As the moments passed from Ivarik’s departure the silence shifted from weighty to an overwhelming hollowness. The vacuum left in his wake was like that of a vast predator passing though the forest, close enough to threaten but just far enough for it to not take notice. The scent of his presence, smoke and brimstone, still clung to the walls like a shadow, however. No one shifted at first. It was not due to fear, they knew he had left, but instead due to bone-numbing fatigue. The exhaustion that was born not from exertion but from true survival harboring too much truth of the situation.

  Xavier was the first to move, he blinked slowly as his eyes became readjusted to the flickering light of the torch in Ella’s hand. On his chest he could still feel the Kael’Sharyn mark, it had ebbed back to its usual dormant state however the echo of its last surging pulse reverberated in his bones as if to tell him, “Your path has been chosen now.”

  Behind him, Ella and Lythara rose, their motions slow and deliberate. On her feet the succubus staggered but did not fall. She was weak, her limbs unsteady and her breath shallow and ragged. Despite this she now had a strength, a tension, in her spine that was previously lacking. The fire of survival and new freedom had reinvigorated her will. When she lifted her eyes to meet Ella’s she nodded to the woman, a small silent nod of thanks and appreciation.

  Sihri pushed off the wall she had been against. Her face hardened like stone with her inward focus. “That… he… he walked in like he had been here all along,” she said through clenched teeth, her voice soft and low. “We had come in here like ghosts in a tomb and yet he still found us like we had paraded in.”

  Xavier turned to look at her, his voice just as soft. “He didn’t find us.” His gaze shifted towards Lythara. “He had found her.” There was no anger or accusation in his voice, just the simple statement of fact. “And now he knows she’s gone”

  Lythara didn’t flinch at his words. The edges of her eyes tightened slightly but she realized he was not holding her at fault.

  The small group stood there staring at one another weighing options until Lianna moved. She secured her bow and crossed the room soundlessly. Stepping past Xavier without looking at him her shoulder brushed lightly against his. Not dismissive, or even aggressive, more as if ensuring herself of his presence, an anchor in the moment. “Then we flee,” she stated simply. “We flee before he sends something far less courteous and accepting.”

  Nodding slowly Ella spoke. “Agreed,” she murmured and doused her torch. The darkness surrounded them though faint light from bioluminescent mosses kept it from complete darkness. “No fires, no speaking unless necessary, we flee until we are clear.”

  Frostclaw moved to flank Lianna again. Valkra circled near the exit and let out a soft growl. The cub impatient, alert and anxious to depart.

  Xavier turned to retrieve his satchel from next to the stone slab. His eyes lingered on the large piece of obsidian. It was cool once again, inert and dark. That did not shake the sensation he had that it had been observing everything, the scroll, the unbinding, the devil’s offer. It had been observing, remembering and judging, all of the events clinging to its smooth surface like a scar left by a wound.

  Stepping to his side Ella gently took his hand. “Leave it,” she said softly and pulled him towards the exit. “It is done.” He glanced at her and nodded once before they both turned as he shouldered his gear.

  Behind them, Lythara stretched out a single hand and ran it over the smooth glassy surface of the stone slab, not in reverence or thanksgiving but simple farewell, a closure of an age of suffering in her life. She then turned as well, her voice soft but resolute in its tone. “I remember the way out, follow me.”

  With that they moved quickly, back into the dark once again, shadows folding around them like a lovers embrace while they fled the chamber.

  The worn tunnel ran before them, narrow, slickened with moisture and wear, its walls narrowing enough to brush shoulders in places and in others the stone of the ceiling sagging under the weight that collapsed supports that were no longer up to the task of bearing their burden. Time and the damp had worn the old smugglers’ passages into jagged arteries beneath Ironhaven, veined with black mold that streaked the stone walls and ceilings. Through it all the group ran, Lythara in the lead.

  The succubus’ steps were certain, her body hunched slightly forward as if she was sensing the way as much as seeing it. Her eyes, long adapted to the dark due to her biology more than familiarity, caught faint light from the bioluminescent mosses and compared it to her memories. Her traversal of the tunnels was more the return of someone instead of one exploring them. Every turn, every sloped decent and ascent, every jutting beam was familiar to her in a way that transcended simple sight.

