The chamber still smelled of scorched stone and ozone, scars from Lindarion's earlier training carved across every wall. But now, after Nysha's demonstration, the silence felt heavier, not empty, but thick, as though the shadows themselves were listening.
Lindarion stood with Zerathis in hand, the black-red blade thrumming faintly, its edge shimmering as though eager for blood. His stance was rigid, shoulders squared, the air around him still faintly sparking with leftover mana.
Nysha had resumed her seat on the stone, though her posture was straighter now, attentive. Ashwing curled up at her side like a coiled cat, his reptilian eyes narrowed in what almost looked like smug amusement.
Lindarion exhaled slowly. "I don't need you to coddle me. I need to know how to make it obey."
Nysha arched a brow. "It isn't about obedience. Darkness doesn't serve. It waits."
His jaw tightened. "Everything bends if you push hard enough."
"That's exactly why you fail."
