The crimson gate hissed as Kael's blood touched the lock, revealing a tunnel laced with ancient scripts and shadows that moved like breath.
Grathmoor's underbelly.
As the rebels slipped inside one by one, Thorn muttered, "Smells like death."
Kael whispered, "That's because it is."
Riven took the rear, eyes sharp. "We make no sound. We split into two groups. Strike the inner sanctum from both sides. Don't stop for anyone. Don't fall behind."
Calen nodded. "We're ghosts. Until it's time to become fire."
---
The Trapdoor City
Grathmoor's underground levels were more than passageways—they were dungeons, labs, training pits. Remnants of Rath's twisted legacy. Each hall was soaked in blood and built on screams.
The rebels moved through in silence, but the deeper they went, the more restless the walls became.
Then—
A whisper.
A flicker of movement.
A trap.
The floor erupted with spears and chains.
Three rebels were impaled instantly.
"AMBUSH!"
Shadows peeled from the walls—masked soldiers, clad in crimson, bearing the emblem of the Creed. Eyes glowing. Movements inhuman.
Kael's sword was already drawn.
It wasn't vengeance anymore.
It was war.
---
Battle in the Dark
Kael became fury incarnate.
His blade danced in brutal arcs, slicing through armor and bone. Each swing channeled every scar he carried, every name he'd buried.
Thorn bellowed and charged, breaking through walls with his chain-bound fists. Vess leapt across beams, loosing arrows faster than breath. Merek whispered a single word—"Ash"—and an entire hallway burst into flame.
Still, the Creed fought like zealots, chanting praises to Rath, throwing themselves into death like it was salvation.
Kael slammed a guard against the wall, blade at his throat. "Where's Rath?!"
The man spat blood.
"Already waiting above. For you."
---
A Risen Warning
Suddenly, a chime rang out—a slow, echoing bell.
Kael's eyes widened.
"That's not an alarm," Calen gasped. "That's a summons."
From the shadows, a new figure emerged.
Pale-skinned, armored in layered black and red, eyes glowing with violet flame.
"Name yourself," Kael demanded.
The figure didn't speak. Instead, he held out a blade. It was Kael's father's sword—twisted, corrupted.
Kael's breath caught.
"You… were there."
The figure finally spoke. "I was reborn the day your family died. And I will be your executioner."
---
The Ghost of a Name
Their swords clashed, sending shockwaves through the corridor.
Kael's rage surged, but his opponent was calm, precise. He wasn't just trained—he was engineered.
Elira shouted, "Kael! Pull back!"
But Kael pressed on, deflecting a killing blow and driving his blade through the man's gut.
"I don't care who you were," he growled. "I only care that you bleed."
The man collapsed, gasping.
Before he died, he rasped, "He's waiting… at the throne… with her."
Kael froze.
Her?
"Who?" he whispered.
But the body went still.
---
To be continue...