The Field Marshal's Wrath

“Draegor, you bastard!”

The words tore out of him, raw and useless. He jolted against Dane's bind, muscles locking as the unseen force cinched tighter. “Just lies! Games!”

He fought harder, breath tearing out of his chest. “Always a scheme, always twisting it!”
The effort rasped in his throat; he could almost hear the bind flex with every futile pull.

How could I let him get to me?
I know what he is.
I know. I know.

He writhed again, furious with himself.
“Damn it!”

Sunlight broke through the canopy, catching on his fallen sword. Just out of his reach. The sight hurt worse than the restraint.

Played me.

The world narrowed to noise, light, and his own pulse.

“—arshal!”

Fool. A fool who should have known better—

“PRINCE KIERAN!”

The title hit like a slap.

He turned sharply, breath ragged. His pulse still hammered in his skull, heat crawling behind his eyes, but he forced himself to see—Taron, shouting, face pale with urgency.

“My apologies, sir. I couldn’t get your attention.”

Kieran’s chest rose and fell once more before he caught it, locking the fury down by habit alone. The world snapped back into focus: the clash of steel, shouting, and distant concussions as magic tore through the air. The fight was still raging.

He turned toward the direction Dane and Draegor had fled. The forest bent that way, quiet for a breath too long.

Taron followed his gaze. Blond hair disheveled and streaked with dirt and blood, he looked half-ready to collapse. “Sir,” he said between breaths, “it’s pointless. They’ll have reached the seam before you could ever catch up.”

Kieran didn’t answer. He wanted to give chase, to tear through the trees until his lungs burst. But he knew Taron was right.

His eyes caught the splash of red on the ground—a Calvesset cloak. The boy beneath it couldn’t have been twenty. Jaw tight, Kieran drew a breath through his nose, about to speak—

Shouts broke through the treeline. Steel on steel. The sound of boots crashing closer.

“Droswain!” someone yelled.

Kieran turned just in time to see a black-cloaked soldier break through the brush, sword raised, charging straight for him. He couldn’t move—still bound, still helpless. His jaw clenched. Damn it all.

He didn’t flinch. He was no coward. He met the man’s eyes as the blade arced down—

—and froze mid-swing. The Droswain’s face twisted, a wet gasp breaking from him. An augmented arrow jutted clean through the back of his skull.

The body dropped at Kieran’s feet.

Relief hit before reason.

He looked up. More figures poured from the trees—a flood of movement, weapon augments flashing in the light, their strikes burning too bright to mistake. For a heartbeat, his mind refused to name them.

Ronan.

And with him, the mercenaries of Draegor’s company—Mason’s men—cutting through the Droswain soldiers like razorbeasts through cattle.

Another ploy?
Or does he truly not realize he’s slaughtering his own allies?

The clash dwindled fast. Draegor’s men moved with practiced precision, their weapon augments burning bright—strong and steady. Each strike carved a brief halo through the air before finding its mark.

The remaining Droswains faltered. Someone shouted, “Retreat!”
The last handful scattered into the trees, branches snapping in their wake.

The clearing pulsed with aftermath—boots pounding, shouts of pursuit, the heavy churn of men trying to decide whether to chase or breathe.

Ronan’s command cut through it. “Stand down! Let them go—check on the wounded!”

Men halted mid-step. The mercenaries drew back, breath ragged, the light fading from their augments until only the wind moved between them. They began checking the wounded, feeling for pulses, sorting the bodies.

Kieran watched him. Such command presence. Worried for the wounded? His jaw tightened. No. I will not be swayed again.

Ronan finally caught sight of him.

“Field Marshal.” Ronan’s voice was steady. “We heard battle sounds and made our way here as fast as possible.”

Kieran didn’t answer at once. His pulse was still wild, his mind sliding from fury to cold focus. How do I deal with this man?

Before he could speak, the treeline stirred again.

Envoy Doss emerged with her two aides at her back—immaculate, unscathed, grime-free. Their faces held just enough color to suggest exertion.

“You seem to be in quite the bind,” she said. No humor. No warmth.

Kieran’s jaw locked. So infuriating. Must everyone be so infuriating? Do they all have death wishes?

“Envoy Doss, release us.”

He felt the pressure behind his temples again—the ache of holding it all together. The last of his restraint beginning to fray.

She didn’t hesitate. She raised her stylus and drew a sigil. "Dispel.” Then repeated it for Taron.
The pressure broke all at once. His limbs went slack, the ache of restraint fading to a dull tremor.
Still on one knee, Kieran reached for the sword lying beside him, fingers curling around the hilt before he steadied himself and rose.

