Into the Maw of Shadows

The gate screamed as it opened, an unholy sound like bone scraping against stone, dragging a chill through the ranks of hardened warriors that not even their thick armor could block. Magnus stood at the threshold, jaw clenched, eyes locked on the black void that now yawned before them. No one spoke. The Citadel didn't welcome them—it swallowed them, one slow inch at a time. And they marched in, blades drawn, boots hitting the ground like war drums echoing into an abyss that had not known light or mercy in a hundred years. The moment the last man crossed the gate, it slammed shut behind them with a finality that tasted like a curse.

The silence inside was not silence at all. It was layered with whispers no ears could hear clearly, yet all minds could feel. The walls bled symbols no man had ever carved—glyphs that pulsed as though alive, glowing faintly red, then blue, then black. Magnus's sword twitched in his grip, as if it too sensed the wrongness. He turned slowly, scanning the massive stone corridor. The ceiling curved overhead like a ribcage, the walls slick with moisture—or blood. Every inch of him stayed on edge. The air was heavy, thicker than outside, clinging to his skin like breath from the dead. A lesser man would have turned. But Magnus was bred for war. He pressed forward.

Behind him, Korr raised his axe with both hands, muttering an old war prayer in his guttural homeland tongue, the words rough like gravel in the throat. To their left, the scout they called Veyne crouched low, eyes scanning the darkness like a predator hunting a more dangerous predator. "Movement," he hissed. "Right flank. Something... crawling."

Magnus didn't hesitate. He didn't bark an order—he simply shifted, angling his blade and stepping forward into the unknown, trusting his men to fall in line. They did. They always did. The Brotherhood of Flame was more than soldiers—they were instruments of wrath. And the Citadel would feel them before this was done.

Something slithered across the corridor wall—too fast to see, too silent to trace. Then it struck. Not one, but many. Shadows burst from the walls like smoke turned solid, creatures of nightmare, long limbs and eyeless faces, screeching not from mouths but from the air around them. The first went for a young warrior named Tarek. It pierced through his chest like smoke wrapping a blade, and he crumpled, screaming as his flesh aged and rotted in seconds, pulled into a twisted husk.

Korr roared and split the thing with his axe, but it didn't bleed—it howled, a deafening cry that melted stone around its severed half before it dissipated into black ash. Magnus lunged into the center, cutting down two more with brutal efficiency, his blade glowing faintly silver now, a reaction to the cursed energies in this place. He didn't stop moving. He couldn't afford to. The Citadel tested every breath, every strike, every ounce of will. And already, they had lost one.

They pushed forward, deeper into the corridor, stepping over the remains of Tarek and the black smear left by the dead things. Every footstep echoed wrong. The corridor narrowed, and the air turned colder. The walls now bore faces—etched in stone, or trapped in it, no one knew. They watched. Weeping, screaming, grinning. Faces of men who had entered this place long before them and never left. One looked like Magnus's father. He said nothing. He didn't flinch. But his grip tightened.

"Sir," Veyne rasped. "Something ahead."

Magnus raised his fist. The company stopped, instantly silent. What loomed before them wasn't another corridor. It was a massive chamber, circular and wide, lit by fireless flame that danced in midair like ghostlight. In the center stood a throne. Bone. Flesh. Metal. Fused into a structure that breathed. And seated upon it was something—someone—not dead, not alive, wrapped in chains of rusted steel and barbed vines, its mouth sewn shut, its eyes sealed by molten wax. It didn't move. But it watched.

The silence returned, deeper than before, pregnant with violence. Magnus didn't speak. He stepped forward. The air fought him with every inch, thick with power and madness. He didn't care. He had faced tyrants. He had crushed gods in battle. And he would not kneel before whatever horror dared to sit upon that throne.

Magnus took another step forward, boots scraping against the cracked stone floor. The thing on the throne didn't move, but the room seemed to pulse with its awareness—like the heartbeat of a god buried alive. The flame-less light dimmed, flickering as if struggling to stay lit in the presence of what was watching them. The chains binding the creature groaned, not from movement but from tension, as if they strained against an ancient force held barely in check. The men behind Magnus shifted nervously, their armor creaking. No one breathed too loud. No one dared.

Then it spoke—not with its mouth, for that was sewn shut with twisted strands of hair and wire—but with a voice that pressed into their minds like a dagger sliding through silk. "You come armed. Proud. Blind," it said, every syllable layered with sorrow, hate, and something older than time. "You do not know what you awaken."

Magnus didn't blink. "Then tell me."

A sound like laughter came—not from the being, but from the very walls, the faces in the stone grinning wider, their mouths opening to laugh in silent agony. The throne groaned. The air grew heavier. The chains rattled, and small sparks of black fire danced between the links. One of the younger warriors, Darrek, took a step back. A mistake.

The chained figure tilted its head slightly, and the shadows obeyed.

A scream echoed across the chamber as Darrek was lifted from the floor, his armor bending inwards, bones cracking, flesh unraveling as if some invisible hand flayed him from the inside. His sword clattered uselessly to the ground before his body exploded in a cloud of dark mist, leaving only blood-slicked boots.

Magnus didn't flinch. But the fury in his chest surged.

"Enough," he said, his voice like steel drawn from ice. He raised his blade, and the silver glow intensified, flaring like a beacon in the dark. "Speak your warning—or be silenced forever."

The chained figure trembled, and the stone beneath it cracked in a perfect circle. "You cannot silence what is already forgotten," it rasped through their minds. "But I will show you. Because you are marked. You bear the stain of the First Flame. You—Magnus Varik—are cursed."

At the mention of his full name, the chamber pulsed again, and a distant scream echoed through the stone—a scream that came not from this plane, but from memory. Magnus gritted his teeth. "You know nothing about me."

"I know your blood," it replied, voice now deeper, colder, the vines around its mouth twitching. "Your father's betrayal. The blade you carry—it is not yours. It is stolen from the pyres of gods who burned for mankind. And it drinks more than blood."

Magnus felt the weight of his sword intensify. The blade hummed, its glow flickering—not in fear, but hunger. The room trembled again. The chains holding the being snapped—not all of them, just two, and that was enough. The creature stood, slowly, its form shifting as it moved. No longer just a man or beast, it became something between—a massive figure with stretched limbs, burning veins, and a face that split into three mouths, none of them meant for prayer. Its wax-covered eyes bled, and as the first drop hit the ground, the entire floor began to rot.

Korr rushed forward, howling with rage, his axe raised high. The thing caught him mid-strike. Not with claws, but with sound. A screech rang through the chamber, like the world itself being torn, and Korr dropped to his knees, blood pouring from his ears, his eyes, his mouth. But even then, he swung. He was Flameborn. He was loyal. And the axe bit deep into the creature's side.

It roared—not in pain, but pleasure. As if the wound only made it more real.

Magnus moved then—fast, brutal, pure. He drove his blade through the creature's chest, the silver flash erupting in a violent storm of light that scorched the ground. The beast staggered. The flames reacted. The throne behind it shattered. The chains pulled tight, dragging at it again—but it resisted.

"I REMEMBER THE OLD WAR," the thing shrieked, its voice now shaking the very walls. "AND YOU, MAGNUS VARIK, WILL BRING IT BACK."

Magnus twisted the blade, shouting a word in the dead language of the Oathbound, and fire exploded from his sword, engulfing the beast.

When the smoke cleared, the creature was gone. The chains lay broken. The throne ruined

But something had been unleashed.

Magnus turned slowly, blood on his face, eyes blazing. "Get the scouts ready. The Citadel just woke up. And it knows our names."