Chapter 15: The Great Deception

The throne room shook with the echoes of battle. Beyond the shattered doors, the last defenders of the Spire fought a losing war, their cries lost beneath the endless howls of the Wraithborns. But here, within the marble chamber of the Council, there was only Reven—and Kieran.

The two warriors clashed.

Kieran's blade met the Wraith King's in a shower of sparks. Reven's massive sword, chipped and blackened with age, bore down with the weight of a thousand battles. Kieran barely deflected the blow, his boots skidding across the blood-slicked floor.

Reven did not speak. He did not need to. His strikes were his voice, his fury carved into every brutal swing. Kieran could feel it—the centuries of betrayal, the pain that had festered beyond the storm. But...

Reven wasn't trying to kill him.

He was testing him.

A feint, a sudden twist—Kieran saw an opening and took it, his blade slicing through Reven's side. Dark ichor dripped from the wound. But Reven only chuckled, the sound like grinding stone.

"You fight well," the Wraith King said. "But your true enemy is not me."

Kieran panted, gripping his sword tighter. "Then where are they?"

Reven gestured toward the Council's empty thrones. "Gone. But their sins remain buried beneath your feet."

Kieran hesitated. Reven was a monster, a warlord, a destroyer of the Spire. And yet… he was speaking the truth.

The throne room was too quiet. Too empty and too clean.

Something didn't add up.

Rhea burst into the chamber, blood streaked across her armor. "Kieran, we need to—" She stopped short at the sight of Reven, her sword raising instinctively.

But Kieran wasn't looking at Reven anymore. His eyes were locked on the Council's throne—a towering construct of black iron and silver, untouched by the carnage around it.

He had spent his entire life looking up at it. Now, he needed to look beneath it.

"Elias," Kieran said, his voice steady, "the vaults. How do we get inside?"

Elias, limping from battle, pressed a hand against his ribs. "They're sealed. No doors, no locks. The Council never wanted anyone inside."

"Then how did they enter?"

Elias hesitated—then cursed under his breath. His eyes flicked to the throne.

"They didn't go through a door."

Rhea helped Elias toward the throne as Kieran and Reven followed. Together, they ran their hands over the carved ironwork, searching. The surface was smooth—until Kieran's fingers brushed across something strange. A thin groove, almost invisible against the metal.

A mechanism.

Kieran pressed it.

With a deep clang, the floor beneath the throne shifted. Dust rained from the ceiling as the entire structure trembled. The great iron chair, once immovable, began to descend, sinking into the floor like a stone swallowed by water.

A hidden passage revealed itself beneath—a spiral stairway leading into the depths of the Spire.

Elias exhaled sharply. "I knew the Council was hiding something, but… gods."

Reven's expression was grim. "The past does not stay buried forever."

Kieran stepped forward. "Only one way to find out."

And with that, they descended into the dark.

The stairwell spiraled downward into darkness, its walls carved from smooth, cold stone. There were no torches, no runes of light—only the glow of Elias's lantern.

Reven walked at the rear, his hulking frame barely fitting within the passage, his sword dragging against the stone in a slow, deliberate rasp. Despite the years that had turned him into something more wraith than man, he still moved like a soldier, his presence looming like a specter over them all.

Rhea touched Kieran's arm as they descended. "Are we sure we want to know what's down here?"

Kieran didn't answer. They didn't have a choice.

At last, the stairwell opened into a vast underground chamber—a cathedral buried beneath the Spire.

The ceiling arched high above them, lined with intricate carvings of celestial figures, their faces smooth and featureless. Dozens of metal tables lined the center of the chamber, arranged in a precise pattern, each one filled with shattered glass tubes, broken restraints, and the remnants of strange, rusting machines. Some were still attached to bodies—or what was left of them.

Elias inhaled sharply. "Storm take us."

Kieran walked forward slowly, his boots crunching over shards of old equipment. The chamber smelled of chemicals, of rust, of something burned long ago.

Rhea knelt beside one of the metal tables, brushing dust away from the emblem engraved on its surface. A symbol Kieran knew well.

The sigil of the Council.

"This was a laboratory," she said grimly. "One they never wanted found."

Reven stepped past them, his gaze scanning the wreckage. His voice was quiet, distant. "Not a laboratory."

Kieran turned to him. "Then what?"

Reven's blackened fingers traced the edge of a shattered glass tube, his expression unreadable. Then, he spoke the words that would haunt Kieran forever.

"A cradle."

Kieran's stomach twisted. "You mean—"

"They weren't studying the Wraithborn," Reven said, his voice a low growl. "They were making them."

Elias cursed under his breath. "That's not possible."

Kieran shook his head. "It is. And it explains everything." His voice was tight, his mind working through the implications. "The Wraithborns weren't some distant nightmare from beyond the storm. They started here. In the Spire."

Rhea stood abruptly, her hands clenched. "That means—"

"They were people."

