When the cavern lights finally glowed ahead, the faint smoke of burning barricades reaching their noses, the squad exhaled as one. The air there was no cleaner, but it was less suffocating than the tunnels behind.
Harrow raised his fist, signaling halt before they stepped back into camp. His face was gray with sweat and grime, but his voice carried the weight of command. "Keep your mouths shut about what we saw. Not until the prince speaks. Panic will do Dythrael's work for him."
The men nodded stiffly. Fear still lingered in their eyes, but discipline, thin as a thread, held them together.
Lindarion said nothing. His own silence was heavier, anchored deep. Nysha's shadows trailed behind her like tired serpents, coiling restlessly against the stone. She glanced at him once, crimson eyes searching, but his jaw was stone. No words left his mouth. Not yet.
They stepped into the camp.
