A sentry patrols his section of the labyrinthine passageways. As he marches past an adjoining corridor, he exchanges a curt nod with a fellow guard stationed at the far end. A fleeting shadow knifes the edge of his vision, and his head snaps back—but the figure is gone.
Brows furrowed, the sentry halts and peers down the dimly lit corridor, where flickering torchlight dances against jagged rock walls, casting restless shadows into the gloom. Most of the passage is swallowed by darkness, the torches spaced too far apart to offer comfort.
Compelled by unease, the sentry steps cautiously into the channel, each footfall echoing softly. The only sounds are the crackle of flames and the whisper of his own breath. Reaching the end, he glances left, then right. The path is empty.
Relief begins to settle until he pivots—and freezes. Looming before him is an imposing silhouette, its breadth eclipsing the faint torchlight. The sentry barely has time to widen his eyes before Dorian's club arcs through the air. The flat side collides with his skull in a dull thud, and the guard collapses in a heap.
Without ceremony, he is seized by the ankles and dragged backward, his limp form swallowed by the corridor's waiting shadows. Moments later, Voryn steps out into the dim light, his sword strapped to his back as he signals Dorian forward.
They traverse the channel from which the sentry came. Voryn darts a step ahead to scour the distance. With featherlight movement, Voryn floats to another passage and beckons Dorian to follow with a flutter of his four fingers. Dorian gives the elongated stretch a quick, once over before he hurries over with heavy footfalls, waddling like a bear walking on its hind legs.
The pair proceed onwards without incident. Even despite Dorian's massive size, he could slink between shadows not as nimble but almost as quietly as Voryn whose lithesome form is as subtle as shadows shifting over water. Voryn's mind draws the fortress blueprint with precision, matching memory to each turn until they arrive at a corridor guarded by four sentries—two stationed near and two farther down the passage.
Dorian nudges Voryn with a playful elbow, a fleeting spark of levity before the tension tightens. Lowering into a crouch, he creeps forward with Voryn close behind, their movements measured. When they are within striking range, Dorian strikes first. His boot lands at the back of a guard's knee, forcing the man to buckle backward. Before the clatter of his weapon can give them away, Dorian sidesteps, allowing Voryn to snake an arm around the sentry's neck, lowering him soundlessly to the floor. A heartbeat later, Dorian mirrors the maneuver with the second guard, muffling his comrade's fall with a swift, practiced motion.
A sharp shout shatters the quiet, yanking their attention to the guards farther down the corridor.
Voryn's hand darts for his holster—empty. A rare and costly oversight. His gaze sharpens as the sentry raises his weapon, but Dorian is already moving. He plucks the long weapon from the unconscious guard at his feet and hurls it with unerring force. The weapon sails through the air, arrowing into the chest of one of the distant guards, the sheer velocity pinning him to the wall with its long shaft protruding from his chest.
The remaining guard turns and bolts, shouting a warning. There's no time to lose. Voryn and Dorian take off in pursuit, their boots pounding up a steep flight spiraling toward the fortress's uppermost level.
When they emerge into an expansive breadth, they are greeted by another company of four.
"Those voidstones would've been useful right about now," Dorian mutters, gripping his weapon tightly.
Voryn offers no reply. He unsheathes his sword in a fluid motion, his focus narrowing as the battle ahead unfolds. The air hums with energy as the free arcanal currents flow around them, untamed and raw. With the connection to the elemental crux unbroken, the soldiers draw from it with ease. Slabs of stone wrench themselves from the walls before hurtling forward like projectiles.
Voryn reacts instantly. He launches into the chaos as he leaps onto a rising slab of stone, using its momentum to vault higher as it slams back into the wall. Debris rains around him, but Dorian barrels through the storm, his sheer strength shattering the flying rubble—with the ease of a simple swat. A single swing of his massive club connects with a soldier, the force crumpling the man to the ground.
Voryn descends, his blade flashing in a lethal arc. A soldier clutches his throat, blood spurting as he collapses. Without hesitation, Voryn spins, lowering into a crouch to dodge an incoming strike before driving his blade into the gut of another. The soldier gasps, blood flecking his lips, as Voryn rips the blade free in a swift, decisive motion.
