Omni made his way toward the back of the dungeon, where the shadows thickened, and the chains bit coldly into stone. A small knot of prisoners had clustered around Tyrus; curious, murmuring, trying to glimpse the young man who had descended into the dungeon like a storm.

  “Gentlemen,” Omni said softly, yet with a presence that parted the crowd without resistance, “if I may have a moment alone with the young Ura.”

  The prisoners stepped back at once. Even in the half-light, the reverence for the old Kesh was palpable.

  Omni approached. Tyrus sat rigid against the wall, iron cuffs clamped tight around wrists and ankles, his breath uneven; rage simmering beneath exhaustion.

  “How are you holding up?” Omni asked.

  “Not good.” Tyrus yanked at the chains, hard. They didn’t budge. His jaw tightened.

  Omni lowered himself beside him. “What was the plan here? And where is West?”

  Tyrus scoffed, frustrated. “We stole Evokian armor and tried to sneak inside.” He tugged again at his restraints, the metal rattling sharply. “But one of the guards recognized me.” His voice grew hotter as he pushed his back against the stones, trying to wrench himself free by brute force alone. The chains refused him. After a long moment, he sagged forward, breath trembling.

  “Damn it,” he muttered. “He was right. I should’ve listened to West and let him cut my hair.”

  Omni attempted a small smile. “Between the two of us, West would have done more than cut it…he’d have scalped you.”

  Tyrus didn’t laugh. Omni’s smile faded.

  He softened his tone. “West is clever, Tyrus. Resourceful in ways most men are not. He always finds a way. I remember a few years back, when the Evokians dragged me to a holding camp outside Chiopa, a grim place, colder than this. Somehow, West talked the guards into releasing me. To this day, I’ve no idea what he told them, but… the boy has a talent for wriggling through impossible circumstances.”

  Omni’s words meant to soothe, but Tyrus only stared into the darkness, his breath heavy and bitter.

  He blamed himself; Omni could see it plainly. The anger wasn’t at the guards or the chains. It was inward, deep, and biting.

  Once again, the Evokians had put him under their thumb.

  And to Tyrus, captivity tasted worse than death.

  “Tyrus…” Omni placed a steady hand on the young Ura’s back, trying to quiet the storm rising in him. “Your promise does not end with you in this dungeon.”

  But Tyrus wasn’t hearing any of it.

  He twisted sharply toward Omni, eyes burning with frustration. “I am not your Evok. I am not the promise of Rah-Kell.” His voice rose, ragged at the edges. “Look at me!”

  He yanked the chains; an angry, metallic snarl echoing across the stones.

  “West was right,” Tyrus snapped. “You’re blinded!”

  “Calm yourself, Tyrus,” Omni pleaded gently. “Do not surrender your mind to emotion…”

  “Leave me alone, old man.” Tyrus turned away abruptly, sitting with his back to Omni, shoulders tight and trembling beneath the weight of rage, shame, and exhaustion.

  Omni inhaled, a slow, patient breath, and let the silence settle. He knew the shape of a young man’s fury, the way it fed on guilt and fear until it left no space for reason. There was nothing more he could say that Tyrus would hear in this state.

  So Omni stepped back into the main hold of the dungeon, joining the other prisoners who watched him with a mixture of awe and hope.

  Tyrus stayed where he was, alone in the corner, chains still humming faintly from the last violent pull. He closed his eyes, trying to steady the battlefield inside his chest. Guilt gnawed at him: the failed rescue, the sight of Omni dragged away again, and, petty as it seemed, the damning moment his hair slipped out of his turban in the fight with Goulakh. Each memory stung. Each one made him feel smaller.

  Minutes passed. Then what felt like hours.

  Footsteps broke the quiet.

  A group of Evokians emerged from the stairwell. Six of them, armor clattering, expressions set and unreadable in the dim light. Their presence felt more menacing than the last group.

  They entered the iron cage with purposeful strides.

  “Ura!” one of them barked.

  He lifted his head.

  Cold hands seized his chains. With swift motions, they unlocked him from the wall, hauling him upright before he even found his footing. The prisoners watched in stunned silence; some with pity, others with fear, imagining what the Evokians intended for the Ura warrior, who had fought his way into the castle.

  Omni turned toward the commotion. His breath caught, not in panic, but in solemn recognition of the moment unfolding.