He pointed it toward Ronan.

The large man lowered his sword, its tip resting near the dirt—no threat in his posture. “Field Marshal?”

The mercenaries behind him shifted uneasily, blades half-lowered.

Ronan made a signal with his fist. Hold.

Taron stepped forward, voice low but urgent. “He just saved us. Please consid—”

Kieran turned on him, a finger raised. The glare that followed said everything.

Taron stopped mid-word, breath catching as he backed down.

Kieran turned back to Ronan, sword still leveled. “Why did you attack your allies?”

Ronan’s brow furrowed. “Allies, sir?”

“Yes. Those Droswains.” Kieran’s tone was ice. He watched the man’s eyes, the minute shift in posture—the tell of a liar, or of someone caught between truths.

Something flickered across Ronan’s face. Recognition. Restraint.

There. A tell.
Around them, the air held its breath. Only the faint shift of boots and the sound of winded breathing broke the silence.

“The Droswains are not my allies,” he said finally, careful and steady. “Nor any of us.”

I can read liars. Always could. That’s what makes it burn. Draegor. That spy. Both liars. I almost believed them.

“You knew they’d be here?” Kieran pressed. “Don’t lie to me now.”

Ronan held his gaze for a long moment before answering. “I was aware of the possibility that they’d be here,” he admitted. “But I swear it on my life—they’re foes, not friends.”

Kieran studied him. No guile. No angle he could catch.
The vestibule flashed through his mind—Draegor pulling out that device, the light growing stronger when he turned it toward the third seam. This way.

Too neat. Too convenient.

Kieran’s voice stayed steady, cold. “Did you know we’d come through that seam? Is this part of Draegor’s plan?”

He watched for the tell—a flicker, a twitch, any deceit.

Ronan blinked, genuine confusion on his face. “Seam? No. No, plan.”

He doesn’t know.
Or he’s just as convincing as Draegor.

Kieran’s grip tightened on the hilt, knuckles whitening. His instincts felt rusted, every certainty warped by that man’s shadow.

He swept the clearing with his eyes. Twenty, maybe more, of Ronan’s men.

No. Not Ronan’s men. I am the Field Marshal. These are my men now.

He looked again—Taron, Doss, the bodies the mercenaries had lined in a neat row. His own force had dwindled to barely ten. The math was ugly. They were outnumbered, and any attempt to subdue or detain would cost lives. Besides, these men had come to their aid, showing no sign of hostility.

He lowered his blade an inch. “Where did you come from?”

Ronan gestured toward a thin column of gray smoke rising beyond the trees. “From there. We made camp earlier, needed rest.”

Kieran followed Ronan’s gesture. Exactly where we’d been headed. “Anyone else up there?”

Ronan nodded. “Fifteen more. We’ve been fortunate picking up stragglers as we moved. A few lost along the way.” His voice carried a heaviness Kieran didn’t miss. A commander’s burden.

Large group. Too many to fight. We’ll work together. Doesn’t mean I have to trust them.

He drew a slow breath, let the point of his sword fall. “You’ve done well,” he said quietly. “See to the wounded. The dead. Then we move to the camp.”

He paused, turning back to Ronan, his expression carved in ice. “And listen carefully. If we come across Draegor, I'll execute him on the spot. If any of you even think about mutiny, you’ll answer for it in blood.”

A murmur rolled through the men, uneasy and subdued.

He caught Taron’s glance—saw the concern in his eyes—then watched him look away.

Ronan’s gaze didn’t waver. Whatever passed behind his eyes was unreadable, but his tone stayed even. “Understood, Field Marshal.”

“Good.”

Ronan turned toward the small row of dead as the tension bled from the clearing.
He crouched, reaching for the first bracer.

“I’ll do it.” The words came sharper than Kieran meant.

Ronan’s hand stayed suspended for a heartbeat before he drew it back and rose without argument, giving a short nod. No challenge in his eyes—just understanding.

Kieran stepped past him. Doss and her aides stood a few paces off, untouched by dirt or strain, their styluses and weapons tucked neatly at their sides. The sight made his jaw tighten.

Bet they hid. Cowards.

He crouched beside the first body—the Calvesset boy, Tryvor, barely grown. The armor was split at the chest, the blood already dark against the cloak. Kieran worked the bracer’s hidden seam loose, sliding free the thin rectangular tag from within.

One. He moved to the next. Two. Three. Each clicked softly against the other as he gathered them. Four. When the last tag came free, he rose and turned to Taron, pressing the small handful into his waiting palm. “Keep them,” he said quietly. Taron already had the pouch ready.