He wastes no time. Pivoting from the skirmish, Voryn makes for the unguarded wooden door, his hand closing around the handle. With a sharp pull, the door creaks open, revealing what lies beyond.
An expansive space that, according to the plans, is supposed to have a secondary entrypoint—their true path of escape, but there seems to be none. The chamber is dominated by an extravagant rack displaying an assortment of strange and unidentifiable relics, just as foretold. Yet, the space tells a deeper story. A lavishly adorned bed and an ornamental writing desk suggest this is no prisoner's quarters. An elderly man rises slowly from the desk. Across his chest gleams an ancient medallion, fused seamlessly with his garment, its design intricate and arcane.
"Taking my life will not birth the ending you or your superior envision," the man declares, his voice steady but sorrowful.
Voryn places an honest hand to his chest. "What we seek to claim is the possession of a man, yet it is no man himself."
The Elder Visara regards him with a regretful smile. "My words are not meant for you," he murmurs, his gaze darting past Voryn's shoulder.
A low grinding sound splits the air. Voryn turns sharply to see Dorian at the far wall, where a narrow stone panel slides back, revealing the dark mouth of a secret passage.
"Neither of us came for you," Voryn repeats firmly.
Dorian steps away from the opening, approaching with an ominous calm.
"My brother here speaks the truth. You were never our target."
Without warning, Dorian brandishes one of Voryn's throwing knives, tucked away in his belt and flicks it with precision. The blade strikes the elder's throat, and blood erupts in a crimson arc. The Elder Visara collapses, but before his body can meet the ground, Voryn catches him with a look of shock exploding across his face.
Dorian lunges to rip the medallion free from the elder's chest and rushes back to the secret passage.
"Dorian!" Voryn shouts, his voice raw with disbelief.
For a fleeting moment, Dorian hesitates, as though tethered by his call. But then the pull of purpose overtakes him, and he vanishes into the passage. The stone wall grinds shut behind him, sealing the way with finality.
Voryn lowers the dying elder to the ground as his life slips away, his chest heaving once before falling still. Desperation seizes Voryn as he launches himself at the wall, scrabbling at the cold stone, searching futilely for the mechanism to reopen the passage.
The sound of hurried boots snaps his attention. A staccato of footsteps floods the chamber as soldiers pour in, their weapons drawn, their gazes fierce.
Voryn turns slowly to face the horde with sharp points leveled at his heart threateningly. It is not only the earth-shattering reality of inescapable defeat but the insurmountable weight of betrayal that pulls him down to his knees.
***
The prison wagon rumbles over uneven terrain, its heavy frame rattling with each jolt. While such wagons are typically crowded with prisoners, this one carries only a single occupant: an Iron Wolf. His presence demands nothing less than solitary confinement.
Voryn sits cross-legged on the wooden floor, his wrists shackled to chains that stretch taut to each of the four steel corners of the wagon's interior. His mouth is sealed by a cruel muzzle of iron. The restraints humble his powerful frame into a hunched posture, a faint glint of daylight catching the hard planes of his face.
The stillness around him belies the storm within. Ever since Dorian's betrayal—subtle and masterful—Voryn has been unable to banish the events from his mind. His thoughts spiral back, dissecting every interaction, every exchange, in search of warning signs he had missed.
Voryn sees clearly what he couldn't then: pieces of the plans had been missing. Not by accident, but design. Dorian had deliberately withheld sections, the true routes and contingencies concealed from himself alone. The realization burns like acid. He was set up—left to bear the brunt while Dorian vanished. But why?
The question gnaws at him. Voryn knew little of their latest employer, a mysterious lord who had contracted their services. He hadn't asked, and that lack of curiosity now feels like a damning mistake. He didn't ask because he never had to. There were even jobs in the past where Voryn only told Dorian what he needed to and that came from hard-wearing, timeless trust. Trust had been the foundation of their partnership—unshakable, forged over nearly two decades. There were plenty of jobs in the past where Voryn had shared only the essentials, and Dorian had done the same.