  “Step to the right here,” her voice drifted back to the trailing group when she paused at the edge of a narrow cleft. “There is a crack in the tunnel on the left that will cause a collapse under weight.”

  Trusting her guidance, the group followed without question. Directly behind her Xavier followed with Valkra at his side, tight enough against his leg to aid his movements in the dark but not hinder him. The cub’s ears flicked in constant vigilance, her eyes scanning the darkness for threats as her twin tails lashed in anticipation. Behind them came Lianna and Frostclaw, the ranger carrying her bow low with an arrow on the string but undrawn. Ella came next near the rear and ready to aid Sihri if needed. The Leopari gladiator brought up the rear, her kinship with rabbits making her more comfortable in the underground tunnels than the rest but her fingers still twitched and clenched making her leather fighting wraps creak.

  As they continued the air became thicker with age and mildew. The silence broken by the rhythmic droplets of water trickling through the walls. At times the moss that lit the tunnel thinned and they passed through stretches of complete blackness. Despite this, Lythara did not slow. Her fingers brushed against the stone of the wall every now and then, tracing over faint etchings from ages past, contraband sigils, smugglers codes and memory anchors.

  “How many times did you walk these tunnels?” Xavier asked softly, his voice barely discernable in the darkness.

  Glancing back briefly Lythara replied. “Enough to learn where the city forgets,” her tone was steady and even. “Even shadows need to have their own roads sometimes.”

  In time they passed the remains of an old cart, its form long since rotted and its contents indiscernible except for the barest glint of a rusted blade peeking through age worn cloth. Nearby another sagging beam groaned softly overhead the weight of decades settling further. Xavier placed a hand on the stone wall, his fledgling earth sense flaring in warning of fractures overhead, old but on the verge of collapse.

  “Keep low here,” he murmured softly. “The roof is weak, don’t speak”

  The group passed beneath the groaning wood one at a time in silence, their breathing shallow and stressed until they reached an area beyond where the tunnel widened once again. Soon they came to an old junction. Here the moss thickened briefly, its glow illuminating a small expanse of carved stone. A worn and faded smuggler’s sigil, three knives bound in a circle, was etched into the wall.

  “Last turn,” Lythara said. “Exit’s ahead, behind a root-choked wall. We’ll have to slip through single file.”

  As they rounded the final bend, the tunnel widened briefly, then narrowed into a slanted corridor choked with dangling roots and debris. Lythara moved without hesitation, her hands skimming along the wall until she found a faint ridge, a wooden frame set into the stone, half-swallowed by decay and time. She pressed inward and something creaked. After a few moments a hidden panel gave way with a low groan, revealing a narrow crawlspace angled sharply upward. Faint air filtered through, cooler, sharper, tinged with soot and distant torch smoke. The scent of wet stone gave way to the acrid mix of woodsmoke, tanner’s ash, and the iron tang of city watch patrols.

  Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

  We’re beneath the old tanner’s quarter,” Lythara whispered. “Just beyond this slope is the eastern trade ward. If we time it right, we can reach the wall before the upper districts realize we’re gone.”

  Xavier drew in a breath, tasting the shift in pressure, the subtle drop in tension beneath the city’s weight. “Still inside the walls,” he muttered.

  “For now,” Lythara said. “But not for long.”

  Lianna’s expression was grim. “It’ll be crawling with patrols soon. We need to move the moment we surface.”

  “There’s a collapsed outer watch post just past the first alley,” Lythara added, already slipping into the incline. “That’s our way out.”

  Behind them, Valkra growled softly still showing her impatience. Sihri’s muscles tensed, ready to run or fight as required. Frostclaw loomed like a silent shadow beside Lianna, nostrils flaring at the change in air.

  Ella extinguished the last glimmer of moss-light with a brush of her fingers as the group ascended and at last, as they reached the top of the crawlspace and emerged behind a half-crushed brick wall in a refuse-strewn alley, the veil of the undercity fell away. Beyond the broken arch, the outer districts of Ironhaven stirred beneath the first light of dawn. Chimneys smoked. Streets bustled faintly with the earliest merchants and tattered banners fluttered in the windless morning. They had escaped the depths, but Ironhaven still loomed around them, and the walls had not yet been breached.

