Chapter 19 River
RIVER
The world above us shatters first.
A deafening boom rocks the ground as the human army slams into Kyrdonis’s outer walls.
Catapults tear through stone, sending sprays of brick and dust into the sky.
Harsh lights bloom against the midnight sky—flares, fire arrows, artillery booming like thunder.
From the city streets, I can almost taste the panic: acrid smoke, spilled oil, sweat soaked into the cobbles.
I’m crouched next to Kragna, Veeto, Harriet, Bruce, and Charen on the edge of a catacomb entrance—runes etched into the stone like warning marks. Each of us is silent, listening to the war erupt above.
“It’s time,” I whisper.
Kragna shifts into battle mode. His skin thickens, suffused with obsidian plates; curved talons sprout at his fingertips; two golden horns blaze from his forehead, glowing like molten metal. The shift hums through his bones.
“Lead the way,” he growls, voice low and sure.
I step into the tunnel first. Darkness swallows us whole. Torchlight flickers off the damp, slick walls. Blood seeps from old cracks, staining the floor like memory. The air is heavy with centuries-old magic and sorrow—the damp stench of decay, incense, and long-britonguised tomes.
Each footstep echoes in our ears. The melody of trapped ghosts. Vetters ahead slink like shadows over broken carvings and pillars slashed by ancient wars.
I taste iron on my tongue.
We move fast but careful. Every head on tilts, every nerve taut. A collapse ahead—debris we ignore, trusting Kragna to shield us. He presses forward with silent violence. His horns glow brighter, lighting the path.
A chamber opens: a cross-tunnel, walls covered in candles that gutter in the damp air, revealing branching routes. Veeto unfolds his map on the wall—scratched indicators, arrowed corridors.
“We need to go right, twin passages, jump start old guard room,” he says, voice echoing. “Then down shaft to entry under watchtower.”
“Do it,” I say, heart pounding with Dirges of Hope and dread.
We slip through the maze, living shadows in the veins of the city.
The sound above intensifies—screams, clashes, the clang of steel. The city bleeds. But we’re ghosts beneath it.
Here, only whispers.
Yet something shifts—movement in the shadows. Figures haunting the edges of torchlight.
Assassins emerge. Silent. Blade-tipped arrows flick from hidden halls.
Kragna’s roar cracks stone—and I feel it in my bones. The creatures lunge, and he swats them aside like flies, bone-horn catching steel, glittering claws slashing shadows.
Bruce roars. Claws catch metal—flesh tears, bodies shudder and collapse. The ground shakes with Harriet’s hissing heads—fumigated breath choking out the invaders.
Charen dives down in drunken fury, talons ripping feet from ankles, wings flaring sparks on stone.
I’m moving behind them, clasping River’s hand as I sweep the hallway.
Every stone is soaked in centuries of betrayal and blood, but tonight, we paint new stories on these walls.
One foot in front of the other. Torchlight revealing shapes: a skeleton clutching a helmet, a drip of fresh blood onto bone.
“Yes,” I breathe. “That’s it.”
We burst into a chamber underneath the guard tower. A spiral stair cuts upward. Beyond it, torches burn weakly through grated doors. The tower looms above, guarded from all sides—but here, beneath it, we’ve carved a path.
Kragna gives a nod, silent, fierce.
I strip off my cloak, hand him charcoaled rope—“Smoke bombs—just like we practiced,” I whisper.
He ties knots in that voice of steel. “Go.”
I flick the match. The smoke blooms—golden, churning. It wraps around our group like breath, swallowing vision, clutching sound. The world becomes the stink of burning herbs and shifting stone.
Guards falter. Chains rattle. Footsteps near.
I lead us up that iron stair—dark, slick. Crowded with shadows and fear.
At the top, torches and armor. Guards ready. Blades raised.
But Kragna steps forward—massive, glinting, impossible.
“My companions and I,” he bellows, voice warping with a metallic echo, “are here only for one prisoner.”
They hesitate.
River moves beside him. “Skeela,” she says, voice clear.
The towers tremble.
And the tunnel between death and deliverance yawns open for us to step into.
I slip through the narrow arc of torchlight into the prison wing, and what's there drags every breath into my gut.
Skeela is bound to an iron post, limbs splayed, sweat slicking her skin.
Her eyes are sunken, and her lips part in a silent scream.
A dark elf sorcerer stands before her, robes swirling like smoke, chanting words that taste like acid.
With each syllable, her flesh shudders—veins glowing with tortured light, her face melting in agony.
Soul-burning magic, raw and jagged, ripping information from her mind. I panic before I can think.
“Kragna,” I whisper, voice torn. But his roar answers me.
The sorcerer’s chant falters as Kragna crashes in—massive, obsidian skin reflecting torchlight, blades glinting, golden horns blazing like twin suns. He swings once, a brutal arc, and the sorcerer splits in half with a sick sound.
I’m both relieved and horrified, unable to move. Skeela crumples, limp but breathing.
Bruce stomps forward, roaring, scattering guards like paper. Harriet’s multiple heads hiss and spew choking vapor, her six eyes glowing. Charen dives from the ceiling in a drunk blur, claws rending armor, wings shining with firelight.
