Tether

The corridor pressed close, stone walls slick with grit, torchlight throwing jagged shadows across the uneven floor. Smoke stung Nathan’s eyes, but he didn’t dare blink.

Ronan stood at the head of the battered survivors. Armor scored with cuts, dust ground into every seam, a raw gash carved down one cheek. His sword arm was steady, though his shoulders sagged under a week’s weight.

Alia started toward him with her kit, but he lifted a hand and shook his head. “Them first.” He nodded to the men behind him.

She dipped her head and moved to tend them instead.

For a second Nathan couldn’t breathe. Relief hit too hard, too fast, leaving him hollow. Then Ronan’s gaze cut over—sharp, assessing.

“So. You lived.” A grunt wrapped in gravel.

Nathan’s laugh cracked. “Yeah. Can’t say the same for my ribs, but… yeah.”

Ronan didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The look was enough—a flicker of acknowledgment, gone as quick as it came.

Nathan finally registered the rest of them. Fewer mercs than before. Hard to tell with the torchlight jittering and shadows cutting across faces.

Six, maybe—until his gaze tracked down the line. One… two… three… four… five.

That was it. Five left.

The others—gone.

Two leaned heavy on each other, pale beneath streaks of blood and grit. Another slumped against the wall, clutching his side, while two more stood ragged but upright, eyes hollow with exhaustion. Which meant three of the eight from the wagon weren’t here at all.

His body sagged. The line felt thinner without them, the space between torches stretching wider than it should.

Alia had already moved to the worst of the wounded, steady hands checking bandages as the two injured men leaned on each other.

Nathan’s gut twisted. His group hadn’t lost anyone—yet. Ronan’s men had.

Sera stepped forward, blade still in hand, posture carved sharp. She took in the sight. Captain to captain.

“Looks like you’ve had a rough go. What happened?”

Ronan’s jaw worked. “Three lost. One to a collapse trap, days back. The other two…” His mouth tightened. “Stoneback lurkers. They burrow deep, lie still as rock until they strike. Tails like hammers—one blow caves armor. Caught us in the dark. They didn’t make it.”

His voice stayed flat, but the scrape beneath it was grief hammered into steel.

Sera inclined her head, a soldier’s recognition. “Never easy losing comrades.” Her eyes flicked down the line, counting. “How are you on supplies?”

“Light,” Ronan said. “Lost a pack with most of the rations. Medical kit was thin to start with.” He glanced back at the wounded. “Progress has been slow.”

Silence stretched, torchlight guttering. Not a clash—just the quiet weight of two leaders measuring what remained.

At last Sera spoke, voice even, anchoring. “Then we move. Safer ground, get your wounded patched, food in their stomachs. Standing still gets us buried.”

Ronan gave the smallest nod. “Forward.”

Still standing. Somehow. Doesn’t feel like enough.

The spark of command settled into something steadier, like steel struck and caught. Orders restored, the line tightened, even among the limping. Tamsin twirled a knife, muttering something sharp under her breath. Alia was already moving, quiet and efficient.

Nyx lifted her stylus; a silver rune flared. Light spilled across the walls, cold and steady, shadows thrown long.

First time I’ve seen her use it like that. Guess even she’s rattled—finding ways to keep us moving.

One of the mercs staggered, collapsing against the wall. Nathan ducked fast, wedging his shoulder under the man’s arm. Bren moved in on the other side without a word, the two of them bracing the weight between shields. The man’s breath rattled hot against Nathan’s ear, each step dragging like stone.

When the weight eased, Nathan fell back in line. Sand clung to his hair, grit bit at his throat, but that wasn’t what made his chest knot.

Ronan was alive.

And the look he’d given him—clear, unblinking—sat heavier than any wound. A commander’s gaze, yes. But beneath it… something Nathan couldn’t name.

They moved until the corridor widened, stone giving way to a hollow where the ceiling arched high. Sera raised a hand, halting the line. Her gaze swept the shadows, the walls, the narrow choke of the entryway. Then she looked to Ronan.

