands. Each breath tore through his chest like broken glass.
The Sword Saint's final words still echoed in his skull. This is mercy. Next time, I won't give it.
Mercy.
The word tasted like poison. He wanted to spit it out, crush it, erase it from existence.
He clenched Zerathis in his trembling grip. The blade's faint hum vibrated through his palm, steady, unyielding. The weapon hadn't failed him. He had failed the weapon.
His knees buckled. He caught himself on one arm, growling low in his throat. The world blurred around the edges, his vision narrowing to pinpricks of light.
Then a voice broke the silence.
"—Lindarion!"
