Chapter Sixteen
Beneath the Lion's Maw
The morning sun had only just begun to climb when the syndicate agents melted back into the shadows of the deep forest. Their retreat had been swift, measured, and silent—like specters returning to the gloom from which they came. None of them spoke a word until they were well beyond earshot of the caravan survivors, threading their way through the veils of underbush and mist-shrouded trees.
They moved as one, guided by the one who had been called "Prince." He led them without hesitation, cloak billowing behind him as though stirred by something colder than wind. His face remained stoic, jaw tight beneath the shadow of his hood. The others followed him instinctively—not out of respect, but fear.
Hours passed. The woods thinned, and the soil beneath their feet grew dense with stones and ash. Hidden within a cleft of the earth, beneath a thicket of thorny trees and between two crooked stones, lay an ancient ruin swallowed by time and purposefully veiled by enchantment. A few of the agents knelt, placing their brooches—each bearing the crest of the lion devouring the sun—against the surface of a worn stone altar.
A pulse of red light shimmered across the rocks.
Stone grated against stone. The hidden passage yawned open.
They descended.
The tunnels beneath Velmora's outer forests were a forgotten network of underground channels carved long before the city had been built. These old bones of the land had been repurposed—reclaimed by the syndicate into a hellish warren of cruelty and control.
Torchlight flickered over rusted iron gates, and barred cells lined the walls like rows of teeth. Faint moans echoed from some, silence from others. The air stank of blood, sweat, and fear. Carved into the walls in red ink—or perhaps something darker—were tally marks, names, numbers.
In a central chamber deep within the network, the remaining agents finally stopped. There, seated upon a throne carved from obsidian and bone, was a man swathed in layers of black and gray robes, his face hidden behind a mask of burnished silver. The mask bore no eyes—only the carving of a lion's snarling maw.
The agents knelt.
The man did not rise. But he spoke.
"One of the branches has fallen."
The one called Prince stepped forward, lowering his hood. He was young—no more than twenty—with sharp, aristocratic features and pale silver hair pulled tightly back. His eyes glinted red under the dim torchlight.
"The Velmora-forward camp near the eastern trail was compromised. All stationed men are dead. The boss eliminated."
A hush fell over the chamber.
Another figure stepped into the room. A woman clad in sleek black leather, eyes like razors, her voice a hiss. "So the boy's party did more than survive?"
"He fought well. His companion—the beastkin—was fast, dangerous. The mage they had with them, an older man, wielded light-based sorcery potent enough to immobilize our front line. And the girl…" Prince frowned. "She protected and freed the hostages. The villagers returned alive."
The masked leader sat forward slightly.
"Then we have underestimated them."
A clang echoed from the far wall—another door opened. Through it came a hunched figure, shoulders draped with chains, followed by two more enforcers. They dragged behind them the bloodied body of a former bandit captain, barely alive, but enough so to be made example of.
One of the enforcers spat. "He crawled back after the others fled. Claimed he survived by hiding."
The leader rose at last, stepping down from his throne.
"Then let him serve."
Without further ceremony, he gestured. Blades flashed. The body crumpled. Blood pooled on the stone, steaming.
The syndicate's hierarchy thrived on obedience through terror. Failure was punished. Defeat, exterminated. Those who rose through its ranks did so only by crushing those beneath them—sometimes literally.
Prince did not flinch at the execution, but his jaw tightened.
"You let them see your face," the masked one said without turning.
"I had to issue a retreat. We were exposed."
"They will remember you. The boy will remember you."
"I want him to."
That silenced the room. The masked leader turned then, ever so slightly, enough for the light to catch on the silver mask.
A moment passed.
"You're not ready to face him."
"And yet the Accord breaks," Prince replied. "Isn't that what you said?"
The masked man was silent for a breath. Then he waved his hand.
"Prepare the others. We accelerate our plans beneath Velmora. Begin the next ritual."
The agents bowed and dispersed, their cloaks trailing like shadows as they vanished through the maze of tunnels.
Left behind, Prince stood alone.
He turned to a separate corridor, walking past a sealed chamber where strange symbols glowed faintly on the walls. Whispers filtered from within—words that weren't words. Inside, chained by glowing runes, floated something half-submerged in a pool of liquid obsidian. A husk. A vessel. Something waiting to be reborn.
Prince's gaze lingered.
"Soon," he whispered. "The lion will feast. The sun will burn."
He turned and walked away, disappearing into the underbelly of the city.
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Far above, under a lazy afternoon sky, Kael, Mara, Zerai, and Arden continued their slow return to Velmora atop a hay wagon offered by a grateful villager. None of them knew what festered beneath the streets they would soon tread again.
None of them knew the lion was stirring.
Continue to Chapter XVII...