Ronan stepped forward. He reached into the pouch at his belt and withdrew six dull tags of his own, offering them to Taron with a nod of respect.

Taron accepted them, tucking the weight away.

The Calvesset woman knelt by Tryvor’s body. Her fingers trembled as she brushed dirt from his hair. She said nothing—only bowed her head—and Kieran let her have the moment.

Rare, to have time for the dead in a dungeon.

When all were accounted for, they burned every body—Droswains included. A moment of silence passed, the smoke curling upward through the canopy.

Kieran looked over those gathered around the fire.
He still didn’t trust Ronan.
He definitely didn’t trust Doss.
Taron was his only true ally.

The bodies were still burning when he said to Ronan, “Lead the way.”

Ronan gave a short nod and turned.

Kieran faced the rest. “Let’s move out.”

The group shifted—quiet, efficient. The wounded leaned on others.

Taron fell in beside him. The Calvesset woman lingered one last heartbeat at the fire before following. Behind them, Doss and her aides trailed—untouched, silent, spotless.

The trek to camp took the better part of an hour. The forest had gone still again—eerily silent, only the occasional hiss of shifting branches above. Every few minutes, Kieran’s eyes flicked toward the treeline, scanning for movement that wasn’t there.

The faint curl of smoke thickened as they neared a shallow ridge where the trees thinned.

A sharp whistle cut through the stillness. Ronan answered with a short, low tone—one Kieran recognized as a signal.

They entered a rough clearing, a firepit marking the center. Heads turned. The camp’s remaining group stood alert, weapons within reach. A few faces eased when they saw Ronan, but their gazes quickly shifted toward Kieran—recognition rippling through the group like a quiet current. They straightened instinctively.

The camp itself looked functional, not comfortable—lines of packs stacked against trees, bedrolls pressed flat into the dirt.

Ready to move. No one’s unpacked enough to believe we’re safe. Good.

“Field Marshal,” Ronan said, voice steady but measured. “These are the ones we’ve gathered along the way. You’ll want to meet them.”

He called out names.

Two women in Calvesset cloaks stepped forward from the group. The first—dark-haired, composed—offered a crisp bow. “Rhea,” she said. “Scout.”

The second, fair-haired with dirt on her cheek, gave a half-nod. “Greta. Also a scout.”

Kieran inclined his head slightly. Both steady voices. Trained. “You were both assigned to forward reconnaissance?”

“Yes, Field Marshal,” Rhea said.

Before Kieran could reply, the Calvesset woman from his own group—the one who’d stayed behind to tend Tryvor’s body—broke from formation and hurried forward.
Rhea’s expression softened—a flash of relief, or grief. Hard to tell.
“Lyenne.” The two met halfway, hands catching at each other’s arms, exchanging no words—just a quiet nod.

Kieran looked away, giving them their moment.

He scanned the camp. The smell of old ash clung to the air; their earlier fire had burned down to embers. Organized. Controlled. They’d kept order even after the main force had splintered.

Ronan’s doing. They looked to him.

“Good work maintaining order,” he said finally, tone neutral. “Wounded get priority. We’ll hold here until light, then move again.”

“Yes, sir.” Ronan stepped back, motioning to his men—no command, just acknowledgment of Kieran’s authority.

Taron was already among the ranks, quiet and efficient, directing placements. Doss and her aides, predictably, lingered near the edge of camp.

Kieran took in the sight. Forty-six accounted for.

Dark fell quickly. Someone rekindled the central fire; light spread through the clearing, throwing long shapes against the trees.

By the time food was passed around—herbs, smoked meat, whatever rations had survived—the camp had settled into an uneasy calm. The wounded slept. The rest ate, trading quiet conversation.

Kieran took his portion, chewed once, and couldn’t taste it. He rose, food in hand, and crossed to the perimeter where boulders sat in uneven clusters. He chose one and sat. The stone was cold through the fabric of his pants. The fire burned low, the light dragging long, tired shadows across his face.

“You planning to brood yourself to death, or should I give you a hand?”

Taron’s voice came quiet, familiar.

He didn’t turn. “I’m fine.”

“You’ve said that before,” Taron said, coming to sit beside him. “Usually right before doing something that wasn’t.”

His mouth twitched. “You here to lecture me?”

“You need a good lecture.” Taron leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You almost executed him today.” His voice dropped. “Kier.”

Kieran’s head turned sharply. “Trying to lull me with a childhood nickname?”

Taron didn’t answer. They watched the fire for a moment, its glow painting both their faces in shifting red.

“Should’ve done it a long time ago,” Kieran said quietly.

Taron didn’t flinch. “I’ve seen you angry before, but never like that.”