He studied the space, jaw tight, and gave a single nod. “Good enough. We can bottleneck if something comes.”

Alia set her kit down, coaxing a green-flamed fire to life, the strange light licking shadows across the walls. The wounded were eased onto cloaks near the warmth, her hands steady as she stitched, pressed, and bound.

The others settled into a wary rhythm. Tamsin kept knives out, restless as ever. Bren propped her shield where she could see both entrances. Nyx sat close to the fire, stylus in hand, jotting in quick strokes even as her eyes flicked from page to Nathan… to Ronan… back again.

Nathan shifted uneasily. What now? What did she notice? Maybe that I said Ronan instead of Garrick? Ignore it.

The camp quieted. Fire burned low; mercs drifted into uneasy sleep. The women kept their own rotation, shadows sliding along the stone.

Ronan didn’t ask. He jerked his chin toward the dark and walked. Nathan followed, pulse thudding. They stopped where the firelight couldn’t reach and their voices wouldn’t carry.

Ronan squatted, heavy and deliberate, like a stone into water. He didn’t look at Nathan right away—jaw working, eyes fixed on nothing. The silence dragged until sweat prickled down Nathan’s back.

Finally, Ronan said, flat as steel on stone. “You do a terrible job of acting like him.”

“Excuse me?”

Heat shot up Nathan’s neck. “It’s not like I had a handbook shoved in my pocket when I woke up! Bodies, blood, monsters, a sword—every step has been survive or die. That’s all I’ve been doing. Trying not to die.”

Ronan didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just let the words hang.

And then it hit.

Oh, shit.

He’d said it out loud. Not Mason. Me. No mask, no slip he could cover with sarcasm. Bare confession bouncing off stone.

Panic pricked hot. He almost scrambled to patch it—laugh, backpedal, anything—but Ronan’s stare pinned him still. The silence was worse than a shout. Like Ronan had been waiting for this, and Nathan had finally handed it to him.

Ronan’s gaze lifted at last, unreadable. “Had to drag you into a dungeon just to speak plain. That should tell you enough.”

“I kept you secluded at the manor so the men wouldn’t notice the cracks,” he went on, jaw flexing. “And because I needed to decide what to do with you. Mason left… business dealings. Debts. Promises. People who expect the Boss to answer when they call.”

“Business?” Nathan blurted. Fuck, I just want to go home.

“Ugly business,” Ronan said. “Slave auctions. Smuggling. Blood-coin contracts. All of it ran because he held the strings.” His jaw tightened.

Silence pressed thick between them, the weight of the words sinking in.

“The ritual stripped something off me. My head’s been clearer since. I don’t know the minds of the others, or their hearts—but I know mine. And I’m done with that filth. I hate every shadow of it, and I won’t be part of it again.”

Nathan’s gut churned. “Real people? Being bought and sold?” His laugh came jagged, hysteria edging it. “You want me to cosplay your warlord-slaver so we can save them?”

“Yes.” Ronan didn’t flinch. “With my help, you’ll pass for him when it matters. If you falter, blades come out. We may have time before muster—if we get out of here in one piece.”

If? Great. So even if we save people, we still march into Kieran’s dungeon death march.

“So let me get this straight,” Nathan said, hands flying. “You want me to roleplay the Boss, save some people—which I’m not against—and then march into muster, which will send us on another oh-so-wonderful dungeon excursion with even more hellish stakes?”

“Yes.”

“So blunt!” Nathan snapped. “I’m a trained actor, sure, but I didn’t audition for this role!” Sarcasm spilled out, jagged with panic.

“Actor?” Ronan’s tone held no interest. A pause. Then, colder. “Learn fast. Survive the dungeon, wear the mask, and I’ll put effort into helping you after. Slip, and none of us make it out.”

Nathan’s mouth opened, closed, opened again. He wanted to scream I just want to go home, but what came out was rough.

“Can you help me? Really?”

"I'll do my best."

