Chains and Shadows

The corridors of the fortress were carved from obsidian, swallowing the torchlight rather than reflecting it. Every step Ronan took sent a dull echo rippling through the empty halls, his bound wrists preventing him from doing much else but walk forward. The Executioners flanked him and Lyria, their silent presence more suffocating than any threat.

Lyria’s breath was still uneven from the struggle. She shot a glance at Ronan—his jaw clenched, his golden eyes dimmed but still burning. Even shackled, even surrounded, he radiated something raw. Something that refused to break.

The Tyrant walked ahead, his presence a looming specter of power. He hadn’t spoken since their capture and hadn’t needed to. The weight of his presence alone dictated control.

Lyria finally broke the silence. “Where are you taking us?”

No response.

She grits her teeth. “You expect us to march into a cell without a fight?”

Still, nothing.

Ronan exhaled through his nose, his lips curling slightly. “I think he just likes the sound of his footsteps.”

That earned him a glance from the Tyrant, though it was unreadable. Then, finally, he spoke. “You mistake my silence for disregard.”

Ronan arched a brow. “Oh? And here I thought you just had no personality.”

The Tyrant didn’t stop walking. “It is fascinating how men speak most when they fear the quiet.”

Lyria’s hands curled into fists. “And it’s fascinating how tyrants always think they’re philosophers.”

The Tyrant came to an abrupt stop.

The Executioners tensed.

Ronan’s muscles coiled, prepared for something, but the Tyrant only turned slightly, his gaze falling on Lyria. “You mistake rebellion for strength,” he said, his tone as calm as ever. “And sentiment for power.”

Lyria met his gaze, fire burning behind her eyes. “And you mistake control for respect.”

A slow pause. Then, he turned and continued walking.

Ronan smirked. “I think you just annoyed him.”

“Good,” Lyria muttered under her breath.

They descended deeper into the fortress, where the air grew colder and thicker. The walls here were different—etched with runes that pulsed with a dull, crimson light, and magic suppression seals.

Ronan felt it keenly, the way his body seemed heavier the further they walked. It wasn’t just the shackles; it was the very air, pressing down, trying to smother whatever fire burned inside him.

They reached a pair of massive iron doors. Without a word, the Executioners moved, pulling them open with eerie synchrony. Beyond them lay a chamber bathed in dim, golden light. Chains hung from the ceiling, engraved with the same suppressing runes. At the center stood a single platform, with just enough space for two prisoners.

The Executioners shoved them forward. Lyria stumbled but caught herself before she could fall. Ronan, even shackled, barely flinched.

The Tyrant finally turned to face them fully. “Kneel.”

Lyria let out a sharp laugh. “You must be delusional.”

One of the Executioners grabbed her by the shoulder, forcing her down. Ronan stiffened as she hit her knees, but Lyria only grinned up at the Tyrant. “That all you got?”

The Tyrant studied her, unimpressed. Then, his gaze shifted to Ronan.

“You, however,” he said, “I expected to resist more.”

Ronan smirked, despite the shackles. “Oh, trust me—I’m just pacing myself.”

The Tyrant stepped closer. Even now, with all of Ronan’s power sealed, he held his ground, meeting the gaze of a man feared by nations.

“Tell me,” the Tyrant said, tilting his head slightly. “What is it that you fight for?”

Ronan’s expression didn’t change. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

A flicker of something—amusement?—crossed the Tyrant’s face. “Your silence does not shield you.”

He raised a hand. The runes on the chains flared.

Pain lanced through Ronan’s body. Not the kind that came from a blade or a fist—this was something deeper. Like something inside him was being peeled apart, layer by layer. His breath hitched, but he didn’t fall.

Lyria screamed his name, struggling against the grip of her captors, but the Tyrant did not even spare her a glance.

The chains pulsed again, brighter, the pain searing through every nerve in Ronan’s body.

Still, he did not kneel.

A long silence stretched between them, only broken by Ronan’s ragged breaths. Finally, the Tyrant lowered his hand. The glow of the runes dimmed, the pain receding like a tide.

Ronan’s knees wobbled, but he stayed on his feet, golden eyes defiant even as sweat dripped down his brow.

The Tyrant watched him for a moment longer before speaking. “Impressive.”

Then, without another word, he turned and left the chamber.

The iron doors slammed shut behind him.

For a long moment, there was only silence.

Lyria pulled at her restraints, her breathing heavy with fury. “Ronan.”

He exhaled slowly. “Still here.”

She frowned, scanning his face, the lingering tension in his body. “Are you—”

“Don’t ask that question,” he cut in, forcing a smirk. “You won’t like the answer.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I swear to the gods if you tell me ‘I’m fine’—”

“Then I won’t.”

She huffed, but the anger in her expression softened—just a little. “You’re an idiot.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

Silence stretched between them. Something unsaid hung in the air, something felt rather than spoken.

Then, the torches flickered.

A shadow moved where there should have been none.

Ronan’s instincts flared, even in his weakened state. “We’re not alone.”

Lyria followed his gaze—just in time to see a figure step forward from the darkness. Hooded. Cloaked. Moving like a ghost.

A voice, low and sharp, cut through the silence.

“I hope you haven’t given up just yet.”