Both of them, along the many years, would share the duties. They had a system in place on how they chose the jobs they took, mostly based on risk and reward but selection still went through its own vetting procedure. One thing they agreed on together was no assassination jobs.
Voryn' heart insists that this is a man he knows to be honorable—for an outlaw. Their past mirrors each other's history with a militaristic background. Dorian had crossed the line first, and Voryn had followed not long after. That was how they met—two men cast adrift, surviving on skill, wits, and a shared disdain for the systems that had warped what they most held sacred.
Dorian loved a fight but never sought wanton slaughter. He was ambitious, yes, but never consumed by greed—a trait Voryn respected. And yet now, the man he trusted above all others had severed their bond without warning, leaving Voryn to shoulder the fall alone.
The betrayal cuts deeper than any blade. It couldn't have been for coin alone. Voryn refused to believe that Dorian would ever jeopardize their partnership for something as base as greed. So why? What force could weigh heavier than two decades of such a firm friendship? A brotherhood that forged its own legacy.
The chains creak as Voryn shifts, his muscles tense with frustration. The answer evades him, slipping like sand through his fingers. All he knows is that the man he once trusted with his life has become a stranger, and the wound of that realization festers deeper like a canker.
***
Voryn trudges forward, his chains clinking against the polished stone floor as a company of capital custodians escorts him through the shadowed corridors of the Nytheris's citadel. The justice system here is governed by its own council, each member vested with full judicial authority. Yet for a case as high-profile as this, the matter demands an audience with Nytheris's lone monarch.
The massive double doors creak open, revealing a grand chamber of imposing scale. Tiered stands of judicial officials loom like stern sentinels on either side, their robes of office lined with silver trim. Including members of the military tribunal, even those he served with, and the one he served under—the Warmaster whose power was second to the king. At the far end, seated atop a raised dais, the king presides from his throne. Below him, the Udex, the arbiter of Nytheris's laws and ultimate executor of civil authority. His presence is formidable, the mantle of his station draped heavily over his shoulders.
Voryn is pulled into the council chamber, each of the soldiers gripping a chain tethered to the steel band encircling his waist. They guide him toward the chamber's epicenter, a circular platform of dark stone etched with the sigils of Nytheris's justice. Above, the high ceilings echo the faint murmurs of the gathered officials, their collective scrutiny pressing down like a physical weight.
The muzzle secured around Voryn's face is unfastened, the sharp steel edges leaving faint red marks on his skin. His lips curl in a brief grimace of discomfort, but his wrists remain bound in heavy irons. Four soldiers stand at his sides, each clutching the chains that keep him firmly in place.
The air in the chamber feels stifling, despite its vastness. Every gaze is fixed on him, a palpable tension building as silence falls over the hall. Voryn's eyes lift to the king, whose expression remains unreadable beneath his crown's shadow. King Salis reigns not only as the sovereign of one of the realm's most powerful kingdoms but as the very monarch to whom Voryn once owed fealty. Bound by a solemn oath, his allegiance was unbreakable—until the day that sacred trust was transgressed. Beneath him, the Udex leans forward, his voice a low rumble that reverberates through the chamber.
"Voryn Torwell," he begins solemnly. "Answer me this. How does a hero of Nytheris, a war-decorated warrior who served in the king's guard. Turn his back on king and kingdom to pillage and plunder like the savages he once slew?"
Voryn inclines his face and remains silent, as if in sheer boredom. The Warmaster, as though commanding with the weight of his own conviction, compels Voryn's gaze to meet his. And Voryn obeys once more, his recalcitrance radiating with an intensity that mirrors the void of remorse in his eyes—a cold, unflinching apathy that sent a cold surge through the Warmaster's veins. It was the visage of a man who has abandoned all honor, an indifference so merciless that it hollows the esteem once held for a soldier now irrevocably fallen.
"Known as an Iron Wolf," the Udex continues. "Alongside another—Dorian Vale of Morphalen, once a valiant soldier of the Talismanic Order, before he too renounced his bloodsworn oath."