“He deserves worse,” Kieran said. The words came low, rough.

“Maybe,” Taron said. “But don’t you want to make sure he suffers for a long time? You aren’t the only one he’s wronged. You’ve always been the line between justice and fury. Lately, I can’t tell which side you’re standing on.”

Kieran’s jaw worked. “I’m in control.”

“You’re lying to yourself,” Taron said. “Your rage and your logic—they’re at war. And the wrong one’s winning.”

Kieran let out a slow breath, barely audible. “You think I’ve lost it.”

“I think you’ve never come back from that battle.” Taron’s voice softened. “You’ve been wound too tight for too long. You bottled everything up.”

“Are you trying to say I’m no fun anymore?” Kieran’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Taron leaned back, studying him. “I was devastated when we lost him too, you know.”

Kieran closed his eyes.

Aldric Drake.

Those impossibly vivid green eyes were always what came first when the memories surfaced.

Sunlight bathing the palace training grounds. White stone walls glimmering in the heat, the air alive with the ring of steel on steel, flashes of augments.

Aldric was eleven then—already commanding attention, his footwork measured and sure. Even the instructors paused when he moved. Every strike carried intent; every breath followed the rhythm of purpose.

Kieran, six and too small for the cadet drills, had watched from behind a hedge of flowering shrubs, his own wooden sword clutched tight across his knees. He couldn’t look away. Aldric fought like someone who already belonged to the world everyone else only dreamed of entering.

Beside him, Taron—a nervous little lordling in spotless boots—kept whispering that they’d be caught. Kieran hadn’t cared. He remembered sunlight catching in Aldric’s hair, how his voice carried over the clatter of sparring, calm and confident, never boastful.

When Aldric finally noticed them, he didn’t scold. He just smiled, lowering his training blade and calling out, “You’ll learn faster if you stop hiding, little prince.”

The words had landed somewhere deep. The teasing had felt light, but the challenge behind it hadn’t. Kieran had stood before he even realized he was moving.

Aldric had laughed when Kieran tripped on his own swing, then helped him back up without mockery. “That’s how everyone starts,” he’d said. “Even the good ones.”

That moment rooted itself in him. Aldric had been everything his brothers weren’t—brave, driven, certain. They trained to impress the tutors, to polish their rank; Aldric trained to be better. Kieran had wanted that too—to be worthy of standing beside him, not above him.

Years passed. He followed Aldric through the ranks, step for step, long after court whispered that a prince shouldn’t stain his hands. Aldric’s laughter carried across the camps, bright even after sleepless nights. He never asked for loyalty, yet Kieran—and most who met him—gave it freely.

The memory shifted. Sunlight collapsed into a dark, muddy battlefield. Aldric’s green eyes—once so alive—were open, glazed over, unseeing. His body was heavy in Kieran’s arms, his armor torn and slick with blood. The warmth was gone.

Kieran had never forgotten the weight. Or how easy it was to pick up his sword again afterward and never set it down.

He’d climbed through blood and years after that—not as a prince, but as a soldier. Because Aldric deserved someone who would remember the fight.

Sometimes, in the split second before a strike landed, he still heard Aldric’s voice—calm, steady, telling him to breathe. Then the sound would fade, and there would only be silence.

The silence that followed dragged long between them. Only the crackle of fire filled it.

“I should’ve done more,” Taron said finally. “After Aldric. When you stopped sleeping. When you buried yourself in drills and orders. I thought if I just stayed close, it’d be enough.”

Kieran shook his head slightly. “It was.”

Taron gave a small, bitter laugh. “You don’t get to decide that, Kier. I watched you tear yourself apart. I let you. Should’ve stopped you before you turned into this.”

“You couldn’t have,” Kieran said. “You tried. I didn’t want to be stopped.”

Taron looked toward the fire, jaw tight. “No, you didn’t. You just wanted something to hit until it stopped hurting.”

Kieran didn’t deny it. The flames shifted, throwing long light across the stones. “Draegor was lying,” he said quietly.

Kieran’s jaw tightened. “About the weapon. About everything.”
He drew a slow breath, eyes fixed on the coals. “I kept watching for it—the lie, the twitch, the tell. But there was nothing. Nothing to catch.”
His voice thinned. “Either he’s learned to hide it better than anyone I’ve ever seen… or I’m slipping.”

Taron studied him for a long moment. The firelight caught the lines beneath his eyes, the wear carved deep. “You’re not slipping,” he said quietly. “You’re tired. You’re angry. This entire mission went to shit from the start—scattered the company across this dungeon.”
He hesitated, then added, “And maybe there wasn’t anything to see. Sometimes even the worst men don’t look the part.”