  The outskirts of the city heaved breaths of smoke and silence in uneven bursts, as if the very buildings were exhaling something foul from its depths. They had emerged into the graybelt, the crumbling ruined district in the furthest southwest corner of the city. Here the streets were broken and cramped with ruin, the buildings abandoned, collapsed or half burned, the refuse of forgotten industry and commerce piled into damp corners. However, even through the ruins, the weight of Ironhaven’s control still thrummed.

  All around them were reminders that Ironhaven wasn’t just a fortress city. It was a market of flesh and bodies, Arenvalis’ primary slave hub and a place where coins flowed like blood and chains were a currency of their own. In the distance they could see the upper tiers of the city that gleamed with polished stone and gold trimmed banners a gilded front to the trade, but down here in the lower districts the truth was visible in every open space. The open-air stalls, their cheap canvas providing bare cover in the rising sun, stood in rows not far from the alley where the group rushed through. Even at this early hour they could hear the slavers setting up their auctions, preparing to display racks of collars, shackles and custom brands being laid out beside the wooden blocks that had been worn smooth and glossy by scores of bare feet. From one of the pens, they could hear the sounds of hoarse coughing rising from those who hadn’t been sold the day before.

  Keeping to the shadows in the alleys Lythara moved with purpose, holding her cloak tight about her form her steps sharp and precise as she wove the path for the others to follow. She had walked these roads before, collared by her contract. Now she led the group, moving ahead of them to guide them through the forgotten cracks in Ironhaven’s fa?ade with a hunter’s focus.

  “Just ahead, there,” she said as she pointed between two collapsed storage silos. “There is a spot in the southern bulwark, the storms split it a couple weeks ago, it is unwatched.” A slight smirk touched her lips, “I made sure of that.”

  Xavier followed her gesture he could see where the wall slumped like a weary sentinel. The edifice supported a ruined scaffold near the breach, its boards blackened by fire, and its supports cracked. It was a perfect exit that no one expected anyone to use due to the danger of its collapse.

  “They won’t guard what they think no one dares,” Lianna murmured.

  But the city had other thoughts, and they heard a voice ring out from behind them.

  “Stop! Stop right there!”

  A shout echoed across the rubble, followed by the rapid clatter of boots. Two slave wardens emerged from the ruin’s edge, one raising a crossbow, the other drawing a hooked glaive etched with the marks of the Ironhaven guard on its blade. Their red-and-gold sashes gleamed in the gray morning light, marking them as enforcers of Ironhaven’s markets.

  “You didn’t just breach the Vault; you violated the heart of the Exchange. Halestorm has every city guard, Arenvalis conscript, and Redmaw blade not loyal to your whore commander sweeping the streets. You’ve made a wound that bleeds through every ledger in Ironhaven... and we intend to close it, slowly, and with your corpses as the suture.”

  Xavier moved to intercept; however, it was Lythara who stepped ahead of him, she raised her hand and traced four sigils through the air, each one glowing red-hot, sharp and controlled. They sank into the foundation stone beneath the scaffold. A symbol flared, Xavier’s skill for runes identified it as the Mark of Collapse moments before it sank deep into the wall’s marrow.

  “Collapse,” she said softly. “And remember who broke you.”

  The world seemed to pause on bated breath before the glyph detonated. The scaffold shrieked and crumpled. The wall shuddered. A gout of flame and pulverized mortar blasted outward, swallowing the wardens’ shouts. The stone cracked with thunderous noise and the breach yawned wide.

  “Move!” Xavier barked, he had already scooped up Valkra and ran forward through the rising smoke.

  The others sprinted, through fire, through falling dust, over splintered boards and broken stone. The city’s wall gaped around them as they fled into the grasslands beyond the city, one by one, they cleared the breach. Frostclaw leapt the last fallen beam, his fur streaked with ash. Sihri rolled through the dust and came up on her feet. Ella climbed out last, cloak tattered at the hem, her breath ragged. Suddenly they were free.

