Lycera entered the commander's chamber, carrying in her eyes a weight of worry too heavy to bear. The stone ceiling was the same as ever—dark, low, unchanging—and the slanted walls still trapped what little light seeped from the blue fungi clinging to the cracks. Yet the air itself had grown thick, pressing upon the chest like invisible hands.She stood before Korith, then sat upon a wooden chair that creaked under her silence before she spoke—her voice sharp and steady, the edge of a drawn blade."Korith... the sickness... the bats. Too many are dying. The people are afraid—food is running short. If we do not act, fear will turn to chaos."
Korith turned his gaze toward the faint light spilling through the narrow slits beside his desk. His eyes lingered there for a heartbeat before he met hers again. The calm on his face was forced, fragile—his chest heavy beneath the armor of duty."I waste time sitting here listening to complaints," he muttered. "I'll see it with my own eyes."
He rose swiftly, his boots echoing beneath the buried ceiling, leaving Lycera behind, her face caught between dread and restraint. The path to the stables stretched beneath the towering pillars of the Buried Land, where wind whispered through cracks in the stone and carried the scent of damp earth and fungus. There he found Kaylor, crouched low over small sacks filled with bat carcasses, his hands trembling with quiet diligence as he examined them.
The bodies of the bats were scattered across the ground—tiny, frail things, still and broken. The children had once watched them fly, dreaming of freedom in their fluttering wings. Now they were nothing more than dead memories.Kaylor worked silently, moving each specimen with care, marking every torn wing, every strange stain upon the fur.
A crowd had gathered—workers, mothers, and miners—all watching Korith with wide, hollow eyes. They were searching for something in him, perhaps an answer, perhaps a promise. Fear had shaped their faces like the shadow of a noose.
Korith raised his hands, calling for quiet. His voice was deep, slow, and solemn, echoing off the cold stone walls."Weeks ago, Torg went beyond our borders. He risked everything so we might one day walk under the open sky. Fear will not feed us. It will not save us. We must endure. We must hold fast to one another. Together, we will find the way out."
His words rolled through the cavern like thunder.At first, silence. Then whispers. Then a chant, faint at first, but growing louder—"The way out is possible... the way out is possible..."
Their voices rose, desperate but alive. For a brief moment, even the air seemed lighter. Korith's eyes softened, though the shadow of worry never truly left them.
He turned to go, the weight of command pressing once more upon his back. Beside him walked the Worden, silent and steady, his sword gleaming faintly in the fungal glow."Two spies were sent after Torg," the captain said at last. "If something happens to him, we'll know. We must be ready—for anything."
Korith nodded. There was no room left for hesitation. Not anymore.
He withdrew to a quiet corner of the village, watching the men train beneath the dim light. The Worden barked orders, demonstrating sword forms, correcting every misstep with patient precision. But Korith's mind wandered elsewhere.
He had not been born a leader. He was the son of a forgotten blacksmith—a man who had vanished, leaving behind only fire, iron, and two orphans. The thought haunted him now, gnawing at the edges of his resolve.
Then, from the darkness, an old man appeared—thin, stooped, every step trembling beneath the weight of unseen burdens. In his hand he carried something small, something that shimmered faintly beneath the blue glow. His eyes, when they found Korith's, were filled with dread and a message too heavy for words.
Korith felt the old sense of danger stirring in his chest. He did not know the man, nor why he had come. But the feeling was unmistakable—something tied to the past, to blood and death, to the three heads on the table, and the nightmares that followed.
The old man met his gaze but dared not come closer. Time itself seemed to pause between them. The silence was a blade, drawn and waiting.
Then the old man turned and walked away, leaving Korith in the echo of his own unease.
Hours passed. The cavern deepened into night. The tall stone pillars threw long shadows across the ground as bats stirred faintly above—living and dead, both restless.
Korith sat alone, his thoughts circling like caged birds. The weight of leadership pressed upon him harder than armor. Every sound—every flutter, every whisper—felt like a warning.
When he finally rose, he followed the old man's trail through the damp alleys until they reached a small hut near the edge of the settlement. It was ancient—its wood rotten, its windows dimmed with dust. The air inside was thick with the scent of decay and old fungus.
The old man entered first, Korith close behind. In the middle of the room stood a table cluttered with forgotten tools and yellowed parchment. But what caught Korith's eyes was the blade—a dagger forged from Baranis metal, glowing faintly green under the dim light.
He froze. He knew that metal. He knew that mark. The sigil carved into its hilt was that of the blacksmith who had raised him—the same man who had vanished years ago.
It was not merely a weapon. It was a message.A warning.And perhaps, a declaration—that the war was far from over.
Because the war had never truly been about steel and blood.It was a war of spirits, of secrets, of those who lived in the shadows and those who dreamed of light.And Korith knew, as he stood there, that the next move was his.