She stood over him, trembling. Her hands curled into fists, nails cutting her palms.
"You think power means nothing if you don't die earning it," she hissed. "But tell me, what good is your strength if you vanish into that void and never return? What good will you be to your people then? To yourself? To Ashwing?"
The little dragon growled low in its throat, pressing against Lindarion's chest as though echoing her words.
For a moment, just a moment, doubt flickered in him.
But then the wind shifted, carrying with it a memory: the Sword Saint's blade slicing through his defenses, the humiliation of falling, the helplessness of being too slow, too weak.
The doubt vanished.
"I won't stop," he whispered. "Not until I can step through him the way I step through shadows."
Nysha's expression darkened. She looked at him as though seeing a fire that would burn her alive if she stood too close.
But she didn't turn away.
—
They returned underground. He didn't stop.
