The Tyrant’s Gaze

The city burned in silence.

Lyria could still feel the Executioner’s final words crawling up her spine, wrapping around her like unseen chains. The mark he had left behind pulsed on the stone wall, flickering with an unnatural glow. The air was thick with something wrong, a pressure that squeezed at her ribs, urging her to run.

But Ronan wasn’t moving.

He stood beside her, golden eyes locked on the mark, his expression unreadable. Not fear. Not anger. Something deeper. Something close to recognition.

Lyria’s pulse hammered. “What the hell just happened?”

Ronan exhaled slowly. “The Tyrant sent his gaze.”

Lyria swallowed hard. “That’s supposed to mean what, exactly?”

Ronan turned to her, and for the first time since they met, there was no smirk, no amusement in his face. Only cold, brutal honesty. “It means he’s watching us right now.”

The words sent ice through Lyria’s veins. She looked at the mark again, its blackened edges twisting as if alive. The shadows clung to it, whispering things she couldn’t understand.

Then, without warning, the mark moved.

The darkness shifted, stretching outward, and before Lyria could react, a voice—deep, resonant, and inhuman—spoke from the void.

“I see you.”

Lyria staggered back. The voice wasn’t loud, but it filled the space, crawling into her mind, into her bones.

Ronan’s hand shot out, grabbing her wrist. “Don’t listen.”

The voice chuckled—a slow, deliberate sound, like a predator savoring the moment before the kill. “You think you can run, little blade?”

Ronan growled, gripping Lyria tighter. Then, without hesitation, he slashed his sword through the mark.

A shockwave erupted. The alley trembled. The shadows screamed.

The mark shattered like glass, fragments of darkness vanishing into the night.

Silence fell.

Lyria gasped, chest rising and falling as she tried to steady herself. She turned to Ronan. “What the hell was that?”

Ronan ran a hand through his hair, eyes narrowed. “A warning.”

Lyria shook her head. “A warning? That thing just spoke. That was—”

“That was nothing.”

The way he said it sent another chill through her. Nothing? If that wasn’t terrifying enough, then what was?

She took a slow breath. “We need to leave the city. Now.”

Ronan nodded. “Agreed.”

They moved quickly, slipping through the empty streets like ghosts. The battle had left its mark—shattered stone, lingering embers from torches dropped in haste. But the city itself was silent. Too silent.

Lyria glanced at Ronan. “Something’s wrong.”

Ronan’s jaw tightened. “They’re waiting.”

Lyria’s grip on her sword tightened. “For what?”

Ronan’s eyes flickered with something unreadable. “For him.”

Lyria didn’t ask who. She already knew.

They reached the outer walls of Valtheris just before dawn. The air was thick with the scent of wet stone, the first hints of morning dew settling over the rooftops. Beyond the city gates, the wilderness stretched into the horizon—dense forests, and rivers that gleamed silver under the early light.

Freedom.

But it wouldn’t last long.

Lyria turned to Ronan. “Where do we go?”

Ronan leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Depends. You planning on dying in the next week?”

Lyria scowled. “Not particularly.”

“Then we head north. To the ruins of Velmora.”

Lyria’s breath caught. “Velmora?”

“The sword chose you,” Ronan said simply. “That means something is waiting for you there.”

Lyria hesitated. Velmora was a name buried in legend—a kingdom lost to time, wiped from history by war and betrayal. If there was anything left there, it wasn’t treasure. It was a secret.

Secrets the Tyrant might already know about.

Lyria exhaled sharply. “Fine. But first…”

She stepped closer to Ronan, studying him under the pale light. His aura was as suffocating as ever—raw power, controlled chaos, a man who could kill with a flick of his wrist and not lose sleep over it.

But he hadn’t killed her.

Not when he had the chance. Not when it would have been easy.

She tilted her head. “Why are you helping me?”

Ronan smirked, but there was something softer beneath it, something almost unreadable. “Told you before.”

“Because I interest you?”

His golden eyes locked onto hers. “Exactly.”

Lyria’s pulse stuttered. The way he looked at her—intense, searching, like he was seeing something even she didn’t understand yet—made her stomach twist in a way she didn’t want to acknowledge.

She scoffed, shoving past him. “You’re impossible.”

Ronan chuckled, following her. “You’ll get used to it.”

Before she could retort, a low, distant horn blew.

Lyria froze.

Ronan turned, eyes sharpening. “That’s not a city horn.”

A second horn followed. Then a third.

Lyria’s blood turned to ice.

The horns of war.

They came from the horizon.

And from the darkness beyond the trees, torches began to flicker.

Not a scouting party.

Not a patrol.

An army.

Ronan muttered a curse under his breath. “Looks like we overstayed our welcome.”

Lyria swallowed hard, heart pounding. The city wasn’t just waiting for the Tyrant.

He had already sent his first wave.

And they were trapped between the walls of Valtheris and the army of a man who never lost a battle.