Shadows of the Undercity

The undercity was a place of ghosts and whispers. As Ronan and Lyria stepped into the tunnel’s suffocating darkness, the weight of the fortress above them seemed to press down on their shoulders. The flickering rune light cast eerie shadows along the damp stone walls, stretching their figures into distorted specters.

Lyria wiped the sweat from her brow, her golden hair damp from the humid underground air. “I don’t like this,” she muttered, her hand resting on the hilt of her blade. “Feels like a tomb.”

Ronan, walking just ahead, didn’t respond immediately. His aura, now free from the cursed shackles, pulsed in the confined space. Even though he wasn’t actively unleashing it, Lyria could feel it seeping through the cracks, like the silent promise of a coming storm.

“There’s movement ahead,” he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Lyria stilled, gripping her sword tighter. “More of the Tyrant’s men?”

“Possibly.”

The tunnel ahead split into three separate paths, each one vanishing into absolute darkness. The silence was oppressive—no signs of life, yet the distinct feeling of being watched crept down Lyria’s spine.

Ronan knelt, pressing his palm against the cold ground. For a few moments, he remained still, then exhaled through his nose. “We’re not alone.”

A sudden clang echoed from one of the passages.

Lyria turned, her blade flashing in the dim light. “Damn it—”

Before she could finish, the walls moved.

No, not the walls—the shadows themselves. They slithered and twisted, breaking apart as figures emerged from the darkness. Silent, hooded figures with glowing red eyes.

Lyria’s breath hitched. “Shadowborn.”

Ronan rose to his full height, unfazed. “So the Tyrant has been experimenting.”

The Shadowborn weren’t ordinary soldiers. They were humans twisted by dark alchemy and forbidden runes, their bodies enhanced with unnatural speed and resilience. Their very presence drained the warmth from the air.

One of them stepped forward, its raspy breath echoing through the tunnel. “Ronan…”

Lyria tensed. “They know you?”

Ronan’s gaze remained locked on them, his expression unreadable. “Of course they do.”

The Shadowborn lunged—

Ronan moved faster.

The impact was immediate. His blade, a flash of silver, cut through the darkness. A sickening crack echoed as one of the creatures was thrown back against the stone wall, its body contorted from the force of the strike.

But the others didn’t falter.

Three of them charged at once, their claws extending, their speed unnatural. Lyria barely managed to parry one, but the sheer strength behind the blow sent her staggering back.

Ronan didn’t hesitate. He stepped into the attack, his foot slamming into the ground with such force that the tunnel shook. A surge of raw energy burst from him, sending the creatures flying. The force of his aura alone was crushing.

Lyria swallowed. Even now, even after all this time, his presence was overwhelming.

One of the Shadowborn twisted midair, landing on the wall like an insect before launching itself at Ronan’s back.

Ronan didn’t turn. He didn’t need to.

His aura flared—a sharp, violent pulse of energy. The moment the creature touched him, it exploded into dust.

The last two hesitated. The red glow in their eyes flickered as if for the first time, fear had crept into whatever monstrosity they had become.

Ronan’s voice was quiet. “Run.”

One of them did.

The other, perhaps too consumed by its unnatural existence, screeched and charged—only to be met with Ronan’s hand closing around its throat.

For a moment, silence stretched.

Then—

Crack.

The Shadowborn’s body fell limp, and Ronan dropped it without a second glance. He exhaled, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off an inconvenience.

Lyria stared at him, breathing hard. “You—”

He turned to her, and for the briefest second, his golden eyes still burned with raw power. But then he smirked. “You’re still standing.”

Lyria scoffed, sheathing her sword. “Barely.”

Ronan glanced toward the tunnel where the last creature had fled. “That thing is going straight back to the Tyrant.”

Lyria wiped blood from her cheek. “Good. Let him know what’s coming for him.”

Ronan chuckled, low and cold. “Oh, he already knows.”

A new presence made them both freeze.

The tunnel ahead wasn’t empty anymore. A silhouette stood at the entrance, tall and cloaked in shadows. They hadn’t made a sound approaching, yet their presence radiated power.

Lyria gritted her teeth. “Another one?”

No. This was different.

Even Ronan had stiffened. Not in fear—but in recognition.

Then, a voice—deep, commanding, laced with amusement.

“So, you finally crawl out of your chains, Ronan.”

Lyria’s eyes darted to Ronan, expecting him to scoff, to mock—

But instead, she saw something she never expected on his face.

Not fear. Not anger.

But disdain.

“…Of all people,” Ronan muttered, his voice like a blade sharpening, “it had to be you.”