Shadows of War

The horns of war howled across the land, their echoes twisting through the early morning mist. Lyria felt it before she even saw them—the rhythmic tremor in the earth, the unmistakable weight of thousands marching in unison. The Tyrant’s army was not just approaching.

It was already here.

She gritted her teeth, her grip tightening around the Blade of Velmora. “We need to move. Now.”

Ronan’s golden eyes flickered with something dangerous, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he tilted his head, listening. Then, he smirked. “They’re blocking the northern escape.”

Lyria cursed. “And the eastern route?”

Ronan exhaled. “They’ll expect us to run there. If we move now, we might have a two-minute window before they close in.”

Two minutes. Against an army.

She clenched her jaw. “Not much of a choice, is it?”

Ronan’s smirk widened. “It never is.”

They sprinted through the ruined outskirts of Valtheris, shadows flickering against the walls. The sky once streaked with pale dawn, had turned ominous—heavy clouds rolling in like an omen. The air itself felt suffocating, thick with the weight of something unseen.

The Tyrant’s presence.

Even if he wasn’t here, his influence soaked into the battlefield like blood into the soil.

Lyria forced herself to focus. Just ahead, the city’s eastern gate loomed—half-collapsed from years of neglect but still an opening large enough to slip through. If they could just—

A crossbow bolt hissed through the air.

Lyria barely twisted in time, the projectile slicing past her cheek. She cursed, skidding to a stop as three armored figures emerged from the shadows beyond the gate. Their armor bore no insignia—only black steel, polished to a mirror sheen. Their presence alone sent an unnatural chill through the air.

Executioners.

Ronan clicked his tongue. “Persistent bastards.”

The middle Executioner stepped forward, voice like gravel. “You’ve been marked.”

Lyria’s heartbeat pounded. He sees you.

The Executioner pointed a single, gloved hand at Ronan. “The Tyrant extends his invitation.”

Ronan chuckled darkly. “Not in the mood.”

The Executioner’s fingers twitched. A silent command.

The air exploded.

Shadows surged from the ground, writhing like living tendrils. The Executioners moved as one—silent, precise, a storm of motion. Ronan met the first strike with a sharp parry, his sword sparking against black steel. Lyria spun, barely dodging as a blade whistled past her ribs.

No wasted movement. No unnecessary effort. These weren’t mere soldiers.

They were assassins.

Lyria countered, slashing low, forcing her opponent back. But before she could press the advantage, another figure appeared behind her—silent as death. She felt the cold rush of steel descending.

Ronan was faster.

With inhuman precision, he pivoted mid-strike, catching the blade before it could reach her. His golden eyes burned like twin suns. “Keep up, Lyria.”

Lyria scowled but had no time to argue. She surged forward, using Ronan’s distraction to drive her sword into the first Executioner’s side. The armor cracked, dark blood spilling onto the ground.

The Executioner barely made a sound as he fell.

The second struck harder, faster. Lyria blocked but stumbled, the sheer force rattling her bones. These weren’t normal men. Something unnatural strengthened them.

Ronan’s voice was calm despite the chaos. “They’re stalling.”

Lyria narrowed her eyes. “For what?”

Then she felt it.

The presence.

A suffocating weight in the air, pressing against her lungs, slowing her limbs. Not magic. Not entirely.

Something worse.

A shadow loomed beyond the battlefield, standing atop the city’s crumbling walls. A silhouette draped in black armor, the edges of his cloak shifting like smoke. He did not move. He did not speak.

But his aura swallowed the battlefield whole.

Lyria could barely breathe.

The Tyrant had arrived.