Kieran gave a faint, humorless sound. “Comforting thought.”

“It’s the truth,” Taron said. “And you’re still the man I’d follow through anything. Don’t start thinking you’ve lost what made you dangerous.”

Kieran looked up at him then—tired, but something steadier behind his eyes. “Dangerous isn’t what I’m worried about.”
He let the words hang a moment, then went darker. “If we cross Draegor before the Chamber… I won’t bother with tribunals. I’ll end him.”

Taron didn’t flinch. He simply met Kieran’s gaze. “Then we make sure you don’t have to decide that alone. We get to the Chamber. We get the people out. I’ll keep everyone alive; you keep your head. Deal?”

Kieran nodded once. “Deal.”

“Then try sleeping for once.”

“You first.”

“Fine,” Taron said, standing. “But if you start brooding again, I’m throwing water on you.”

“Wouldn’t dare.”

“Would,” Taron said, smiling as he turned away.

Kieran almost smiled back. Almost.

He watched the fire for a while longer as the camp settled—murmurs fading, armor shifting, a distant sigh from the watch. The silence pressed instead of soothed. When he finally lay down, the earth felt too cold, the quiet too loud. Sleep never came.

The coals had burned low, breathing dull orange light. A few guards kept their posts at the perimeter, armor catching faint glints whenever a log shifted. Beyond them, the forest pressed close—dark, vast, unnervingly still. No motes drifted through the dungeon sky like false constellations—only blackness, thick and absolute, making the world feel smaller.

Taron slept beside him, one arm draped loosely over his chest, his breaths slow and even.

Kieran should have been thinking about the next route, the wounded, the rations, contingency plans—but the moment he closed his eyes, the dark behind them shifted. Faces. Flashes. Sounds that wouldn’t settle.

Mason Draegor.

The name alone tightened his chest. Could anyone lie that cleanly? He saw it again: the nervous flush, the half-smile that never seemed sure of itself, the way his voice caught on certain words. Awkward. Hesitant. Almost… bashful. It had disarmed him before he even noticed.

He’d told himself it was discomfort—revulsion, even—but it hadn’t been. Not completely. There’d been moments, stupid moments, when the man’s fumbling had almost made him laugh. When the great Mason Draegor, the architect of everything that had gone wrong, looked less like a monster and more like some idiot trying to say the right thing.

Could anyone fake that?

He turned onto his side, pressing a palm against his eyes until color sparked behind the lids. Maybe that was the trick. Every stammer, every glance—measured, calculated. A perfect imitation of uncertainty.

Still, it had felt real.

He hated that most of all.

The memory crawled beneath his skin: the warmth, the unease, the instant before he’d started to believe the spy’s words—He isn’t the same man. And he had believed, if only for a breath. Just long enough to hesitate. Then the Droswains had confirmed it—all of it. The deception. The manipulation. The act.

He dragged a hand over his face. It wasn’t affection. It was control. Every twitch, every look—designed. Yet it lingered as something he couldn’t scrub clean.

The wind shifted through the trees, stirring the ashes in the pit. A guard passed close by, nodded silently, and kept moving. Kieran didn’t return the gesture. He stayed still, listening to the faint movements of men trying to rest and a world that refused to.

He rolled onto his side, the weight of his sword a familiar pressure against his hip.

Enough.

The dark above him didn’t answer.
It never did.

When the false dungeon dawn came, it broke pale and brittle—light without warmth, imitation sky.

Kieran was already awake. He hadn’t slept much—just enough to blunt the ache behind his eyes into something he could carry. A mercenary had coaxed the fire back to life and was turning strips of meat over the flame, the smell faint and metallic.

They ate. The camp worked itself into motion: rations counted, straps tightened, a low murmur of tired voices saying nothing they needed to remember.

Taron moved the way he always did before a march—quiet, efficient, steady. Checking gear. Checking faces. Making sure no one was too broken to keep going.

Rhea and Greta emerged from the trees, cloaks beaded with moisture. “The route’s clear,” Greta reported, brushing her sleeve.

Efficient.

Kieran nodded once. “That’s good news.”

Near the rear, Doss murmured to her aides in that clipped, theatrical tone she favored. Ronan spoke once for every ten gestures, his men moving like they’d all learned the same song. The column formed without argument.

Taron fell in beside Kieran as they started down the path, the air damp and still. The march almost felt normal. Almost.

The illusion didn’t last.

By midmorning, the trees began to thin, and the ground sloped into broken growth. Kieran lifted a hand. The column settled. Rhea and Greta slipped forward—shadows peeling away from shadow.

