The chamber deep beneath the Black Sun citadel pulsed with torchlight and murmuring shadows.

  The walls were etched with obsidian runes that glimmered faintly, as though alive. Smoke from braziers coiled in sluggish spirals, carrying the acrid bite of incense and burnt herbs.

  At the head of the blackstone table sat Maltheris, the Shadowborn Shardkeeper—tall, gaunt, eyes like pits that swallowed light. Shadows curled lazily at his boots, restless serpents of darkness.

  To his right stood Renore, silent as ever, the leader’s second?in?command, hands clasped behind his back like a patient predator.

  Opposite them lounged Serenya, the Echoframe Shardkeeper. Her gown of pale silk shimmered in the low light, her posture a feline mix of ease and threat. Her smile was sharp enough to cut. Phantom afterimages of her fingers idly played with a silver ring, as though even her smallest gesture echoed.

  Beside her loomed Vorrik, the Stoneheart Shardkeeper—broad as a fortress, skin marked with veins of dull crystal, arms folded. He didn’t speak often, but the deep grind of shifting rock sometimes emanated from his armored shoulders.

  The air hummed with tension.

  Maltheris leaned forward, voice low and cold.

  “The boy with the stormweaver shard grows more dangerous by the day. His power already rivals his father’s early strength. We cannot let the Dawnbreakers foster him any longer.”

  Vorrik grunted, gravel in his throat.

  “Then we move on them now. Crush what’s left.”

  Renore spoke softly, tone measured.

  “The Dawnbreakers still scatter, but their commander—Caelum—isn’t careless. A direct assault will cost us more men than we can spare.”

  Maltheris: his fingers steeple, shadows flicking

  “Which is why we will not strike directly. We will hire those who can.”

  Serenya laughed, the sound like glass chiming.

  “Oh… you mean them, don’t you?” Her smile widened.

  “The little independent band with their precious toys.”

  Vorrik’s brow furrowed. “You trust outsiders?”

  > [Lore Note – Auren]

  Auren—a rare mineral unearthed only fifty years ago—thrums with primordial energy. Yet its promise was never turned to healing or prosperity. Instead, demand drove innovation toward weapons and war.

  Blades etched with auren runes can pierce even a Branded’s defenses.

  Rifles fire storms bottled in crystal cartridges.

  Bombs twist space itself or ignite with unearthly flame.

  Scrolls whisper words across vast distances, binding armies in instant command.

  Every kingdom hoards its arsenal, locking away engineers as jealously as kings guard their crowns—for a single breakthrough in auren craft can turn the tide of battle in seconds.

  Independent manufacture is all but unheard of… save for one ruthless band of mercenaries: the Black Jackals.

  A flicker of irritation crossed Maltheris’s eyes.

  “They hold the monopoly on black market aurenic arms, crafted in secret by their own engineer. Even the northern kingdoms turn to them when opportunity allows. And unlike those kingdoms… the Black Jackals demand no loyalty, no oath—only coin.”

  Serenya tilted her head, toying with her ring.

  “Such loyalty. Such… ingenuity. Imagine the traps we could weave with their gadgets.”

  Vorrik rumbled, “Aurenic bombs… snares… hm. Effective.”

  Renore’s voice cut through.

  “They’ll get us results. I’ve seen their work firsthand.”

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  Maltheris’s dark gaze swept over them.

  “Then it is decided. We will hire the Black Jackals. They will bring That boy’s shard to us.”

  Serenya rose, a smirk curling on her lips.

  “You’re awfully fond of this boy, Maltheris. Tell me… is it pride? Or fear?”

  Shadows writhed around Maltheris like agitated snakes. His hand flicked—

  and a blade of pure darkness screamed across the chamber.

  THUNK!

  It buried itself in Serenya’s throat—

  —only for her form to waver like smoke and scatter into nothing.

  Her true self stepped from the far corner, slow claps echoing, eyes alight with amusement.

  “Temper, temper, Maltheris,” she purred. “Try not to lose your composure.”

  “Enough. This can wait,” Torrik said, slamming his fist against the table.

  The Stoneheart’s fists clenched, stone grinding softly, but he held his tongue. Renore’s lips curved faintly, entertained by the spectacle.

  Maltheris simply growled, low and dangerous, and turned his gaze back to the map spread on the table.

  “Renore. See to Rekto. If he fails again—”

  Renore: bows slightly, a predator’s calm in his tone

  “He won’t. He is already stronger than the low ranks, my lord. Give him time… and he’ll be worth far more.”

  Maltheris’s glare lingered, then softened into a thin, cruel smile.

  “Very well. See that your faith is not wasted.

  The torches guttered, shadows dancing across the chamber walls as their scheme took shape. Whisper by whisper, the conspirators wove a plan: to unleash a mercenary company armed with forbidden aurenic weapons, their sole purpose to wrest the stormweaver shard from Kaelen’s grasp.