I shake off the haze and step forward, heart thundering in my ears.
“River,” says Skeela’s voice, brittle but alive.
I rush to her side, prying away her shackles even as more guards pour in. Steel clangs. The air is thick with dust and death and magic. I yank her free and help her to her feet. She leans on me, eyes wet and fierce.
“We need to move,” I say, voice urgent.
She nods, every breath trembling, but she stands tall.
We sprint down the hallway, swords banging guards aside, Harriet’s coils tangling ankles, Bruce smashing doors open with silent ease.
I guide Skeela past rows of prisoners—men and women bruised, broken, eyes lighting with hope. “You’re free,” I whisper. “You’re free.”
Each step burns with urgency. The tunnel’s stones are slick with old blood and magic. We press on, Kragna’s silhouette lighting the way, monstrous and noble in the dark.
We burst into the main catacomb shaft, torches sputtering, air stale with centuries of secrets. The path back to the surface splits here; every second counts.
I pause long enough to breathe.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur to Skeela. “This wasn’t supposed to happen like this.”
She meets my eyes, fierce despite exhaustion. “You saved me.”
Later, forging our way back through hidden tunnels that tremble with echoes of battle above, I whisper promises into my friend’s hair, vows of safety, of blood-forged loyalty. Kragna’s body looms above us, vigilant, guarding every step.
And outside, the city’s firestorm rages—but here, beneath the earth, we are alive.
We spill out of the catacombs into a world gone mad. The sky above the battlefield is ablaze with fire and fury—losing wall sections collapse in sparks, catapults vomit boulders, musket fire cracks gold in the air. I taste smoke, blood, sweat.
Kragna takes point, crouching low like he smells something only he can track. Harriet’s heads hiss beside him, mouth slits dripping toxin. Bruce’s shoulders ripple in the torchlight. Veeto crests the rubble line, all grins and knives flashing.
And then—
He appears.
Laertiez.
Draped in enchanted armor that breathes shadow, blades of black glass in each hand, sunlight swallowed whole. His presence is a smear of calm and power. Not death, but inevitability.
My stomach flips. This is it.
Kragna rises with a roar that shudders stone. Horns rip from his skull, shining gold like early dawn. His fists thicken, limbs barrel into muscle as black as night. He charges like a tornado made manifest.
I raise my rifle, knees snapping back into tension. I’m screaming on the inside but steady outside: auto-rifle butt tight to my shoulder, fingers dancing on the trigger.
Laertiez turns slowly, as if he’s been waiting. His blades spin, blades of night-red glass humming. He doesn’t move fast—but he means every inch of what follows.
I open fire.
Gun snaps echo, bullets flare like starbursts against obsidian armor. Sparks fly. Laertiez roars in shadow and steel. His scimitars catch the light, every strike ripping air, stealing breath.
Kragna slams into him, fist colliding with armor. Bones crack, steel bends, horns glow bright. Laertiez snarls—black smoke dusting between his lips. He drives Kragna back with the cascade of glass.
I keep firing, splintering stone, shredding the rubble underfoot. My blood hums. Smoke chokes me. I reload fast, every shell a promise.
Harriet’s voices rise—each head whispering poison into Laertiez’s flank. Bruce’s roar rumbles ground cracks, shaking dust from towers. Veeto whips around Laertiez’s back, dagger whispers light—but the prince of blood diverts him with a flick.
Kragna regains balance. He leaps forward, roaring fire and bone, swinging horns first. The hairpin crack of horn meets glass. Laertiez stumbles.
I sprint closer, adrenaline scorching veins. I slide behind Kragna, duck sniping to the noble’s flanks, half-bullets sliding through gaps. The sound—the raw crack of glass, bone colliding, rifles spitting fire—fuses into a wild orchestral chorus.
He’s cornered now.
But not dead.
Laertiez shields a hand across his face and simply snarls in defiance. His eyes sparkle with rage and unbroken death.
Kragna hits him again, wind ripped from both their lungs. Laertiez slashes back—his twin scimitars grazing bone. Kragna roars, shifting deeper: skin cracks, obsidian plates bloom, talons curve sharper. He pins Laertiez against shattered stone.
I slide in under Kragna’s arm, rifle canted. Crack of glass against steel, sparks that smell like ozone and torn wings. I mark his chest—where darkness glitters under smoke—and fire.
Laertiez screams. Not a death rattle, but a sound that fractures the stench of war. Steel sizzles. He staggers.
Kragna pins him—centaur-sized, breath blowing smoke. My heart pounds so loud I think it might shatter.
“It ends now,” Kragna snarls, voice twisting with something ancient.
Laertiez glares. The battlefield hushes as if even war respects this moment.
But he doesn’t fall.
He just smiles, cruel and broken, and whispers,
“Is it over? Or just beginning?”
The world slides.
Gunfire starts again. Elites in the distance rally. The human flank shifts forward.
I stand, shaking.
Kragna lowers me to my feet—arms still wrapped around Laertiez, horns glowing.
My hands slide to Kragna’s side, blood, dust, sweat, fear.
This isn’t over.