  He bowed his head and began to pray, the cadence soft and steady. A few prisoners joined him, gathering close. Their voices rose together in a quiet murmur, the only gentleness in a room otherwise carved from stone and despair.

  And Tyrus was led away.

  The Evokians dragged the chained Tyrus out of the dungeon and into the harsh, unfiltered sunlight of the new day. He squinted as they marched him across the courtyard of the occupied fort. Evokian banners hung from every wall and parapet, crimson cloth rippling like the tongues of a conquering flame. Each flag was a reminder to the Vagabondians below: their kingdom no longer belonged to them.

  Tyrus was pushed forward through the compound until they reached a small cabin guarded by two silent sentries. After a curt exchange of salutes, the doors creaked open, and Tyrus was hauled inside.

  The room was cramped but bustling; several idle Evokian soldiers lounged along the walls, murmuring amongst themselves. At the center stood a rotund man in polished armor, a red cape draped dramatically across his shoulders. He radiated authority in the way a fire radiates heat: constant, consuming, and dangerous if ignored.

  “Oh, wonderful,” the caped man said with theatrical delight. “Thank you, gentlemen.” He waved a hand lazily. “But loosen the restraints so he may be… more comfortable.”

  One of the Evokian guards hesitated. “General, we have strict orders from command to keep him under heavy constraint. The prisoner is dangerous…”

  The man in the cape slowly turned his head and stared at the guard. No words. No anger. Just a look; cold, unimpressed, and patient in the way a predator is patient just before striking.

  “Guards,” he said softly, “please dismiss these men.”

  His own soldiers immediately moved, hustling the Evokian escorts out of the room. The door slammed shut behind them.

  “These foreign legions can be so disorderly,” the caped man muttered with disdain. “It’s a wonder why the Evok keeps them around.”

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  He approached Tyrus with a deadly grin too genuine to be faked, and one that most people wouldn’t dare show anyone so openly.

  “I apologize,” he said, studying Tyrus’s face with unsettling intimacy.

  He clapped his hands once, sharply.

  “Well! Let’s get to introductions, shall we?” He puffed out his chest. “I am Lieutenant General Rombo of the Grand Evokian Army, second chair to the Supreme General of the western forces.”

  Rombo stood tall, taller than his girth suggested, and peered at Tyrus as though appraising livestock.

  “You are Ura, they tell me.” Rombo circled once, slow and deliberate. “Western tribes, I presume.”

  He grinned broadly, revealing sharpened teeth mottled with stains and rot. His men laughed on cue, emboldened by the grotesque display.

  Tyrus said nothing. He simply stared, measuring the man, studying every movement, every breath.

  “Not much of a talker, are we?” Rombo chuckled. “Perfectly fine. I only need you to listen.”

  He snapped his fingers.

  One of his soldiers stepped forward carrying a thick rope. Without a word, the man began measuring Tyrus’s waist, then his arms; looping the rope around him with practiced efficiency.

  Still chained, still unarmed, Tyrus could only watch.

  A sick thought clawed its way into his mind.

  Were the rumors true?

  The whispers about Dresdi’s forces… their appetites… their rituals?

  Was this what they were preparing him for?

  Was he being measured… for the next meal?

  Tyrus’s breath grew thin.

  Rombo only smiled as he stared.

  “Uuurrrraaa…” Rombo drew out the name as if tasting it, a smirk widening across his blotched face. “What is this all about?” Tyrus asked sharply, refusing to flinch.

  “We simply want to make sure there are no misunderstandings.”

  Rombo’s boots scraped lazily against the stone as he began to circle Tyrus like something that fed on scraps. “Tell me, Ura… what is your name?”

  Tyrus grunted as his answer.

  “I heard another prisoner call him, West,” a nearby guard stated.

  “Well then, West…”

  Rombo’s hand darted forward like a hooked claw, grabbing Tyrus by the groin with shocking casual cruelty.

  His breath was warm, foul, rotten meat, and sour drink.

  “How is it that you’ve found your way to me? How did you survive?”

  Tyrus froze, startled not from fear but from disbelief. Fury rushed through him, bright and clean. He held his tongue.

  Rombo’s grip tightened.

  “Certainly… you are no coward,” he whispered.

  Tyrus’s jaw flexed, and he spoke through clenched teeth.

