Nysha sat on one of the cracked stone benches, her crimson eyes tracking his every movement. She had stopped offering advice hours ago. Her silence was heavier than her words had ever been.
Ashwing, sprawled in lizard form across her lap, lifted his head now and then to hiss softly, sometimes when Lindarion's steps faltered, sometimes when he vanished too long into the black.
And each time Lindarion staggered out of the shadows, bleeding from his nose, veins trembling with mana exhaustion, Nysha would glance at him like a gambler waiting to see whether his next throw would bring ruin or fortune.
He hated that look.
He loved it too.
–
The twentieth attempt of the night left him sprawled across the floor, back arched, muscles seizing. He had crossed the chamber again, silent as death. But when he tried to push further, when he aimed for the stairwell leading out of the underground hall, the shadows had snapped on him like a beast with broken teeth.