Taron came up beside him. “Droswains?”

“Yes,” Kieran said. “Been on us since we left the camp.”

“What’re your orders?”

Kieran thought for a moment. “We do nothing. They know we know they’re there. Let’s both choose to do nothing for now.”

“Conserve our strength?”

“That, and I want to get out of here as quickly as possible. We all know the dungeon’s not right.”

“True.”

“Keep pace steady,” he ordered. “Stay vigilant.”

They moved.

The first descent traded trees for swamp, swamp for bioluminescent caverns. Monsters came in singles and pairs—stragglers peeled loose from migrations they couldn’t see—and the group cut them down quickly, almost politely, before the quiet closed again. The scouts’ reports helped.

By the third descent, the air itself had changed. The stink of swamp gave way to a sharp, mineral tang. The walls began to hum faintly, as if the stone carried current. They passed through a grove where the trunks had hardened into crystal and the leaves had burned to ash along their edges. Droswain shadows lingered at the edges but never struck—keeping pace, patient as wolves. No one spoke. Breath was for marching.

Then—sound.

Faint at first, muffled by distance, but unmistakable: steel meeting something that didn’t want to yield.

Kieran raised a hand. The column folded to a halt. Scouts vanished into the dark. Moments later, Greta’s signal blinked back—clear path, contact ahead.

They advanced. The passage widened into a fracture of light and stone. Augments flared—amber and violet—bright enough to cut their own shadows.

“Form on me,” Kieran ordered.
The front ranks surged forward with practiced precision. Blades flared, cutting through the last wave before the enemy could regroup. A final body hit the ground, and the air went still.

Commander Maris Kell stood braced at the center, blood smeared across her sleeve and a grin like a dare. “Field Marshal,” she called, relief breaking across her face. “Perfect timing.”

“You’re late,” Kieran said, and didn’t let the corner of his mouth move more than it had to.

“My apologies.” She smiled, sharp but genuine.

Her squad numbered eleven. Two more stragglers joined in the next biome—men with that hollow, stunned posture of soldiers who had finally found structure again.

They made camp on the next landing—an open ledge of stone where water ran thinly down the wall. The light here never changed, a dull silver that passed for dusk. By Kieran’s count, it was the end of their third day. They’d been making better time than any of them expected.

The march carried them deeper still—roots surrendering to grass, grass to polished stone that pulsed faintly with its own life. Rhea shifted their route twice an hour. Greta stopped marking altogether. The dungeon was smearing its own map.

“Not that I’m complaining,” Taron said quietly. “Isn’t it odd there aren’t more monsters?”

“Everything about this is odd,” Commander Kell replied.

“I’ve had enough of monsters for one trip,” someone muttered from the rear.

“Agreed,” came the weary chorus that followed.

They found Nyx on the fourth descent, kneeling beside a wounded man. Sera stood guard over her shoulder, blade naked and still.

Ronan reached them first, grin sharp. “Witch. You experimenting with battlefield medicine now?”

It drew a few tired smiles. Kieran’s wasn’t one of them.

Nyx didn’t look up. “Brute. I can at least provide first aid. Though it’s a shame Alia isn’t here—she has the better bedside manner.”

“I haven’t seen her,” Ronan said.

A faint shimmer caught Kieran’s attention—coming from the pack at Nyx’s side.

It shifted. Once. Then again.

Nyx sighed, flipped back the flap, and murmured something under her breath.

The Moonveil stag blinked up at her, small enough to fit between her palms, silver light pulsing unsteadily under its skin.

Kieran’s jaw locked on reflex. Dane. That damn spy hadn’t lied about the stag after all.
And yet—something in its glow was wrong. The rhythm of its pulse lagged, light stuttering like a heartbeat losing pace.

Nyx stroked a finger down its neck. “Easy. You’re fine,” she murmured, though her eyes said otherwise.

When she finally looked at him, her expression closed neatly, like a book being shut.

Kieran’s voice matched it. “We have unfinished business.”

“Do we,” she said—flat, not a question.

“At the auction,” Kieran said. “You threw a mind-spell at me.”

“Ah.” She inclined her head, posture almost courtly. “My apologies, Field Marshal. It was necessary at the time.”

“There was no good reason for that,” he said, and let the flatness rest where a threat might have gone. “I could bring you up on charges.”

“You could,” Nyx said. Behind her, the stag shifted again, and the lattice of light across the dirt broke and remade itself.

Kieran’s attention flicked back to the creature. “Is it well?”

Nyx’s gaze slid past Kieran toward Doss, then back. “It will be,” she said—which meant no.

