Zhetrin
The Sector Four broker warehouse stands sealed shut, fortified by thick, rusted crossbeams and the foul magic of the lower flesh-markets.
"Stand clear." A demonic, vibrating rumble tears from my throat, shaking the foul, damp air of the subterranean tunnels.
As Tharion and the vanguard step back with their longblades drawn for slaughter, I approach the massive doors. Pressing both of my calloused palms flat against the rusted iron, I drag the raw magic from the deepest well of my chest and push it entirely into the metal.
A thick sheet of blinding white frost races across the iron, freezing the ancient metal until it becomes as brittle as glass. Drawing my foot back, I deliver a singular, devastating kick to the center seam.
The dense doors explode inward.
The iron shatters like crystal, launching jagged shrapnel into the cavernous gloom of the warehouse. The concussive blast of the breach tears through the staging floor, extinguishing the sputtering alchemy torches and throwing the nearest flesh-brokers violently onto their backs.
Stepping through the ruined archway, my longblade hisses smoothly from its scabbard.
"Leave no one alive".
The Miou vanguard floods the warehouse behind me in a tidal wave of disciplined, absolute carnage. The screams of Kryven’s mercenaries erupt almost immediately, echoing against the damp stone walls as I carve a path through the staging floor.
A massive flesh-handler charges, swinging a dense, spiked iron chain. Sidestepping the crushing blow with liquid, predatory speed, my free hand shoots out to lock around his throat, channeling my magic directly into his flesh.
His blood freezes instantly in his veins. Dropping the chain, his eyes bulge as the frost climbs his jaw before I hurl his rigid body aside to shatter against the stone floor.
Two more mercenaries rush forward with their cheap steel raised. Swinging my longblade in a flawless, horizontal arc, I decapitate the first before driving the pommel of my weapon through the sternum of the second.
The air fills with the blinding, metallic reek of fresh blood.
My violet-ringed gaze anchors across the massive space, a physical force hunting for the only thing in this rotting world that matters.
Near the far wall, a towering dark elf wearing the crimson and gold crest of Lord Kryven drags a small figure backward by the collar of her oversized linen shirt.
Megan.
She is battered. A dark, vicious bruise blooms across her cheekbone, and her lower lip is split, bleeding sluggishly down her chin.
Barefoot but refusing to cower, her small, trembling hand grips a serrated hunting knife slick with fresh gore.
Her opposite wrist remains bound by a length of frayed hemp rope attached to a dense iron manacle.
Kryven’s lieutenant raises his longblade, preparing to strike the weapon from her fragile grip.
A primal, deafening roar tears from my chest.
Obliterating the massive distance of the warehouse floor in three staggering strides, I ignore the chaotic melee raging around me. Hearing the roar, Kryven’s lieutenant turns. Unadulterated terror violently strips the color from his face as I descend upon him.
Raising his blade to defend himself proves a useless, pathetic gesture.
I swing my dense Khuzuth steel with unrestrained fury, the kinetic force shattering his inferior blade and sending broken shards of metal spinning into the gloom. Reversing my grip instantly, I drive my longblade straight through the lieutenant’s armored chest.
The steel pierces his heart and erupts from his back.
He gasps a wet, garbled sound before I violently withdraw the blade, letting him collapse into the foul puddles of the floor—dead before the blood can pool.
Slamming my longblade back into its scabbard, I drop to my knees before her.
Trembling as the adrenaline crashes in her veins, she drops the bloody hunting knife, her small chest heaving. The thick iron manacle clamped around her left wrist connects to a dense chain biting into her skin.
Reaching out, my hands cover the cold iron.
"Close your eyes." The raw instruction scrapes the air, stripped entirely of my Khuzuth calm.
She obeys, shutting them tightly against the gloom.
Pushing a precise, concentrated fraction of my magic into the iron lock, the metal freezes instantly, turning brittle and white. Closing my fist, I crush the manacle, the iron shattering into harmless dust beneath my grip as she pulls her bruised wrist free.
Reaching for her, my large hands frame her small face. My thumbs gently brush over the dark bruise blooming across her cheek, entirely avoiding the split in her lip. The feral rage boiling in my blood makes my hands tremble against her skin.
"Megan." I track every inch of her battered face, hunting for any fatal wound beneath the oversized, blood-stained linen shirt. "Are you broken? Hurting anywhere else?"
She opens her amber eyes. The fearlessness radiating from her is a brilliant, staggering light in the suffocating darkness of the Undercity, driving the breath completely from my lungs.
Lifting her small, bruised hands, she rests them flat against my chest directly over the rapid beating of my heart. The simple, fearless contact grounds the static of my magic in a heartbeat, forcing the frost to retreat from the stone floor.
"I am not broken." Her raspy voice cracks slightly as she leans forward, resting her forehead against my chest. "You came."
"I will always come." The promise seals itself into the silence between us like a blood-oath. Wrapping my arms around her fragile body, I bury my face in her tangled curls, inhaling the lavender scent of her skin directly through the foul reek of the warehouse.
As the sounds of the slaughter around us slowly cease, Tharion approaches. His armored boots splash through the gore, halting a respectful distance away with his weapon resting against his shoulder. He absorbs the ruin of Kryven’s right-hand lieutenant lying at my feet.
"The place is secure, High Sovereign." Tharion's rigid tone vibrates with the adrenaline of the kill. "The remaining flesh-brokers have been executed. The captives in the cages are unharmed".
Refusing to release my hold on Megan, I keep her entirely caged within the protective mass of my frame and pivot my attention to the guard captain.
"Release the captives. Give them safe passage to the upper rings. And find the scribe who managed the transit ledgers for this warehouse. I want his hands unbroken so he can write the message to his lord".
Tharion nods sharply. "And the warehouse, my lord? Shall we burn it to cover our tracks?"
"No".
My eyes sweep the cavernous, blood-soaked room. Dozens of Kryven’s elite mercenaries and flesh-brokers lie mutilated across the stone floor, the absolute dominance of House Thosti painted in crimson across the walls.
"Leave the doors wide open." The cruelty of my caste bleeds into the air, completely unapologetic. "Leave the corpses exactly where they fell. Let the hounds of the Dark Market feast. I want the entire Undercity to see the result of Kryven’s arrogance".
Shifting my attention back down to the fragile mortal in my arms, I lift her effortlessly off the wet stone floor. Securing her against my chest to ensure her bare feet do not touch the blood of her enemies, I carry her out of the shadows.
"We return to the estate. The Patriarch’s war has officially begun".