The Tyrant’s Shadow

A silence unlike any other choked the battlefield.

Lyria had felt fear before—staring down executioners, standing on the edge of death—but this was different. This was something primeval, something carved into the bones of every living thing. An instinctual terror that whispered only one word:

Run.

The figure on the wall did not move, did not raise a weapon, or even acknowledge them. Yet his presence alone crushed the air, heavy as an executioner’s blade. The Tyrant had arrived.

The remaining Executioners stood still, awaiting his command. Their silence was more unnerving than any war cry.

Ronan slowly stepped forward, his golden eyes locked onto the shadowed figure above. He exhaled, and the tension in his shoulders changed. Not fear.

Anticipation.

Lyria felt the shift immediately. The storm that had always been Ronan—the barely contained chaos—was finally being unleashed. His fingers flexed around his sword’s hilt, his stance shifting ever so slightly.

A predator meets another predator.

Lyria swallowed. “Ronan.”

“Not now.” His voice was a low growl. Not dismissive. Just focused. Sharpened.

The Tyrant remained motionless.

Then, slowly, he raised a single gauntleted hand.

A command.

The Executioners vanished.

Lyria barely had time to react before they were upon them again, moving like shadows, striking from all angles. She barely blocked the first blade, her arm going numb from the force. Ronan caught another strike mid-air, twisting his sword and sending an Executioner flying backward.

But they didn’t stop.

They weren’t fighting to win. They were fighting to delay.

Lyria gritted her teeth. “They’re holding us here!”

Ronan didn’t respond—he was already moving, cutting through the assassins with brutal efficiency. Not wasting energy. Not taking unnecessary risks.

He was buying time.

For her.

She cursed under her breath. If she hesitated, he would die for her. And she wasn’t about to let that happen.

A flicker of movement.

She spun, narrowly avoiding a dagger aimed at her throat. Before the Executioner could recover, she slammed her knee into his ribs, then drove her sword through his chest. The assassin let out a choked gasp, crumpling to the ground.

Another shadow loomed behind her.

Before she could turn, Ronan was there. His hand shot out, grabbing her wrist, yanking her forward just as a blade whistled past where she’d been standing. He spun her, their faces inches apart, and for just a breath—

She saw something in his eyes.

Not just battle instinct. Not just calculation.

Something raw.

Then it was gone.

He shoved her aside, his blade flashing in the dim light as he met the next attacker. Lyria clenched her teeth and forced herself to focus. Later. If they survived.

The air shifted.

A presence descended.

Lyria barely had time to process it before she felt it—pressure unlike anything before. Like gravity itself had bent. The battle stopped. The Executioners froze in place. Even Ronan stilled, his fingers tightening around his sword.

And then he moved.

The Tyrant stepped off the wall.

Not jumped.

Not fell.

Stepped.

His boots touched the ground without a sound, despite the impossible height. Shadows curled around his form, shifting like living things. The battlefield itself seemed to darken as he took another step forward, the very air shuddering under his presence.

Lyria couldn’t breathe.

The Executioners dropped to one knee in perfect unison, their heads bowed.

Ronan’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Took you long enough.”

The Tyrant finally spoke.

His voice was deep. Smooth. Devoid of anger, yet carrying a weight that made the bones in Lyria’s body tremble.

“You overestimate your importance.”

Ronan smirked. “And you overestimate your own.”

A pause. Then, the Tyrant tilted his head ever so slightly. “Do I?”

Lyria saw the change before she felt it. The way the air cracked, the way shadows curled inward—

Ronan moved.

So did the Tyrant.

The ground exploded beneath them as their swords met, shockwaves ripping through the battlefield. Lyria barely shielded herself in time, skidding back from the sheer force. Dust and debris clouded the air, obscuring everything but the flash of steel as they clashed again—

Faster.

Stronger.

Each strike sent tremors through the ground. The Tyrant was not like the Executioners. He did not fight like a man burdened by flesh. Every movement was precise, effortless, as if he were merely toying with the concept of battle itself.

And Ronan—

He was laughing.

A deep, reckless sound, his golden eyes burning with something wild. “You think you can kill me that easily?”

The Tyrant did not answer. He did not need to.

His next strike sent Ronan flying.

Ronan twisted mid-air, landing on his feet, but barely. Blood dripped from a gash along his arm. Lyria’s heart clenched.

The Tyrant stepped forward, his blade lowered. Not even in a stance. Just waiting.

“You amuse me,” he said. “But this game is over.”

Lyria moved before she could think.

She wasn’t fast enough.

The shadows grabbed her.

Cold tendrils wrapped around her limbs, pinning her in place. She struggled, but it was like fighting against the night itself. Her sword slipped from her grasp, clattering against the stone.

The Tyrant finally looked at her.

His voice did not change, but somehow, it was softer.

“You were given a choice,” he said. “You refused it.”

Lyria’s pulse thundered. “Screw you.”

The Tyrant regarded her for a moment, then turned his gaze back to Ronan. “Surrender.”

Ronan’s jaw clenched. His body was tense, muscles coiled like a beast about to strike—but even he knew the situation was unwinnable.

Not yet.

The Tyrant lifted his hand.

The shadows tightened around Lyria’s throat.

Ronan froze.

The Tyrant’s voice was calm, final. “Surrender, or she dies.”

Lyria gasped, struggling, her vision already blurring. Ronan’s golden eyes locked onto hers—calculating, searching.

For the first time, she saw it.

Panic.

The Tyrant’s grip tightened.

And Ronan—

Ronan dropped his sword.