Ronan rose, heavy as stone—conversation over—then paused. His shoulders stiffened, like he’d almost walked away but thought better of it.

“That day,” he said, voice low. “When the wall shifted. Did you feel anything… odd?”

Nathan’s throat worked. “Yeah,” he admitted before he could stop himself. “…Did you hear a whisper?”

Ronan’s brow twitched, the faintest lift. “No. Felt like a shock. Straight through the bones.”

“I passed out.”

That earned him a sharp, disapproving glance. “Don’t. The Boss doesn’t faint.”

Nathan stared after him. Frustrating as hell. He dragged a hand down his face. Chill, chill. He saved your life.

He collected himself and followed.

Somewhere far from the dungeon’s choking dark, another battle line was being drawn.

The office was heavy with the scratch of quills and the press of reports. The Guildmaster didn’t look up from his ledger when he spoke.

“Another hamlet west of Karth’s Pass fell in a Droswain raid. Their banners are planted past our border.” At last his gaze lifted, sharp as the quill in his hand. “How many allied transfers have arrived?”

“Eighty-three, plus fifty-seven from Eryndral—most still on short missions or in training,” Kieran answered, clipped.

The Guildmaster leaned back, fingers steepled. “Enough to show a front. Not enough to waste. The council meets tomorrow to set the incursion date. The dungeon strike proceeds once they give the word.”

“And Mason’s party?” Kieran’s voice cut like steel.

For the first time, the Guildmaster paused. Then, flatly. “It’s been just over a week. If they live, they’ll return. If not… they’re gone.” His quill scraped another line across the page. “Dismissed.”

Kieran’s jaw locked. Mason’s ritual, the chamber, his missing men—all brushed aside while Droswain dug deeper into Eryndral’s soil. He turned on his heel before his temper broke loose.

Taron fell into step. They walked in silence until the door shut behind them and the Guildmaster’s voice was swallowed by the hall. Rain whispered through the arrow-slit windows.

“You’re still chasing the chamber,” Taron said.

“Mason led them in,” Kieran answered, iron-flat. “I should’ve pressed harder. Kept those men out of his net. I knew better. Damn it!” His fist slammed the wall.

“You couldn’t have stopped it,” Taron said, quiet but sharp. “Orders are orders. Mason dangled that book, swore he could end the war before it began. The Guildmaster was desperate enough to believe him. We all paid the cost.”

Kieran’s fist stayed pressed to the wall. He had been nineteen and green then; the image of that first battlefield never left him. His mentor had held the line, rallying their unit through mud and blood while men fell around them. Mason lingered at the rear, steel untouched—and his magic too. Only when the enemy finally faltered, when Kieran’s comrades were already spent, did Mason unleash it. Power that could have turned the tide from the first strike—hoarded until the end. He strode in loud and spotless, claiming the glory while the rest lay broken.

His mentor died there—mud under his nails, blood wasted in the dirt.

Some had called Mason a hero after that battle. Kieran knew better. And in the years since, so did everyone else—Mason’s name carried power, yes, but never trust, never loyalty.

Mason was an opportunist. Always had been. And now the Guild was ready to let him vanish again—into a dungeon, with no answers. Kieran would not let another treachery pass into silence.

“He doesn’t get to walk away,” Kieran said. “Not again. I want the truth. I want it known what he’s done.”

Taron scanned the corridor, lowering his voice. “Then send a small squad. Quiet. Let them sift the chamber—bring back any belongings of the men who died, so their families have something to hold. Any trace of what happened during the ritual. Something the Guild can’t dismiss.”

Five days. Risk soured on Kieran’s tongue, but lies rotted worse than loss.

“All I want is the truth.”

Taron dipped his head once. A comrade’s pact, silent and understood.

Kieran looked out through the slit at the storm breaking over the city. Mason’s name burned like iron in his throat.

“Truth,” he said—a vow, low and hard. “And then revenge.”

Taron nodded.

Kieran stood a beat longer, then said, “I’ll send word to my spy. The chamber won’t stay buried. And we’ll see those men honored.”