  The hills beyond the wall stretched outward in pale morning gray, rocky scrubland, thorned ridges, and long trails barely visible through the shifting mist. The Silverwood was not nearby. Its shadowy green line was a distant smudge on the eastern horizon, at least four or five days’ hard journey away. They had escaped the city but the wilds ahead would not shelter them easily.

  Xavier looked back over his shoulder once. Smoke still curled from the shattered bulwark, glowing faintly red where Lythara’s sigil had burned the foundation. Somewhere within the city, nobles were waking to the scent of fire, and Tavrek Halestorm’s hunt would already be tightening.

  “We’ve bought hours,” Lianna said, falling in beside him. “Not days.”

  “Then we run,” Xavier replied, “until the Silverwood swallows us whole.”

  And without another word, they fled into the wildlands, no longer just escaped fugitives, but carriers of the wound Ironhaven would bleed from for the rest of the burgeoning war.

  As Xavier’s party ran into the early morning fog concealing the wildlands, behind them Ironhaven was awake. It was not with the bustle of trade or the rhythms of a market city rising for another day of coin and cruelty, instead it was with the sharp, spiraling panic of a system realizing it had been wounded.

  In the heart of the Exchange District, the first auction stalls were still being unfurled, their canvas flapping loosely in the wind. A few unsold Animari slaves knelt beneath iron arches. Their eyes were half-lidded, unaware that the ledgers, their very commodification, were gone. However, the merchants knew, and the wardens knew, and deep in the armory, beneath the banners of the Slave Exchange and the sigils of the Crown, Tavrek Halestorm stood overlooking a map of the city, its sectors etched in blood-colored chalk.

  The reports were still coming in. “They hit the Vault of Chains just before the fourth bell,” said a courier, her voice tight with controlled fear, the commander was known for lashing out at those who displeased him. “Broke through the outer catacomb, used old smuggler routes where we found a ritual slab. One of the infernal contracts was destroyed.”

  “Which one?” Tavrek asked without looking up.

  “Veyne’s,” came the soft voice quivering in further fear.

  The chalk snapped in his hand, but Tavrek didn’t flinch. He simply turned to the massive war-table and placed the jagged half back in its slot. His eyes, icy gray and framed by age lines earned in the southern campaigns, settled on the scattered icons representing guard companies, conscripted Arenvalis troops, and Redmaw squads.

  “Deploy the Halberd line to the granary quarter. Reinforce the Exchange tier with First Pike. I want snare circles at every known breach point, magical or mundane.”

  “Sir, if they’ve already cleared the wall, the trails…”

  “The scrub will not hide them,” Tavrek said flatly. “They have days before they reach the Silverwood. That’s three hundred hours of open land. We have twelve hundred boots in the city, a hundred Reavers not loyal to Veyne, and the eastern pikes already sweeping the lower terraces. We will outpace them. And when we do…”

  He looked to the forgebrand officer at his right, a former Reaver lieutenant with half his face burned and eyes like scorched coin.

  “No prisoners. Not this time.” He stated coldly.

  The officer nodded once. “Understood.”

  Outside, bells began to toll, not in alarm, but in coordination and command. The slave houses, for the first time in decades, had closed their ledgers mid-morning, buyers were turned away, coins returned and auctions delayed. No trade was to take place until the breach was resolved. Ironhaven did not mourn the dead guards. No it mourned the loss of control.

  In the Noble Quarter, cloaked men whispered in drawing rooms lit by everburning lanterns. The Shadow Court had not spoken publicly, but their silence spoke volumes. Within the deepest depths of the city the Vault of Chains was quietly being sealed and moved. One contract destroyed meant the others were vulnerable.

  Tavrek Halestorm stood alone in the guards keep as the last pieces were set into motion. He stared out the high window overlooking the cracked eastern bulwark, smoke still trailing in thin streams from the ruin.

  “They’ve drawn blood,” he murmured. “But they’ve forgotten what it means to bleed Ironhaven.” He turned, cloak snapping behind him, and gave his final order. “Seal the city. And light the beacons. I want runners sent to Thandor’s Reach.”