  “I am no coward. And if you release me, I will show every one of your men the mercy of a quick death.”

  Rombo reeled back with delighted shock, wagging a fat finger at him.

  “There it is… that legendary Ura temper.”

  He licked his lips slowly, theatrically. “The supreme general will be very pleased with the raw emotion you carry.”

  Tyrus yanked at his chains violently, muscles bunching, metal rattling like distant thunder. The guards exchanged uneasy glances.

  Rombo only laughed; a slow, syrupy roll from deep in his gut.

  “You should save your strength,” he crooned. “The general will want you fresh when he meets you.”

  “If I ever meet the evil Dresdi,” Tyrus spat, “I’ll squeeze every last drop of blood out of his heart. He’ll die knowing an Ura unmade him.”

  “Oh?” Rombo leaned in with a curious look, breath hot. “And what do you know about the supreme general?”

  “I know he destroys everything…guilty, innocent, all the same. And I know that given the chance, I would deflate his legend. I’d bleed him dry with my bare hands, because he is nothing but a coward hiding behind an army of fools.”

  Rombo inhaled sharply, delighted by the venom.

  “Supreme General Dresdi…” he purred, voice swelling with grotesque pride,

  “…commander of the Evokian Grand Army, master of the western domains, wielder of the fabled Red Dragon.”

  His eyes widened with fanatic hunger.

  “And tell me, West… what do you know about the Red Dragon?”

  “Your northern fantasies mean nothing to me,” Tyrus replied sharply.

  “He could wield the Gods’ Eye itself, and he still wouldn’t be strong enough to stand against my Ura blade.”

  Rombo’s expression twitched. For a moment, the smugness faded, revealing something colder.

  “The Red Dragon is a blade crafted from the iron of the Gods,” he lectured, slowly pacing. “A relic of Queen Rah-Kell herself. The very sword she used to slay the fallen god… the blade she raised to seal her promise.”

  The seriousness dropped as quickly as it came, replaced by that moss-colored smile, greasy and triumphant.

  “You should show respect for its divinity. It would… upset the general if you failed to grasp the importance of such a weapon.”

  He leaned in, eyes glittering.

  “I have arranged for you and the general to share a nice hog dinner when he arrives. He will be very eager to meet you.”

  Tyrus stared, confused.

  Why him? Why would Dresdi, the butcher of the west, the monster whispered about in every Ura fire-circle, wish to dine with him?

  Every rumor about Dresdi was dripping with horror, and none of them ended with “pleasant conversation over dinner.”

  Rombo clapped his hands.

  “Well! It may be a few hours before his arrival. Until then, you’ll be brought to the captain’s quarters. If you need anything: food, drink, a woman, a man… Anything at all… do not hesitate to ask.”

  “My friends back in the dungeon,” Tyrus said quietly. “Send them food.”

  Rombo paused, then beamed.

  “A wonderful idea. We’ll give the prisoners a feast before the rituals! After all…” he placed a hand on his chest, feigning nobility,

  “…we are not cruel men.”

  He stepped closer, his eyes narrowing.

  “A caring soul beneath all that vengeful flame.”

  Rombo lifted a hand and ran a finger through Tyrus’s long golden hair, curling a strand around his knuckle.

  Tyrus’s skin crawled; he tugged at his chains, but the Evokian iron held firm.

  “What a treat we’ve found in you,” Rombo whispered, breath brushing Tyrus’s ear…

  …before he bit the bottom of it, a quick, disgusting nip.

  Tyrus recoiled, eyes burning with hatred.

  Rombo simply cleared his throat, satisfied.

  “Take him,” he said, turning away.

  The guards moved in. This time, Tyrus didn’t struggle; he knew the iron wouldn’t break, and he would need his strength.

  They escorted him through the stone corridors until they reached a furnished officer’s room. A real bed. A basin of clean water. A window.

  Still a prison. Just gilded.

  Tyrus sat, listening.

  Silence.

  Then…

  Boom.

  A distant drum.

  Boom. Boom.

  The rhythm he knew too well.

  The sound of an army pouring into Vaga.

  The sound of fate marching toward him.

  The sound of Dresdi’s approach.

  Tyrus rose to his feet, heart pounding, eyes hardening.

  The next drumbeat rattled the walls.

  The General had arrived.

  And after tonight…

  nothing about Tyrus’s destiny would ever be the same.