He turned down the hall, steps clipped, purpose burning in his stride.

By the time they slipped back into the resting area, Alia’s green fire burned steady. The wounded dozed under cloaks, their breathing rough but even. A couple mercs gnawed on travel rations before sinking into uneasy sleep. The air had that brittle quiet of people too wrung out to talk.

Nathan eased down near the flames, trying to look casual. Nyx’s eyes flicked to him, sharp. She stilled, then shut her slate with a snap.

“What now?” he said, tensing.

“I noticed something strange.”

“Uh huh…”

“When we first met outside the dungeon, you were void to me. Uncommon, but not impossible. Him”—she nodded at Ronan—“mana-born. Nothing unusual. But after we reunited… there’s a thread now. Between you two.” Her stylus angled at them both. “Faint. Like a tether. I don’t know how. I don’t know why. But it’s there.”

“Come again?” Nathan shot a glance at Ronan.

“You,” she said to Ronan. “Since you separated from the rookie—any withdrawal symptoms? Mana-strain, backlash, anything?”

Ronan’s face stayed stone. Then, slowly, he nodded.

“Symptoms? Like what?” Nathan demanded. What the hell is happening now?

Nyx leaned forward. “And you, rookie? Do you feel… bound to him?”

“Bound? No. I mean, I hoped he was okay, but that’s not—” His words trailed off. Ronan’s eyes met his, and for one raw second they both knew this was bigger than either of them.

Ronan glanced around, then crooked a finger. “Come. Away from the others.”

Nathan and Nyx followed.

Once they were a good distance—

“I have something to say.”

Nathan kept his voice low, heart pounding faster than when he’d come out at nineteen. Terrifying—actually saying it. Terrifying what Nyx might do with it.

“I’m Nathan. Nathan Kim.”

Both stared.

Nyx tilted her head, dry. “So… not Corin?”

She looked toward Ronan. “And you…?”

“Ronan.”

“Ah.”

Nathan started panic blurting. “If you want the official version… Kim Min-jun. Born in Korea, raised in—” He gestured at the choking dark. “Yeah. Not here. A place called Earth.”

Her brows shot up. “Are you trying to say you are”—her voice dipped—“an otherworlder?”

Her lips curved, sharp. “My, my. You get more interesting at every turn.”

“You actually believe me?” Nathan asked.

“There are tales, centuries old, of occurrences like this,” Nyx said. Her eyes pinned him. “Nathan.”

He swallowed. “Yes. Nathan. My own name. Feels nice.”

“Is this what you look like in your world?” Nyx asked, studying him.

“No. This isn’t my body.” He threw his hands up, exasperated.

Ronan’s jaw flexed. “Mason Draegor. Powerful thought-casting mage. That’s how he built influence. Even as an orphan.”

The name hit like a slap. Draegor? First I’m hearing this.

Nyx surged forward, her stylus clattering against the stone. “Draegor?” Her eyes blazed. “This is Mason Draegor’s body? The Mason Draegor? He’s infamous across the continent—half the Collegium’s apprentices would kill to wield even a fraction of his power!”

Her breath quickened as she snatched the stylus back up. “No wonder the mana responds so strongly around you. But only after you fainted… interesting.”

Nathan groaned. She’s about to turn me into a research paper.

“Yes,” Ronan said at last, voice low. “That is the Boss’s body. But understand this—up until we were separated, I hadn’t felt anything. No mana. Nothing. Not since before the ritual.”

His gaze flicked to Nathan, steady and unblinking. “Then we crossed paths again. And it was there—mana, suddenly.”

Nyx looked interested. “Ritual?”

“Oh, for—stop,” Nathan snapped. “I’m not Boss. Or Mason. Or Corin. I’m just Nathan.”

Both of them echoed, almost together. “Right, Nathan.”

“I’d like to know more about this ritual,” Nyx pressed, leaning forward.

Ronan’s mouth hardened. “When myself and a few others went to check on the progress, we found… him.” He nodded at Nathan. “As he is now.”

