Whispers of the Tyrant

The night air crackled with raw energy as Ronan and Lyria stood against the three Executioners. The leader grinned, his curved sword gleaming in the torchlight, while the other two flanked him, their movements precise, calculated—predators waiting to strike.

Lyria exhaled, gripping the Blade of Velmora tighter. She could feel the magic in it stirs, an ancient power coiling beneath the steel, hungry for battle.

Ronan tilted his head, golden eyes flickering in the darkness. “Three of you? The King must be worried.”

The leader of the Executioners chuckled. “You should take it as a compliment. The Tyrant himself sent us.”

A chill shot through Lyria’s spine. The Tyrant.

Not just a title. A force. A myth.

The man who commanded the King’s armies with an iron grip. A name whispered in terror by soldiers and generals alike. Some claimed he was no man at all—just a shadow draped in mortal flesh, a nightmare given form. Entire cities had fallen to his command, rulers bending the knee or vanishing without a trace.

And if he had personally sent his Executioners…

Lyria swallowed hard. We are truly hunted.

Ronan, however, smirked. “So, the Tyrant is watching. Good. Let him see.”

The Executioners moved as one.

Blades flashed in the moonlight, and Lyria barely twisted out of the way as steel tore through the space where her throat had been. Ronan, a blur of shadows and motion, intercepted another strike with a deafening clang, his sword meeting the curved blade in a violent clash. Sparks erupted, the force shaking the stone beneath their feet.

Lyria didn’t hesitate. She lunged forward, the Blade of Velmora singing as it met the Executioner’s parry. The impact rattled her bones, but she gritted her teeth and pushed forward. Their opponent sneered, shoving her back with sheer brute strength.

“Is that all, girl?” he taunted, twirling his weapon. “You don’t deserve that sword.”

Lyria growled, blood roaring in her ears. “Then come take it.”

She struck again—faster, harder. This time, when their blades met, the magic inside Velmora exploded. A shockwave pulsed outward, sending the Executioner staggering back. His smug grin vanished.

Ronan chuckled as he twisted past his own opponent’s attack, moving so effortlessly it was as if the air itself bent around him. “She’s learning.”

The Executioner hissed and righted himself. “Kill them both.”

The battle ignited into chaos.

Steel clashed. Sparks flew. The darkened alley turned into a storm of motion, shadows dancing across the stone walls as Ronan and Lyria fought side by side.

Lyria had trained her whole life to survive, but fighting beside Ronan was different. He moved like death itself, precise and relentless. Every step, every strike was measured, designed to break his opponent completely. And yet, despite his overwhelming power, he never lost control. Never let his strength spiral into reckless brutality.

He’s terrifying, Lyria realized. But he’s not a monster.

The thought sent something strange twisting in her chest.

Ronan suddenly grabbed her arm, yanking her back just as an Executioner’s sword nearly took her head. His breath was warm against her ear as he murmured, “Stay sharp.”

Lyria tensed, but before she could snap back, he was already moving, his blade carving a deadly arc through the air. He wasn’t just fighting for himself—he was keeping her alive, too.

Why?

Another blade came at her. She ducked, spinning low, and slashed upward. Her sword connected, cutting through armor, and drawing blood. The Executioner let out a strangled sound, stumbling back.

Lyria didn’t stop. She pressed forward, her attacks relentless. No more running.

The Executioner’s eyes widened as he struggled to block her strikes. He had underestimated her.

A fatal mistake.

With a final, brutal thrust, Lyria drove her sword through his chest.

The Executioner gasped. Blood bubbled at his lips. He tried to speak, but no words came. His body sagged, then crumbled to the ground.

Lyria stood over him, panting, heart pounding. I did it.

She looked up. Ronan had already taken down his opponent, golden eyes sharp and unyielding. The leader of the Executioners, now alone, took a step back, realization dawning in his face.

Ronan smirked. “Go ahead. Run.”

The Executioner snarled. “You think this means anything? You think you’ve won?”

Lyria wiped the blood from her blade. “You’re the only one still standing. What do you think?”

The Executioner’s lips curled into a cruel grin. “He’s coming for you.”

Lyria stiffened. “Who?”

The Executioner chuckled darkly. “The Tyrant. Do you think you’re strong? You think he—” he sneered at Ronan, “—is strong?”

He took a slow step forward. “You don’t know what true power is. The Tyrant does not fight battles. He ends them. He does not seek power. He is power.”

The words sent a cold shiver down Lyria’s spine. Even Ronan’s expression darkened, his smirk fading slightly.

The Executioner’s grin widened. “And now… he’s set his sights on you.”

Without warning, he pulled a dagger from his belt and slammed it into his chest.

Lyria’s eyes widened. “What—”

A pulse of dark energy erupted from the dying man’s body. The very air trembled, crackling with something wrong. A twisted, inhuman whisper filled the alley, slipping through the shadows like a living thing.

Ronan swore under his breath. “Shit. He’s—”

The Executioner let out a ragged breath, his voice barely above a whisper. “He sees you.”

And then—

His body exploded into black mist.

A violent wind howled through the alley, knocking Lyria back. She shielded her eyes as the darkness twisted and churned, forming something—a symbol—seared into the stone wall.

A mark.

A warning.

Ronan grabbed her wrist, yanking her to her feet. “We need to move.”

Lyria, still staring at the smoldering mark, felt her breath catch. He sees you.

Somewhere, far beyond this city—beyond these streets—

The Tyrant was watching.