  What fate awaits the boy—and the companions who stand at his side—when blades, storms, and treachery are turned against them?

  Dawnlight slanted through the shattered walls of the outpost, catching the drifting dust and smoke. The scent of burnt timber mingled with blood and the acrid sting of treated wounds. All around, Dawnbreakers worked in grim silence, clearing rubble, tending to the injured, dragging bodies out from the wreckage.

  Kaelen sat on a broken beam, watching with tired eyes, his hands wrapped and bleeding. Nearby, Lysera hauled stones aside with quick, practiced motions, her face pale under streaks of grime.

  At the heart of the courtyard, Caelum stood like an unmoving pillar as Verona and Luka approached with reports.

  Verona: saluting, voice hoarse

  “Sir, ten confirmed dead. Twenty-one injured. Medics are treating them now.”

  Luka: “We’ve rounded all the cultist corpses. Orders, sir?”

  Caelum’s weathered face darkened. “Bury them with our boys.”

  Luka blinked, confused. “Sir? They’re cultists. Why not burn them?”

  Caelum’s eyes—hard as a lion’s—snapped to him. “Bury them. Do not question me, soldier. They were people before they chose this path. Honor them as our enemies.”

  Luka swallowed hard, then nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Elsewhere, Kaelen pushed aside a beam, panting.

  “Man… they really tore this place apart. What now, Lys? We just… camp here?”

  Lys shook her head, brushing soot from her hair. “I don’t know. This base was all I knew.”

  Heavy boots crunched across the rubble. Caelum’s shadow loomed over them, arms folded as he surveyed the wreckage. His voice was low, gruff.

  “Haaah… they had to ruin my favorite base.”

  Kaelen straightened. “Favorite base? Wait—you mean there’s… others?”

  Caelum smirked faintly. “Of course there are. You didn’t think I’d let you rookies roost in one nest forever, did you?”

  Caelum: “Luka!”

  Luka: snapping to attention “Yes, sir!”

  Caelum: “Fetch Rekto’s roommates. Now.”

  Within minutes, three young cadets stood before Caelum, shifting nervously under his gaze.

  Caelum: voice sharp as a blade “Did you notice Rekto missing?”

  Roommate 1: “Sir… we knew he skipped roll call and training, but we thought… after his loss, maybe he was just… blowing off steam. We didn’t think—”

  Caelum: cutting him off, voice rising “Your roommate vanished for three days, and you didn’t report it?”

  All three snapped to rigid attention, voices overlapping in panic:

  “Sorry, sir!”

  Caelum’s glare could have carved stone.

  “Dismissed. You’ll answer for this when we reach the next base.”

  They scattered, pale and silent.

  As carriages creaked into the courtyard, the Dawnbreakers began loading supplies and injured onto them. The sun sank low, painting the rubble in gold and shadow.

  Kaelen stood by one of the wagons, staring at nothing. Lys noticed his faraway look and stepped closer.

  “Hey.” Her voice was quiet, cutting through the noise. “What’s wrong? You’ve been awfully quiet.”

  Kaelen forced a shrug. “It’s nothing, Lys. Don’t worry about it.”

  But she saw the tension in his jaw, the guilt in his eyes. Her voice sharpened. “I know something’s wrong. Don’t you trust me?”

  Kaelen winced, turning. “I trust you. Don’t… don’t be like that.”

  “Like what?” Lys’s voice cracked, frustration leaking through. “You’re sitting here looking pathetic, and you won’t let me in.”

  Kaelen’s shoulders slumped. He sighed. “…Fine. I’m sorry.”

  His voice dropped, raw with guilt. “It’s because of me, Lys. Rekto… betrayed because of me. If I’d just let him win that day… maybe none of this would’ve happened.”

  Lys froze, then her eyes blazed. “What? So you think this is your fault? Did you force him to join the cult? Did you put a knife to his throat?”

  Kaelen’s head jerked up. “No—I didn’t—hey, don’t get worked up—”

  But Lys stepped closer, fire in her voice.

  “That idiot made his choice. He chose to betray the Dawnbreakers. None of this is on you.”

  Her fists clenched. “Next time we see him… we end him. Right there.”

  Kaelen stared at her, stunned—then a slow grin broke through the guilt. “Thanks, Lys. That… actually cheered me up.” He held out his fist. “Yeah. Let’s get him next time.”

  Lys met his fist with her own, eyes fierce. “I’m with you when it happens.”

  As the last rays of sun vanished behind the hills, the carriages rolled out, wheels crunching on gravel. Smoke drifted behind them, a fading memory of battle and loss. Ahead lay the winding road to their next base—new plans, new battles, new scars waiting.

  To be continued…

  ? 2025 Damien Shard. All rights reserved. This story and all characters are original creations of the author. Unauthorized reproduction or distribution is prohibited.