The air in Ebonspire tasted of iron and impending rain. While Ren and his ragged band navigated the soul-crushing horrors of the Glass Labyrinth far to the west, the capital of the Ascendancy thrummed with a different kind of tension – the cold, calculated dread of a nation preparing for war. The scent of fear was masked by the acrid tang of forging metal, the clangor of hammers on anvils echoing through the Armory District day and night, and the pervasive, cloying incense burned in the Hall of Iron Crowns to ward off ill omens that seemed increasingly palpable.
In the damp, dim confines of the undercity clinic, the stench of cheap antiseptic, rotting wood, and despair fought a losing battle against the pervasive odor of the sewers. Scourge lay on a lumpy cot, the rough linen sheets scratching against skin still tender and raw. The healers, led by the perpetually weary Sira, had done their work. The gaping wound in her thigh was now a latticework of angry red scars, the stump of her left wrist capped with hardened leather and buckled straps. The ruined socket of her right eye was covered by a simple leather patch. The physical healing was progressing, albeit slowly. The healing within was a festering wound.
Pain was her constant companion. A dull, throbbing ache radiated from her thigh, flaring into sharp agony with every shift. The phantom limb screamed its silent protest, fingers she no longer possessed curling into a fist that couldn't strike. But worse than the physical pain was the humiliation, the gnawing fury that consumed her from the inside.
Her remaining eye, amber and burning with undimmed intensity, stared at the clinic's cracked ceiling. In the flickering light of a single tallow candle, the shadows danced, morphing into familiar, hateful shapes: the sneering face of Commander Veyra dismissing her; the terrified eyes of the Maw villagers; the monstrous, shadow-wreathed form of Jim Muryong.
Muryong. The name was a curse on her lips, a brand on her soul. Every twinge of pain, every awkward fumble with her remaining hand, every glimpse of her ruined reflection in a puddle of dirty water – it all traced back to him. To the cursed mark he bore, the power he wielded like a clumsy child with a god's weapon. He had shattered her body, her standing, her very purpose. He had reduced the Emperor's feared hound to a limping, one-eyed cripple convalescing in a stinking hole.
Sira approached silently, holding a steaming clay cup. "Willow bark and feverfew," she said, her voice low. "It won't erase the pain, but it might blunt its teeth."
Scourge took the cup without thanks, her gaze never leaving the ceiling. She sipped the bitter brew, the heat a welcome distraction. "How long?" she rasped, the sound grating like stone on stone.
"Until you can walk without tearing the muscle? A week, perhaps. If you rest." Sira's tone was neutral, professional, but her eyes held a watchfulness that went beyond mere healing.
"Rest is for the dead," Scourge spat, echoing her earlier sentiment. "Or the useless."
"You are far from useless, Commander," Sira replied, a strange emphasis on the title. She began unwrapping the bandages on Scourge's thigh to check the stitches. The skin was inflamed, the scars angry and raised. "The Emperor still seeks the host. Your knowledge of him... it is unique."
Scourge hissed as Sira probed a tender spot. "My knowledge is that he's a walking corpse possessed by a rabid god-shard. That he should have been put down in the Maw." The image of Ren, his body twisting, shadows erupting, claws rending her men apart, flashed behind her eye. The phantom pain in her missing hand flared viciously. "He hurt me," she whispered, the raw fury beneath the words making Sira pause. "He took... pieces of me. For that, I will carve Vorath from his screaming flesh myself. Slowly."
Sira met her gaze, her own expression unreadable in the gloom. "Such vengeance requires strength. And allies. The path to the Wastes is long, and the Emperor's gaze is fixed elsewhere." She finished re-bandaging the wound with efficient movements. "War brews on the horizon. The Vyrnese grow bold."
Scourge snorted. "Let the fleas bite. The Ascendancy will crush them."
"Will it?" Sira asked softly, gathering her supplies. "The treasury groans. Levies grumble. The Merchant's Circle hoards its gold like dragons, funding Vyrnese ambitions. And whispers say... the Vyrnese have found powerful patrons." She paused near the doorway. "Rest, Commander. Gather your strength. The storm is coming, and you may yet have a part to play." She slipped out, leaving Scourge alone with her rage and the unsettling implications.