The words settled between them.

Reven exhaled slowly. "We were soldiers once. Stormguard. They told us we were chosen, that we would be given power beyond mortality. But the truth…" His hand balled into a fist. "The truth is that we were never meant to survive."

Kieran swallowed hard. The Wraithborns weren't monsters born of the storm.

They were failed experiments.

The Council had tried to create something stronger than men, beings forged from the energy of the storm itself. But when the process failed—when the test subjects twisted into something uncontrollable—they were cast out, sealed beyond the stormwall. Forgotten.

"So they built the storm to cover their mistake."

"And when it began to falter," Reven said, his voice dark, "they sought to wipe the slate clean."

Kieran turned sharply to Reven. "What do you mean?"

"You think the Council didn't plan for this? That they didn't know this day would come?" His gaze swept the ruined laboratory. "They will not let this truth be known. They will burn the Spire before they let their secrets escape."

Rhea looked at Elias, dread creeping into her voice. "Is that possible?"

Elias hesitated. Then, grimly, he nodded. "There are old contingency plans. Cataclysm-grade failsafes buried in the city's foundations. If the Council activates them…"

He didn't need to finish the sentence.

Kieran's breath came shallow. The Council wasn't going to fight for control of the Spire.

No more survivors. No more rebellion. No more truth.

Elias stepped forward, gripping Kieran's shoulder. "We have to stop them. Now."

Kieran set his jaw, his fingers tightening around his blade.

They had come looking for the truth. Now, they had to stop it from being buried forever.

"Then we find them," Kieran said.

He turned back toward the stairwell.

The Council thought they were gods.

It was time to prove them wrong.

The ascent from the Council's hidden laboratory was a march toward reckoning. Kieran's mind raced, Every step echoed with the realization—the Wraithborns were not an enemy from beyond the storm. They were victims. Created. Abandoned. Hunted.

And now, the Council would do the same to the Spire.

At the top of the stairwell, Rhea pressed her back against the cold stone, peering cautiously into the corridor beyond. "It's clear," she whispered.

Elias exhaled, shaking his head. "For now."

The Spire trembled beneath them—a distant, shuddering groan, as if the city itself was awakening to its impending destruction. The failsafe mechanisms were already stirring.

They needed to move. Fast.

They reached the great marble doors of the Throne Room, only to find them slightly ajar. The vast chamber beyond was silent, bathed in torchlight.

Kieran strode inside, blade drawn. Reven followed at his back, the massive warrior moving like a shadow of vengeance.

Then he saw them.

At the far end of the chamber, the Council stood waiting.

Five figures in their elaborate robes of gold and crimson. Five rulers of the Spire—the architects of everything.

Chancellor Varic stood in the center, his sharp features impassive, his silver hair pristine despite the carnage raging outside. To his right, Lady Anara, her emerald eyes cold. To his left, Magister Orlen, fingers twitching at his sides.

Cowards. Every last one of them.

Kieran took a slow step forward, voice dark. "You knew this was coming. You knew what would happen when the storm fell."

Varic's lips curled into something between amusement and disdain. "Of course we did."

"You made them. The Wraithborns. Then you cast them out. And now, to cover your crimes, you'd rather burn the Spire than let the truth be known."

Varic sighed, as if speaking to a naive child. "We did what was necessary. What we have always done. The Spire exists because we keep it standing. We rule because we must. There is no room for weakness. No room for mercy."

Elias stiffened beside Kieran. "Mercy?" His voice was low, seething. "You turned soldiers into monsters. Then you turned your people into sacrifices."

Anara arched a brow. "And yet, here you stand, alive. Because of us."

Rhea let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Because of you? We've been fighting for our lives while you slithered back here to protect yourselves."

Varic exhaled, clearly growing tired of the conversation. He gestured lazily to the guards stationed along the throne room's edge. Dozens of them. Heavily armored. Swords drawn.

"You are outnumbered," Varic said simply. "Lay down your weapons, and I may yet grant you mercy."

Kieran let out a slow breath. The rage inside him burned cold now—focused, sharpened.

He looked at Elias, then Rhea. Neither moved. They would stand with him.

Then he turned to Reven. The Wraith King's fists were clenched at his sides, his blackened armor gleaming in the torchlight.

A slow, cruel smile spread across Reven's scarred face.

"I have seen your mercy," he murmured. His voice was deep, lethal. "I have suffered it."

Reven stepped forward, every movement deliberate, and the Council flinched. Even Varic.

"You stole our bodies. You twisted our souls. And when we became something you could no longer control, you threw us away." Reven's voice was almost gentle now. "Tell me, Chancellor—does it feel the same now, knowing your time is up?"

Varic straightened, his jaw tightening. And then he spoke the words that sealed his fate.

"Do you think I fear you?"

Reven's smile vanished.

Varic turned to the nearest guards. "Kill them."