Kieran followed her look. Doss was watching them over the top edge of her ledger, expression neat as a surgical instrument.

Reacting to her. Not surprising.

They moved again after a brief halt. Their greater numbers only slowed them slightly.
The next few descents blurred together—stone giving way to root, then to glass, then back again. Twice, Rhea and Greta returned with conflicting reports because the same floor had split into different biomes depending on where you stepped. Creatures from deeper zones clawed out of walls that had been harmless the day before.

By the time they regrouped, both scouts looked grim.

Rhea’s voice went flat. “Breaking into a Nightmare biome, sir. This shouldn’t be possible.”

Greta nodded. “The biome we’re in now should have an exit to the next level, not… this.”

“The Nightmare Realm?” Taron asked, disbelieving.

Kieran’s jaw tightened. “We hold here. No one moves blind. You two—find that exit. We’re not crossing the Nightmare Realm if we can help it.”

“Could anyone even survive in there?” someone murmured.

“Not even Draegor ever entered that biome,” Ronan said—then looked like he wanted to take the name back the second it left his mouth.

Kieran’s glare shut down the rest of that thought.

They waited. Some sat to rest, rationing what food they had left. The air hummed faintly, carrying the echo of something vast moving far below.

Nearly three hours passed before the scouts returned at a jog, shadows long in the pulsing light.

“Contact ahead,” Rhea reported.

Kieran rose. “Monsters?”

“Human,” she said. “Six of them.”
She glanced toward Greta, hesitating.

Kieran’s tone sharpened. “What is it. Speak.”

Rhea snapped her attention back to him. “Apologies, Field Marshal. I’ve never seen people who look like them—their features, their language. I couldn’t understand a word they said.”

Greta added, “Their clothes are strange. Shiny shoes. Dressy attire.”

Taron exhaled once, softly. “In a dungeon?”

“You’re sure they’re human?” Kieran asked.

Both women nodded.

“Did you locate the exit?”

“I believe I did, sir,” Greta said, pointing. “Northern heading.”

Kieran considered. “Are the people you saw in danger?”

“No.”

He hesitated. I’m curious. “How far?”

“They’re headed this way,” Rhea said, pointing behind her past tall brush and a few trees. “You’ll run right into them if you head west.”

Kieran’s jaw tightened. “Commander Kell.”

“Yes, Field Marshal?”

“I want you to take thirty-five with you—head for the northern exit.”

Kell’s brows rose. “How are we splitting?”

“Take most of your Calvesset contingent,” Kieran said. “Ronan and the mercenaries go with you.”
He turned. “Greta, you’ll lead them. Rhea—stay with me.”

Hate to keep Doss with me. Damn protocol.

The two groups separated, the last sound of Kell’s column faded through brush. Twenty-seven remained with him.

True to Rhea’s word, six figures were walking toward them with little urgency.

The one in front smiled—bright teeth, calm, poised, no fear.

Kieran stopped.

For a split second, the first thought that crossed his mind was pretty—dark hair, eyes too bright in the gloom, a beautiful smile. A lean, toned body with sun-touched skin that looked like it had never seen battle.

He crushed the thought. What the hell is wrong with me.

Kieran didn’t lower his sword. “Identify yourselves.”

The man stepped forward a half-pace, hands lifted in an open gesture—unbothered by all the metal pointed his way. “My, my. What a welcome party.”

The air around him felt almost familiar—but wrong in ways Kieran couldn’t name.

And his cadence—the vowels slipped like water over stone; the consonants clicked into place. Not foreign, but not right either. The rhythm of the words made something in Kieran’s chest pull tight. He couldn’t have said why.

“Hello,” the man said—smooth, measured, almost pleasant. “I’m Kim Min-Jun.” He gave a small, unhurried bow.

Kee-min-jun? What kind of name is that?

“Who are you with?”

“Easy now.” The man’s smile deepened, irritatingly at ease. “We’re not enemies.” He tilted his head, almost amused. “A research division. We’ve been down here for months—studying the dungeon’s structural anomalies.”

Months? Lies.

Kieran didn’t blink. “Where.”

The man tipped his head. “Around. Hard to pin down geography, the way it shifts.”

His companions murmured among themselves in a language Kieran didn’t recognize—smooth vowels, sharp edges. Their clothes should have been filthy. They weren’t. No scuffs, no bruises, no blood. He couldn’t even see any weapons. The air around them felt empty… no mana? Voids. All five of them?

How odd.

Taron eased up beside him, eyes never leaving the group. “This is one of the most bizarre encounters I’ve ever had in a dungeon. No—most ever.”

“Agreed.”

What do I do with them?