“That is unfortunate.” Nyx’s voice was cool, but her eyes flicked bright with calculation. “I’ll look deeper into this later.”

Nathan’s gut knotted. Did he know from the start? That I wasn’t Mason? Figures. And what about Mason’s abilities? So many thoughts were circling his head, too many to pin down.

“Sorry—changing the subject for a sec.” He rubbed the back of his neck, forcing a weak grin. “So, to clarify… Mason could do the bare-handed thought-casting thing too?”

“Yes,” Ronan answered simply.

Nathan’s pulse kicked. He raised his hand with mock bravado. “Well… watch this.”

“Careful,” Nyx hissed, her stylus poised like she might have to intervene.

“I will.”

He thought spark. A jagged flare burst at his fingertips—blue light spitting sparks before winking out. The air smelled faintly scorched.

For a heartbeat the camp stilled—hands tightening on hilts, eyes flashing toward him.

Phew. I didn’t explode anything.

Nyx glanced over her shoulder. “It’s fine. Observation only.” She shot him a glare, sharp as her stylus.

Bren eased back, muttering something that sounded like “crazy mage… bring the ceiling down.”

Nathan smirked at Ronan. “Well?”

Ronan gave him a long look. “Supposed to impress me, that?”

“What? Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do…?”

“Why not use a weapon? Mason could cast barehanded, yes, but his true edge was channeling through objects. That made him dangerous.”

Why didn’t I think of that?

Nyx scribbled furiously. “So Draegor used himself as his own augment—while enchanting dozens of objects at once?”

“Yes,” Ronan said.

“Wait… does this mean magic sword?!”

Nyx’s eyes gleamed. “Yes. And much more. You are an anomaly, completely unknown, your potential could surpass Draegor—or any mage alive.”

Nathan groaned. Oh no. She’s really going to nerd out now.

“Did he pick his own surname?” he blurted.

“Yes,” Ronan said. “Wanted something powerful-sounding.”

Nathan snorted, trying to steady himself. “So what’s the royal family called, then?”

“Halcyros.”

Kieran Halcyros. Nathan rolled the name around. He’d never even asked. Guess that’s what happens when you’re too busy face-planting through survival 101.

“You’ll need to start knowing names,” Ronan said, eyes sharp. “People. Events. Enough not to sound out of place.”

Nathan forced a grin, stomach knotting. “Right. Just whip me up a character sheet, boss. I’ll start memorizing my lines.”

“First off,” Ronan said, gaze pinning him, “never call me boss.”

“Right. My bad. Ronan.”

Nyx’s stylus stilled; suspicion sharpened her look. “What are you two even talking about?”

“Tradecraft,” Nathan said lightly. “Lessons. How not to die.”

The word snagged anyway. Boss. Everyone had called Mason that. Not commander, not captain, not even Draegor. Just… Boss. Like the word itself was a crown.

His stomach turned. “Why though? People here have titles—princes, commanders, guildmasters. Why him? Why just… Boss?”

For a long beat, Ronan said nothing. Jaw working, eyes flat. Then, voice low. “Ran with a crew when he was young. Brutal one. Their leader carried the name first.” A taut pause. “Mason hated him. Hated him enough to put him in the ground. Took the name for himself. Wore it like armor. Like spite.”

Nathan’s mouth went dry. He tried for a laugh and failed. “So he killed the Boss… and then became Boss?”

Ronan didn’t blink. “That’s the story.”

A chill crept over Nathan’s skin.

“What are you three doing?” Tamsin’s face swung into the torchlight, eerily painted by it.

Nathan grabbed his chest. “Tamsin! You scared the shit out of me!”

Her grin sharpened, knives catching firelight. “Conspiracies, secrets, whispers in the dark. Cute. But tell me something…” Her head tilted, sharp as a strike.

Nathan’s heart stuttered. How long had she been listening?
Nyx froze. Ronan’s stare cut like steel.

The fire cracked.
Silence closed in.

“Who’s Nathan?”