A heavy silence falls. All eyes fix on Voryn, awaiting his response. Yet no cry for mercy comes, no protest of innocence, no desperate bargain. The quiet is not one of defiance but of resignation—a grim understanding of the inevitable.
"Have you nothing to say in your defense?" the Udex demands, his tone almost desperate. "Nothing to answer for your crimes?"
Voryn's gaze remains steady, unflinching. "They were crimes I committed," he says, his voice devoid of remorse. "Crimes that have branded me the monster you believe me to be. So, I wish to savor what breaths I have left."
The council stirs at his audacity, and the Udex leans forward, his expression hardening. "Who enlisted you to murder the Elder Visara?"
"I never even knew who he was—or that he would be there," Voryn replies, his tone flat but truthful. "My comrade handled the logistics. He told me we were to retrieve a relic for a lord. Murder was never part of the plan I was given."
"You expect us to believe that?" an official to the right scoffs, his tone dripping with contempt. "That you were oblivious to the assassination of a prophet revered just beneath the Goddess herself?"
"I was as shocked as you," Voryn replies with deliberate apathy, his words like a match to kindling.
A furore erupts among the officials, voices raised in outrage. The Udex slams his staff against the floor, commanding silence. The sound reverberates through the chamber like a thunderclap.
"As far as this council is concerned, his death lies at your hand," the Udex declares. "One wolf has been caught, and the other shall follow. You will face justice for the crimes upon your head, starting with the greatest—your betrayal of the crown. Treachery demands death."
"If I may?" A dangly man rises from his seat, his spindly frame clad in the ornate robes of a high official. "Though his treason is grave, the Iron Wolves have done much good for the realm. They've safeguarded settlements and towns under His Majesty's banner."
"Safeguarded them at exorbitant prices," another counters sharply. "Do not forget they have stolen and killed to attain their wealth. Should greed so easily aligned with the king's interests absolve their sins? Wherever they tread, they leave a trail of corpses—and now, their own should be among them."
"They have saved as many lives as they have taken," the dangly man insists, his voice rising with conviction. "That is not something we should so easily dismiss."
The fervor of his advocacy draws Voryn's gaze, a flicker of curiosity breaking through his otherwise impassive mask.
The king rises from his throne, and the entire council chamber follows suit, standing with a collective ripple of respect. His gaze sweeps over the room before it settles on Voryn.
"I knew you not by name when you were still in my service," the king intones. "Only by reputation. And yours was blinding." A bitter silence fills the chamber. "I do not endeavor to know the workings of a mind so tainted," the king continues, his tone sharp. "There are those among you who believe you possess some glimmer of nobility, but nothing pure can rise from such corrupted origins. What else would you call it—breaking your oath and using skills meant to serve others, only to serve yourself?"
The king steps forward, his regal presence filling the space as he leans on the railing of the gallery as the air grows heavy with anticipation.
"I overturn the Udex's demand for death," the king declares, his voice ringing out in the stillness. "Death would be too kind for a man who dared to desecrate destiny itself." He pauses, letting the words linger like a weight on Voryn's chest. "For that, I condemn you to life at the Blackspire, where you will live out your days in hellish torment, longing for death."
A sudden jerk of the chains brings Voryn's attention back to the present, but he remains rooted where he stands, eyes seething with a suffocated rage. His hands still bound, he glares up at the king.
The soldiers pull harder on the chains, but Voryn's body remains unmoving. The pressure builds, coiling tight within him like a storm ready to break. He stands, a statue of controlled fury, until a primal roar erupts from his throat. In one violent motion, he wrenches himself forward with brutal force, sending four guards stumbling into one another.
With a savage kick, he strikes the nearest guard in the groin, then spins to launch a sidekick that sends another soldier reeling. The two guards scramble, backing away so that Voryn's chains stretch taut, the links biting into his skin as they try to rein him in. The pain spikes through his body, but still, he fights against it, snarling in defiance.
The chains clink with tension as they tighten their grip, and with a final, furious gasp, Voryn's resistance collapses. His strength spent, he drops to his knees, his head hung low, though his glare never wavers from the king. The silence that follows is thick with the sting of unspoken fury, because he knows his true rage is reserved for one beyond his reach.