Tashlan, Carlon – Catacombs, Year 8002 A.A.
Tashlan, the gilded capital of Carlon, rose from the jagged spine of Mount Seraxis, its tiered architecture a monument to Carlon's doctrine: power above, suffering below. The city glowed by day and pulsed by night, its spires and marble towers gleaming like celestial pillars. But beneath its splendor was a rot carved from centuries of conquest.
At the lowest tiers, where light rarely reached, the catacombs stretched endlessly. Carved into the mountain's base, they were a prison for the broken, the lost—and the forgotten remnants of Narn and ArchenLand. Dim torches sputtered along crumbling stone halls, shadows crawling over rusted bars and water-stained walls. The air was thick with mildew, the reek of unwashed bodies, and a quiet despair.
In one such cell sat Kopa Boga, hunched against the damp wall, his antlers now massive, spiraling with age and mana. His fur had dulled, thickened, but his green eyes burned sharp and alert. Facial hair framed his mouth like carved bark, hardened by centuries of battle. As Hand of King Daruis, he listened in silence as two Carlon guards lingered outside his cell, unaware that their whispers fed the resistance.
"Another slave transfer got hit," one muttered, armor clinking as he adjusted his grip on a dull scimitar. "The Ronins again. That's, what, the sixth this year?"
"More like the sixtieth," the second guard grumbled, leaning against the wall. "It's like they're ghosts. They appear, vanish, free a dozen slaves, and we're left cleanin' up the mess."
The first guard lowered his voice. "Gotta be the NarnLords. Them and the ArchenLanders vanished a thousand years ago. And now, just as suddenly, Carlon starts bleedin' slaves? It's not coincidence."
The second guard flinched. "Quiet. You wanna be flayed by the Prince? Erezhan's already madder than the Trisoc. These disappearances are makin' 'em desperate."
Kopa's ears twitched. Every detail mattered. Every whisper was a thread to be pulled.
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Deeper in the labyrinth, where water dripped from unseen crevices and rust etched the bars like blood, two guards stood at a junction—nervous, blades drawn. Their breaths fogged in the chilled air.
"They wouldn't come this deep," one said, voice barely a whisper.
"Doesn't matter," the other muttered. "You hear what happened at Galtan Hold? Ronins gutted an entire outpost. We don't even know how they got in."
Then came the voice—smooth, steady, and impossibly close.
"Drop your weapons. You won't be harmed."
The guards spun. No mana. No sound. Just a silhouette in the torchlight—a cloak swallowing the shadows, a presence cold and exact.
"Who are you?!"
The figure sighed. "You already know."
The guards lunged.
The figure moved. Not like a blur—like absence. Like the moment between heartbeats.
"Swordless Style, First Claw: Yırtıcı."
Two scimitars hit the ground. Two bodies followed.
The Tracient exhaled slowly, standing over their unconscious forms. His orange fur, striped with black, shone faintly in the firelight. A jagged scar ran down the right side of his face, his left eye covered by a black patch. The visible eye—cold, golden—glinted with restrained violence. His yellow ponytail was longer now, tied tightly at the base.
He disappeared down the corridor.
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In a chamber closer to the holding cells, two more guards dozed. Silver armor dulled by neglect, weapons propped nearby, confidence dulled by routine. They barely noticed the green glow seeping from the floor.
Small plant buds sprouted from between the cracks.
They released a sweet-smelling pollen.
The guards blinked, swayed.
Collapsed.
Kopa stepped from the shadows, cloaking his mana once more. His hands pulsed green. He shed his hood.
Refugees inside the cells gasped. Not from fear. Recognition.
"I am Kopa Boga, Hand of King Darius Boga," he said, voice firm, low. "If you want to live, follow me. Silently. Quickly."
Chains fell. Doors creaked. Hope stirred.
They moved.
A wider chamber. Cavernous. The air changed. Stale rot faded. A breeze.
Freedom was near.
The group paused. Kopa raised a fist, signaling a halt. His ears twitched.
"Why stop?" a young cat whispered.
Kopa didn't answer immediately. His green eyes scanned the dark.
"They're late," he said.
A voice echoed above. "Kopa. Over here."
Kon Kaplan landed silently from a broken pillar, his orange fur gleaming like a dying flame. He straightened. The scar on his face caught the torchlight.
Kopa raised an eyebrow. "You're late."
"Detour," Kon replied, adjusting the strap on his sheathed blade. "Cleaned up on the way."
He nodded to the refugees.
"Let's move."
They vanished into the tunnels, fading into myth once more.
Above Tashlan, the nobles dined in golden halls. Below, ghosts moved in silence.
The Ronins had returned.