Shackles of Power

The clang of Ronan’s sword hitting the ground echoed like a death knell.

Lyria’s breath hitched, her body still caught in the Tyrant’s crushing grip. She saw it all happen—the fire in Ronan’s golden eyes dimming, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles turned white. The storm that was always brewing within him had been chained instantly.

He had surrendered.

The battlefield felt eerily silent. Even the Executioners didn’t move. They only watched, waiting for their master’s command.

The Tyrant tilted his head, as if mildly amused. “A sensible choice.”

Ronan didn’t answer.

The Tyrant extended his hand, and the shadows binding Lyria tightened before abruptly vanishing, sending her collapsing to her knees. She gasped, coughing, struggling to catch her breath. Her throat burned, but she forced herself to look up at Ronan.

“Why?” Her voice was hoarse, but her anger cut through the pain. “You shouldn’t have—”

Ronan’s eyes flicked to hers, something unreadable lurking beneath their usual fire. “Shut up, Lyria.”

The Tyrant stepped forward, his presence suffocating. “Your power is wasted in rebellion, Ronan.” His voice was calm, devoid of gloating. “You were never meant to be a fugitive. You were meant to stand beside me.”

Ronan exhaled through his nose, his lips curling slightly. “That’s the worst recruitment speech I’ve ever heard.”

The Tyrant did not react. “And yet, here you are, at my feet.”

Lyria stiffened, rage burning away the last remnants of her fear. “You think he’s yours?” She forced herself to stand, ignoring the trembling in her limbs. “You think we’re beaten?”

The Tyrant’s gaze slid to her. “You are still breathing because of his surrender. Do not mistake mercy for weakness.”

Lyria’s nails dug into her palms. “And don’t mistake defiance for desperation.”

A faint chuckle. “Spoken like someone who does not yet understand the difference.”

Ronan shifted slightly, his muscles tense, coiled like a predator waiting for an opening. “Enough talking. What now?”

The Tyrant gestured with a single flick of his wrist. The Executioners moved as one, stepping forward. Heavy steel cuffs, inscribed with ancient runes, were produced from the folds of their cloaks.

Binding shackles.

Ronan’s jaw clenched as they snapped the first one around his wrist. His aura flickered—wild and untamed, even as he held himself still. The moment the second shackle clicked into place, Lyria felt the shift.

The weight of his power dimmed, suppressed by the runes. Ronan’s breath hitched for a fraction of a second before his expression went blank.

He had never looked caged before.

Lyria lunged. “Don’t touch him—”

An Executioner caught her mid-motion, twisting her arms behind her back and forcing her to her knees once more. She snarled, thrashing, but the grip was unyielding.

The Tyrant regarded her with something almost resembling curiosity. “You truly do not know when to kneel.”

Lyria spat at his feet. “I never will.”

The Tyrant exhaled through his nose, an almost imperceptible gesture of amusement. He turned back to Ronan. “Your restraint is admirable. If you had fought, she would be dead.”

Lyria’s pulse thundered. He knew.

Ronan’s fingers twitched in their bindings, his shoulders taut with barely restrained fury. But he said nothing. His silence was louder than any threat.

The Tyrant took one last look at him before speaking to the Executioners. “Take them.”

A sharp pull yanked Ronan forward, forcing him into motion. Lyria struggled against her captor, her heart pounding.

“Where are you taking us?” she demanded.

The Tyrant didn’t answer. He only turned his back to them, his cloak billowing as he strode away.

The last thing Lyria saw before being dragged forward was Ronan, his golden eyes burning despite the shackles weighing him down.

And then—the night swallowed them whole.