The atmosphere in the Hall was thick enough to choke on. Emperor Kyril Voss sat rigidly on his throne of swords, the obsidian shard beneath his robes radiating a feverish heat that seemed to leech the warmth from the room. His face was a mask of strained control, dark circles bruising the skin beneath his eyes. The recent crack in the amulet pulsed faintly against his skin, a constant, unsettling reminder of the fragile leash he held.
Before him, the Royalsouls clashed like storm-tossed waves.
General Draus, a mountain of scarred muscle and barely contained fury, slammed a massive fist onto the heavy oak table, making the goblets jump. "Recall the Ironjaw! Now! Gorath and his butchers are chasing phantoms in the sand while the real threat sharpens its knives on our coast! The Vyrnese fleet gathers in the Straits of Mourning! Scouts report troop movements near the Silverpine border – thousands!"
Lord Varyn, Master of Coin, steepled his ink-stained fingers, his voice a silky counterpoint to Draus's roar. "Recall them? And lose the relics of Lorathis? Potential weapons that could turn the tide against Vyrn? Preposterous! The cost of mobilizing the eastern legions to replace them would beggar the treasury twice over!" He gestured dismissively. "The Vyrnese are pirates and slavers, Draus. They lack the stomach for a real war. A show of force at the border, a few privateers sunk… they'll scuttle back to their stinking ports."
General Draus, a mountain of scarred muscle and barely contained fury, slammed a massive fist onto the heavy oak table, making the goblets jump. "Recall the Ironjaw! Now! Gorath and his butchers are chasing phantoms in the sand while the real threat sharpens its knives on our coast! The Vyrnese fleet gathers in the Straits of Mourning! Scouts report troop movements near the Silverpine border – thousands!"
Lord Varyn, Master of Coin, steepled his ink-stained fingers, his voice a silky counterpoint to Draus's roar. "Recall them? And lose the relics of Lorathis? Potential weapons that could turn the tide against Vyrn? Preposterous! The cost of mobilizing the eastern legions to replace them would beggar the treasury twice over!" He gestured dismissively. "The Vyrnese are pirates and slavers, Draus. They lack the stomach for a real war. A show of force at the border, a few privateers sunk… they'll scuttle back to their stinking ports."
Kyril's hand tightened on the armrest of his throne. The amulet pulsed, sending a jolt of heat that felt suspiciously like panic up his spine. The Devourer's voice, usually a seductive murmur, was a low growl in his mind. Wolves at the door. Fools squabbling. Feed me their fear. "Enough," the Emperor commanded, his voice cutting through the argument. The single word carried an unnatural weight, amplified by the shard's power, silencing the room. "The Ironjaw remains in the Wastes. The relics will be secured." He fixed Draus with a stare that held a flicker of the shard's alien coldness. "You will make do with the garrisons, the city guard, and the newly raised levies. Fortify the coastal defenses. Sink any Vyrnese ship that crosses into our waters."
Draus's face purpled. "Sire! The garrisons are skeleton crews! The city guard are bullies, not soldiers! The levies are farmers handed spears yesterday! Against seasoned Vyrnese marines and… and whatever dark currents Elyra speaks of? It's madness!"
"It is necessity," Kyril hissed, the shard's heat flaring, making sweat bead on his forehead. "The Merchant's Circle will fund the defense. Lord Varyn, you will extract their gold. By any means necessary."
Varyn paled slightly. "Sire, they are powerful–"
"Hang them!" Kyril snapped, the shard's influence making his voice crack like breaking ice. "Hang them from the city walls by their entrails! Let their gold flow into our coffers and their fear silence the rest! Is that understood?"
A heavy silence fell. Varyn swallowed, nodding jerkily. Draus looked like he wanted to argue further, but the unnatural chill emanating from the throne stayed his tongue. Elyra watched it all with feline stillness, a faint, knowing smile playing on her lips.
"The Vyrnese have powerful patrons, you say, Elyra?" Kyril asked, his voice regaining some semblance of control, though his knuckles were white where he gripped the throne.
"They seek power wherever they can grasp it, Sire," Elyra replied smoothly. "Old things stir in the deep. Desperate times make for strange alliances." Her gaze flickered almost imperceptibly towards the direction of the undercity. "Even within our own walls."
