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They came armored and blessed, expecting a reckoning.
Steel shone in the torchlight. Dozens of squads, banners fluttering behind them, marched through the stone gates carved into the mountain's side. Holy symbols adorned every chestplate, every blade. Some bore shields etched with the sigil of Aries—a roaring lion beneath a sunburst. Others carried halberds blessed by the High Priests themselves.
They spoke little.
The only sounds were the clink of armor, the murmurs of prayers, and the deep, rhythmic hum of the sacred hymn that followed the elite into the dark. It was said the hymn warded off madness. Said the tunnels could twist your mind, make you forget why you came, or who you were.
Captain Malchior of the Holy Guard wasn't worried about that.
He remembered exactly why he came.
Leonhart. The traitor. The ghost. The dead man who dared to rise.
He moved at the head of the column, silver hair pulled back, armor dark with the burnished sheen of divine silver. Unlike the others, his sigil bore no lion. His bore a broken blade crossed by chains. The mark of the Sealed Order.
The air grew colder as they descended.
Moisture dripped from above. The walls grew tighter, slicker, lined with old carvings and faint glows from bio-luminescent moss. Whispers echoed from deeper passages—some natural, some not.
He's alive. He leads them. And you saw what they did to the scouts.
Malchior's jaw clenched. The memory flashed again—bodies torn in half, their holy marks smeared in blood and filth. No ordinary monsters had done that. No warband of beasts. This was something else.
"Torch line. Formation Delta." His voice was quiet but firm.
The squads adjusted instantly. Light cascaded across the walls in dancing halos.
And that was when the first one screamed.
A blood-curdling shriek tore from the rear. Then another. Steel clanged. Something wet slapped against stone.
Malchior pivoted, drawing his blade. "Defensive formation—now!"
The formation collapsed before it could take shape.
From the walls, the shadows moved. A goblin dropped from the ceiling, blade already in a soldier's throat. Something else—taller, hunched, chittering—leapt from the side tunnel and dragged a man into the dark. His torch vanished with him.
Bolts of magic streaked through the air. Arrows clattered.
Panic surged like a flood.
Malchior's sword lashed out, cleaving through a snarling beast with jagged bone armor. He didn't stop moving. He couldn't.
A trap sprung from the floor—runes flashing once before a gout of flame consumed three knights. Screams echoed. Holy blessings flickered like candles before snuffing out.
They were prepared. They knew we'd come.
He pressed forward.
They had to reach the drop—the lower ring, the city beneath. He had no doubt now it was real. What else could command this kind of coordination? Monsters didn't plan like this.
Unless someone taught them to.
He stepped over the corpse of a knight, her helm caved in by a crude warhammer.
"On me!" he roared. "We carve a path—down!"
More followed—bloodied, wide-eyed, their once-shining armor dull with grime and ichor. Holy flames lit the path for a moment. It was enough.
They reached a ledge. Below them, tiered stone spiraled around a central abyss. Buildings of bone and metal clung to the cliffsides. Lights pulsed from fungal lanterns and veins of glowing ore.
A city. Real. Breathing. Alive.
A heartbeat pulsed in the stone. Or maybe it was just his ears.
Then he saw the figures.
Far below, darting between the buildings—warbands of lizardkin, goblins, massive armored beasts. Patrols, sentries, raiders. Not chaos. Organization.
And watching from one high balcony—golden eyes in the dark.
Malchior felt it like a blade to the gut.
Leonhart. Still alive. Watching him.
Waiting.
The Holy Knight's grip tightened.
"You remember me," he whispered to the dark. "I studied under your techniques. I know how you fight."
Another trap triggered to their left—stone collapsing and taking two soldiers down with it. Screams faded into the black.
One of his men stumbled near him. "Sir—we—we can't—these tunnels—they're alive."
"No," Malchior growled. "They're his. That's why they feel that way."
He turned to the remnants of his force. Two dozen now. Maybe less.
"You want out? Go. But if you step forward, you fight until the end."
Silence.
Then—slowly—they lifted weapons again. Swore silent oaths.
Malchior turned and led them into the city's upper veins.
I'll draw him out. I'll finish what the last war didn't.
He didn't say it aloud—but in his mind, he heard the words echo.
The Blade King will fall again. I swear it.
⸻
Below.
Leonhart stood on the far side of the abyss, cloak billowing behind him.
Sshorak, the lizard men's chieftain slithered beside him, yellow eyes glowing. "They press forward."
"I see them," Leonhart said. His voice was calm. Too calm.
"They adapt quickly."
"Of course they do. I trained them once. Not these ones… but their leaders."
He didn't look away from the figures moving through the tunnels.
"Let them come."
"Even if they reach the city?"
Leonhart finally turned. "It's not the city they need to fear… It's me, and the army I command!"
He stepped back from the balcony and walked down a rune-lit passage. The walls trembled slightly, as if in anticipation.
The deeper they go… the closer they get to it.
And still… something pulled at him. Something colder than the air, deeper than memory.
A whisper.
He paused. Then there are… again.
Not a sound, but a thought. A voice in a language even he didn't remember learning.
Only one word…
One ancient, broken word spoken like a curse:
"Ashkarûn."
Leonhart stopped. The whisper echoed inside his skull.
In the chamber beyond, the chained creature stirred. The chains groaned. Something… watched him.
He whispered the word back, voice trembling despite himself.
"…Ashkarûn."
The glyphs on the wall flared. A pulse rippled through the mountain like a heartbeat—felt even by Malchior above.
And deep, deep in the dark… the depths underground—
—something answered.
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TO BE CONTINUED…
NEXT CHAPTER: "A Blade Once Broken"