"If an injury has to be done to a man it should be so severe that his vengeance need not be feared." — Niccolo Machiavelli
---
The air in the mountain's gut was stale, thick with the scent of damp stone and old blood. The moonless, starless night pressed down on the world outside, and here, in the final stronghold of Ironthorne, the only light came from the sputtering torch in Rorix Thorne's hand. Its flame danced across the crude rock walls, creating shadows that writhed like dying things. Each step was a risk, and each breath was a gamble.
He was a Null, a man without the Guild's gifts. He had no Prime Conduit transmuting his life force into usable mana, no alchemical implant fused to his skin to grant him superhuman abilities he could use in the mission. All he had always had were his senses, his skills, and cold discipline forged by years of sparring and actual combat. These had been enough to earn him the rank of Sergeant in less than a year of military service to the Ruvian Empire. Tonight, he hoped these would be enough to make him a Lieutenant.
The promotion wasn't for glory. It was for his wife, Lyra. For the quiet life they dreamed of, the one where the pay was steady enough to raise a child of their own. This mission, an order from the Archon himself, was the final bloody step toward that life.
The order echoed in his mind, sharp and simple as a knife's edge: Find Baron Grom Maelstrom. Kill him on sight.
Beside him, Juris Slade shifted his weight, the leather of his armor groaning. A faint, almost imperceptible hum emanated from him, the tell-tale sign of a Conduit working beneath his skin. Juris was a Guild-touched man like a number of other soldiers of the Ruvian Empire—he relied on the Conclave's alchemical gifts to ensure the success of missions assigned to him.
"We're close," Juris whispered, hand resting on a pouch of alchemical cartridges at his belt. "I can feel the shifts in the bunker's structural integrity. The main chambers are nearby."
"I trust myself," Rorix said, raising his torch higher. To him, his senses were enough. He didn't need an alchemical implant to know this bunker was old, and that many had failed to penetrate its deepest depths and kill the leader who lived there—the stains of rust and death, and the fact that they were there to start with, told him that much.
The bunker beneath the mountain's face was the headquarters and the last vestige of The Forgelands' five-year rebellion. The rogue barony, once a formidable power with its near-endless supply of metals, was now cornered like a rat in this mountain tomb.
Their path ended at a fork. The two passages ahead were identical tunnels of jagged rock disappearing into oppressive darkness. Indecision was certain death.
"You check left, I'll go right," Juris suggested, his confidence buoyed by the power thrumming within him. "We'll meet at the Baron's throne."
"Then we kill him together." Juris's parting words sounded like a promise of brotherhood. Rorix just nodded. He never moved, letting Juris move first.
When Juris's footsteps faded, Rorix lowered his torch to the floor. As a Null, he saw what the mana-blessed often overlook: the physical evidence. The path to his left had three faint, parallel lines etched into the stone, the kind a weighted cart, likely a component in a pressure-activated trap, would make after countless resets. Dried blood, almost black in the torchlight, stained the ceiling, walls, and floor of that passage.
The path to his right, however, bore the indentations of heavy, armored boots—multiple sets of them. He glanced at the ceiling and walls. High vertical clearance, no blood stains.
"Taking right," he whispered to the silence, having decided to follow Juris.
The tunnel led him to a vast, circular stone chamber. It was eerily quiet, the air unnaturally still. In the center stood a simple, unadorned dais of black iron. It felt like a trap, but a different kind. A stage.
"So you've decided to follow me," a familiar voice cut through the silence.
Startled, Rorix spun, dagger already in hand. Juris Slade leaned against a far archway, a cruel smirk on his face. Beside him, two spectral hounds shimmered into existence. These were born from small, flat discs powered by Juris's Prime Conduit. They weren't flesh and blood, but alchemical constructs of solidified violent energy, their purple outlines glowing with channeled mana.
"Why yes, I have." Rorix's eyes narrowed. "What's with the hounds? Why have you let them out?"
"I ran into a problem," Juris said, stroking his moustache. "I was about to make short work of it."
There were no enemies around them.
Rorix's hand tightened on his dagger. "Who are you referring to?"
Juris chuckled, a low, ugly sound. "In case you still do not get it, Thorne, this mission was never just about Maelstrom. It's about you too, Null. You and those aspiring to be like you make the rest of us look weak. You complete missions without a single implant, without even a shard of Conclave-given power. You devalue the gifts that are meant to make us better soldiers." He gestured to himself. "With showoffs like you gone, command can demand more. More Conduits for more soldiers. Better alchemical implants. Superior powers."
With a snap of Juris's fingers, the spectral hounds charged, leaving faint, ethereal trails as they crossed the stone floor. Rorix met their charge head-on, not with brute force, but with a calculated desperation. He flung a throwing knife at Juris, a distraction. Juris, expecting it, contemptuously swatted it aside with his own dagger.
But it was enough. The first hound lunged, and Rorix dodged under its snapping jaws, his own dagger flashing upwards. The blade passed through the construct's smoky flank with no resistance, doing nothing. A fatal error.
The second hound slammed into his side, its jaws of raw mana tearing through his armor and into his flesh. The pain was searing, absolute. The first beast spun and clamped onto his leg. They were weightless yet possessed a crushing force, shredding muscle and snapping bone. They tore him apart without bringing him down, leaving him suspended in a torment of pure agony.
Juris let him suffer for a moment before whistling sharply. The hounds dissipated into purple mist. With nothing holding him upright, Rorix's mangled body collapsed to the floor with a sickening crunch. His blood pooled beneath him, a rapidly growing shadow in the torchlight.
"That was fast," Juris remarked, walking over. He crouched and stared into Rorix's fading eyes. "I need proof. This cloak will fetch a handsome price, especially soaked in your blood."
Juris ripped the cloak from Rorix's body, folding it with a strange reverence. As he turned to leave, Rorix's hand shot out, grasping his ankle.
"Don't worry," Juris sneered, kicking his hand away. "Any moment now, the Underworld will take you. You will never be alone again."
As Juris's footsteps faded, a shadow passed over Rorix. A black crow with eyes that shone like polished silver landed beside him. Its gaze was unnervingly intelligent, as if it were not a creature, but an alchemical construct.
Rorix opened his mouth in an attempt to speak to the creature, but no sound would come out of him.
I tried. The blood loss reduced Rorix's last words to mere thoughts.
Tell Lyra… if you can… I tried my absolute best to give us a good life. Rorix had to leave a last word no matter what.
The crow hopped and tilted its head to one side. Are you… reading my mind right now? Well, if you are…
Tell her… I love her. And I'll be missing her.
The silver-eyed crow stared into him for a long, silent moment. Then it spread its wings and rose, circling above his body like a patient, silent vulture.
It was as if the crow was lulling him to sleep, a sleep he will never wake up from.