Later that night, Sira moved through the clinic's back rooms, not as a healer, but as a shadow. In a hidden alcove behind a false wall of crumbling bricks, lit only by a single hooded lantern, she met a figure swathed in the rough, salt-stained cloak of a dockworker. The air smelled of fish and damp wool.
"Report," Sira said, her voice stripped of its usual weary compassion, now sharp and cold.
"The Sea Serpent docked at dawn," the figure rasped, his face hidden in shadow. "Cargo unloaded under heavy guard at Warehouse Seventeen. Not spices or silks. Cold iron. Strange crystals that hummed. And… casks. Sealed with wax and runes I didn't recognize. Smelled like… brine and lightning."
Sira's eyes narrowed. "The offerings Elyra mentioned. Confirmed." She handed the man a small, unmarked clay bottle. "The tonic for the Harbor Master. Double dose tonight. Ensure he sleeps through the inspection changes tomorrow."
The man pocketed the bottle. "Stormfang moves faster than expected. His advance fleet sails within the week. They aim for the Bay of Sighs, bypassing the main fortifications."
Sira nodded grimly. "The Emperor bleeds his own strength chasing ghosts in the desert. His paranoia serves our purpose. Continue monitoring the warehouses. Report any more… unusual shipments. And watch the levies. Discontent is our ally."
"And the cripple?" the dockworker asked, nodding towards the main clinic area.
Sira's lips thinned. "She burns with hatred for the host. That hatred makes her predictable. Useful. Keep her isolated. Feed her fury. She may yet serve as a dagger pointed at the Emperor's own heart when the time comes." She handed him another vial, this one containing a dark, viscous liquid. "For her pain. It will… sharpen her focus."
As the dockworker melted back into the labyrinthine alleys of the undercity, Sira extinguished the lantern. In the sudden darkness, her expression was unreadable. She was a weaver of shadows, playing a dangerous game between empires and ancient powers. The Vyrnese offered vengeance against the Ascendancy that had destroyed her family, but their new patrons smelled of depths best left undisturbed. And Scourge… Scourge was a weapon primed by Ren Muryong's hand, a weapon Sira intended to aim with deadly precision.
Back on her cot, Scourge tossed and turned, trapped in fevered dreams. She saw the Maw burning, not by her command, but by Veyra's sneering face. She saw the Black Tower, its shadow swallowing the sun. And always, she saw him. Ren Muryong. Not the broken man she'd first hunted, but the monstrous avatar of Vorath, shadows writhing around him, claws extended, his void-black eyes fixed on her. He lunged, not at her body, but at her self, tearing away her strength, her skill, her very identity.
She woke with a strangled gasp, drenched in cold sweat, her phantom hand spasming in agony. The vial Sira had left glinted in the dim light. With a snarl born of desperation and rage, she uncorked it and downed the bitter contents. It burned going down, a cold fire that spread through her veins, momentarily eclipsing the physical pain. It didn't bring calm. It brought a terrifying clarity.
The humiliation, the weakness, the constant, gnawing pain – it all crystallized into a single, white-hot point of hatred directed at Jim Muryong. He was the source. He was the aberration that had ruined her. The tonic didn't numb; it honed. It turned her fury from a wildfire into a scalpel.
She swung her legs over the side of the cot, ignoring the scream from her thigh. She stood, swaying, gripping the bed frame until her knuckles turned white. Pain was irrelevant. Weakness was unacceptable. She looked down at the leather-capped stump of her wrist, then at the simple dagger Sira had left for cutting bandages.
A grim, terrible smile spread across Scourge's face. She picked up the dagger, testing its weight in her remaining hand. It felt alien, clumsy. But she would learn. She would learn. She would forge herself anew in the fires of her hatred. She would hunt Jim Muryong through the Seven Hells if she had to. She would make him watch as she tore the Vorath mark from his chest, and then she would feed him his own cursed heart.
Outside the clinic's grimy window, the first heavy drops of rain began to fall, slapping against the cobblestones like the drumbeat of an approaching army. The storm wasn't just gathering over the Ascendancy; it brewed within the heart of its most wounded hound. And Scourge, fueled by pain, tonic, and an all-consuming vendetta, was ready to bite back. The hunt for Muryong was no longer the Emperor's command. It was her sole reason for drawing breath. The war with Vyrn could consume the world; she only needed it to last long enough for her to find her prey.