"Open the gate!" the janitor's cry rang out, cutting through the damp air like the edge of a blade.
The great baranith gate groaned as it moved, its hinges wailing like an old beast in pain. Through its slow, heavy swing rode a small caravan—dust-stained, weary, and silent. At its head was Torg, his cloak torn and his eyes hollow from the long road behind him. Two guards followed close, armor dull beneath the fungus-light, their faces drawn and grey.
Beyond the walls of Bir Vyn Warma, the air was thick with decay.The man who greeted him—Hoysta en Nyr—looked as though he'd been carved from the same stone that caged them all. His voice rasped from a throat too long dry."Welcome to Bir Vyn Warma, Lord Torg," he said, forcing courtesy through exhaustion. "We did not expect your arrival… not in times such as these."
Torg gave no answer beyond a curt nod. His gaze drifted through the narrow streets—their shadows deep and endless. Women carried empty pails. Children begged for crumbs. Men leaned against cold walls, their eyes glazed and hollow. Life, what little remained of it, clung weakly to the stones.
Hoysta led them through winding paths toward the keep.The wind whistled through the cavern, carrying the faint cries of unseen things. When they reached the gates of the keep, Torg dismissed his men with a look.He entered alone.
Inside, three figures sat around a long wooden table, a torn map spread across its scarred surface.Tull Ardon was the first to look up—his face as cold and hard as the baranith beneath their feet.Beside him, Aranith Velos rose gracefully, her smile soft and faint, like a dying flame."By the Stone's will," she said, "Torg himself walks among us. I had not thought to see you again."
Serk Hanwy chuckled as he stepped forward, offering a hand."It's been a year—or more. I thought you'd long stopped believing there's anything in this cursed earth worth fighting for."
Torg set his helm upon the table and met their gazes one by one. His voice came low, steady, and stripped of warmth."I didn't come for courtesies. I came to see my brother—Normo."
A silence fell heavy as the cavern's weight.Eyes shifted, smiles died. Even the torchlight dimmed, as though the fire itself feared to speak.
Aranith's expression withered into sorrow.Tull turned his face away.Serk was the one who finally broke the quiet, his words strained and heavy."Normo… is not here, Torg."
Torg's eyes narrowed, the faintest flicker of danger behind them."Then where is he?"
The graveyard lay beneath the shadow of the great stone column, where the air was thick and wet and cold. Each grey stone bore a name long forgotten, a life swallowed by the dark.Torg stood before one of them—his brother's. He said nothing. Grief did not move his face. Only silence, cold and deep as the caverns themselves.
Serk stood beside him, voice trembling in the heavy air."He was a brave man. A true leader. When we'd lost all hope, it was he who reminded us why we fought. I pray the earth grants him peace."
The torches flickered weakly, casting ghosts of light upon their faces.Torg didn't respond. His eyes stayed fixed upon the stone. When he finally spoke, the words came hoarse, hollow."How did he die? Truly."
The others exchanged glances. The silence returned—thicker this time, heavier.And then Aranith said softly, "He was murdered."
Torg's expression froze. A tremor passed through his fingers, barely visible."Murdered," he whispered. The word tasted of ash.
They gave him no more answers.They couldn't.
He turned and walked away, his shadow stretching long behind him. The sound of his steps echoed through the stone like the tolling of a bell.He didn't look back. He didn't need to.Something inside him had already died beside that grave.
In a narrow alley, the children played among rot and ruin, their laughter a frail defiance against the endless dark.A little girl covered her eyes and began to count."One… two… three…"Her voice was a whisper of innocence in a world long bereft of it.
Another girl darted behind a half-burnt shack, heart racing with the thrill of hiding.There, in the shadows, sat a man—his back to the wall, his eyes sunk deep in sorrow. His clothes were torn, his hands stained.
He looked up slowly when he saw her."Little one," he said, voice rough and tired.
She froze, fear flickering in her small frame.He raised a trembling hand. "Don't be afraid. I won't harm you. I only wish to ask you something."
She said nothing, her gaze fixed on the dirt."Is there anything," he murmured, "that makes you happy… in this place that never sees the sun?"
Silence.Then, in a voice barely above breath, she said,"There is… I'm happy because I don't hurt anyone."
The words cut through him like a knife.So simple. So pure.She smiled faintly, turned, and ran—her laughter echoing faintly as she vanished among the huts.
The man remained.He looked down at his hands, and the darkness that clung to them."She's happy because she harms no one…" he whispered."And me? What makes me happy?"
No answer came—only the whisper of the cavern wind.
Morning was nothing but a dim shift in the gloom. Ferreh en Hruyanan rose from his cot with the weight of stone pressing on his chest.He dressed in his pale baranis armor, fastened his sword, and stepped into the cold breath of the buried world.
He was tired—of orders, of lies, of surviving.Today's task was not honorable.It was treachery dressed as diplomacy:an agreement to surrender Bir Vyn Warma to the Kingdom in exchange for gold, titles, and safety.
Ferreh followed his commander, Tull Ardon, through the wet stone paths. Ahead of them walked Hala Iar, the Kingdom's envoy—a fat man with a smile too smooth to trust.
"Soon this village will be under the King's banner," Hala said, voice oozing pleasure."And your loyalty will not go unrewarded. Gold, rank, favor—such things await the faithful."Tull laughed, clapping his shoulder."The King knows how to reward those who serve."
Ferreh walked behind them, silent.His thoughts were a storm.He remembered the little girl's words—"I'm happy because I don't hurt anyone."
His stomach twisted.He knew what this deal meant:Pillage. Hunger. Death.And he was part of it.
Still, he said nothing.
When Hala turned to him with that same serpent's smile and asked,"Tell me, soldier—do you doubt us?"
Ferreh straightened, his face a mask."No, my lord. I only wish to be sure that the promises made… will be kept."
Hala laughed."Serve the crown, and you'll have your share. The King remembers his loyal sons."
Ferreh nodded, but inside he felt the chain tighten around his throat.He watched as they signed their pact on a flat stone, sealing the fate of an entire village.
And in that moment, he understood—He had not signed for gold, or for favor,but for silence.For guilt.For the slow death of the soul beneath the buried earth.