Taron’s voice dropped, pitched for him alone. “Orders?”

Before Kieran could choose between threat and demand, the floor answered for him.

A low rumble rolled beneath their boots. The walls took the sound and carried it down their length like a warning.

Everyone froze.

The second tremor came closer—then stopped abruptly.

“Taron.” Kieran scanned the walls. “Does that sound like a fight to you?”

“Definitely not a quake. There’s a rhythm to it.”

“From the Nightmare Realm?”

Another concussive boom hit, deeper this time. The walls reverberated, dust shivering loose from the ceiling. Every head turned toward the sound.

Taron’s jaw tightened. “Sir… you’re not actually thinking of going toward the sound, are you?”

“Could be some of our company. They may need help.”

“What happened to ‘no going into the Nightmare Realm’?”

Kieran turned, ignoring him. “You fifteen—stay here and watch them.” His gaze landed on the man who unsettled him most.

The stranger spoke up. “That won’t be necessary. I have no intention of going that way.”

He even smirked when he said it.

Kieran’s voice cut sharp. “Watch them.”

“Yes, Field Marshal.”

He gave one last look at the man—at the immaculate clothes, the wrong kind of calm. The stranger met his eyes and winked.

It made him shudder. What the…

His hand flexed around his weapon. “The rest, with me.”

A narrow opening appeared ahead—air stagnant, thick with heat. The biome spilled them into a canyon that looked carved by fury itself. The sky above was blood-red, shifting like liquid through a wound.

Rhea gave a short, nervous laugh. “That’s… terrifying.”

Taron hissed through his teeth. “Just want to say, for the record, I do not support this, sir.”

“Noted,” Kieran said, without slowing.

Rhea took point, signaling her team forward. No monsters—not yet. Only the echo of a grand battle happening somewhere out of sight.

“Rhea,” Kieran called. “Get us to higher ground.”

“Yes, sir.”

They followed her lead along a narrow rise of stone, climbing where the canyon wall allowed. The rock offered enough handholds to pull themselves up—rough, uneven, but solid. Every movement stirred loose grit, the sound lost beneath the distant thunder of impacts.

Everyone made it to the top—a jagged wedge that cut along the canyon’s edge and opened into a view of the valley below. Breath misted in the heated air. The sight stopped them cold.

Taron gave a low whistle. “Was not expecting this.”

The scene below looked apocalyptic. The valley floor crawled with thousands of monsters, their bodies glinting in shifting light. Some were enormous—misshapen, towering things that looked stitched together from nightmares.

In the middle, though, something loomed just a little larger than the rest.

Kieran blinked. That looks familiar.

The sound that came out of the thing wasn’t a voice. It was a vibration that picked bone. And through it—cutting ridiculous and clear—came a smaller one, pitched human and utterly inappropriate:

“GANGSTER!”

The word ricocheted off the cliffs.

It can’t be.

Taron’s voice cracked in disbelief. “Did that thing just talk?”

No one answered. They were all looking at him now—the man standing on the creature’s back like balance was a suggestion, hair blown wild, eyes bright as fresh metal. Rage and joy warred across his face in quicksilver flashes. Magic poured off him in strips and arcs, unrefined, relentless.

No.

Kieran knew the shape of that body. The set of those shoulders. The idiotic, fearless way he planted his feet.

…Mason Draegor.

The longer he watched, the more inevitable it felt. That chaotic energy. That refusal to obey anything, even gravity. The man turned his head at the same instant Kieran thought, Found you.

He looked straight at them.

And smiled.

Not the cold, precise smile Kieran had learned to expect. Something open. Pleased. Almost happy to see them.

Then the idiot waved.

Actually waved.

Taron made a strangled sound that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t been dying. “Is he—he’s not—”

Kieran didn’t answer.

This man. The one he’d traveled with for only a day. No wonder I started to believe he was someone else.

He couldn’t look away long enough to build a sentence. Anger slid back into its groove with obscene ease—because of course this would end in spectacle, because of course it would be public, because of course the man who cut nations would be capable of waving from the back of a glowing nightmare monstrosity.

And yet the movements were wrong. Not cruel. Not measured. Not the man Kieran had built in his head to kill.

Don’t start this again. He pinned the thought until it stopped struggling.

Another wave of light smashed the cliff. Kieran threw an arm across his eyes. When the glare faded and he looked back, Draegor was still there—perched, yelling something he couldn’t hear over the thunder and the tearing of the world.

He looked to be enjoying himself. This ridiculous, crazy idiot.

The smallest corner of Kieran’s mouth twitched against his will.

“Is he mocking me?” he muttered.