The silence was broken not by the gray-clad knights, but by the single figure in black.
"Welcome, young master," Okhist's voice carried firmly, unshaken, drawing all attention to him. "The wait is over."
Kazel inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the greeting without a word.
Okhist turned, his cloak brushing the ground as he raised his gauntleted hand. "Form ranks. We march west."
The company shifted, armor clinking as formation snapped into place. Spears leveled, shields slung across backs, their boots thundered in a steady rhythm.
At the head of the column, Okhist walked with his stride deliberate, commanding without effort. At his side, Kazel followed, his hands clasped loosely behind his back, his pace neither hurried nor deferential—simply his own.
Beyond The Fang, the landscape opened into rolling hills and sparse woodland. The road dwindled to a worn trail, one trodden by far fewer feet than the bustling trade routes. The air seemed heavier here, as though even the wind remembered the passage of an age long buried.
"The ruin lies half a day's march ahead," Okhist spoke without looking back, his voice low but carrying. "Few dare venture there. Fewer still return. It is said the very ground clings to the bones of those who tried."
Some of the gray knights exchanged glances. A few tightened their grips on their spears. Kazel, however, let out a soft chuckle.
"Then it will make fine ground to test one's courage," he said, his smirk cutting across the growing tension.
Okhist's helm tilted slightly toward him, as though smiling unseen. "Spoken like a man who already knows what waits at the edge of death."
The march pressed on, every step carrying them closer to the ruin—and whatever truth it guarded.
By the time the sun dipped westward, shadows stretched long across the land. The knights crested a barren ridge and stopped.
Below them, half-buried in the earth, stood the ruin.
Jagged stone pillars jutted out like the ribs of some long-dead beast. Walls, fractured and slanted, leaned against each other in defiance of time. Moss clung to every crack, and black vines twisted across fallen arches. At the center, a gaping entrance yawned like a maw, exhaling a stale wind that carried the stench of rust and dust.
The gray knights grew silent. Their earlier sneers were gone, their eyes now fixed on the dark hollow ahead.
Okhist stepped forward, his black armor catching the dying light. "There it is," he said calmly. "The forgotten sanctuary."
One knight muttered under his breath, "It reeks of death…"
Another hushed him quickly.
Kazel stood at the ridge, blue eyes glinting as he studied the ruin. His gaze lingered on the entrance, unblinking, as though daring it to reveal its secrets.
Without hesitation, he stepped forward. "Let's not waste the daylight."
Okhist's helm turned toward him, then to his men. "You heard him. Prepare yourselves."
The company descended the ridge. Each footfall echoed against the hollow stone below. By the time they stood at the ruin's mouth, even the air seemed unwilling to move.
The threshold loomed before them, and from within came only silence—thick, ancient, and waiting.
The ruin's mouth swallowed them whole. Cold air pressed against their skin, and every breath carried the taste of stone and dust long undisturbed.
Kazel's voice broke the silence. "What is this place, truly?"
Okhist, striding at the front with torch in hand, shook his head. "The historians know little. It predates even the earliest records of The Fang. A few tablets mention a sect that lived here, but their name has been lost."
Kazel's gaze swept the walls—massive blocks carved with faded patterns, their meaning eroded by centuries. "So even you don't know."
"No," Okhist admitted, his tone low. "Even the oldest archives speak of it only in fragments. Some call it a sanctuary, others a tomb. Whatever truth lies here, it has been buried with the dust."
Their footsteps echoed against the stone. As they pressed deeper, they found iron sconces built into the walls, each etched with faint, flaking runes. One of the gray knights lifted his torch and placed it into a sconce. The rune shivered, then flared to life, casting pale light across the corridor.
One by one, they lit the wall-torches as they moved forward, and soon the ruin glowed with a ghostly radiance. The air grew heavier, and a low hum vibrated faintly in the stone beneath their boots.
Kazel smirked faintly. (This place still breathes.)
The path sloped downward, leading them into a wide hall whose ceiling disappeared into shadow. Broken statues lined the walls, their faces gouged out as if erased deliberately. The flickering torchlight made their hollow eyes seem to follow.
One of the knights whispered, "Why would they destroy their own likeness?"
Okhist didn't answer. He only looked ahead, into the vast dark corridor that stretched deeper into the unknown.
"Stay alert," he commanded.
The flames flickered violently as if seized by unseen fingers—then died all at once. Darkness swallowed the hall. The sudden silence was broken only by the faint clatter of a knight dropping his torch to the floor.
A gust of wind roared past them, sharp and cold, cutting through armor and cloak. It seemed to circle the chamber, howling through the broken statues as though the faceless effigies themselves were whispering.
"Stay close!" Okhist barked, his voice carrying like steel through the black.
Armor rattled, blades hissed from their sheaths. Some knights cursed under their breath, fumbling for flint, their hands trembling as they tried to relight the torches.
Kazel, however, didn't move an inch. His eyes narrowed into the darkness, blue irises catching the faintest glimmer of what little light remained from smoldering embers. A smirk tugged at his lips.
The sound of scraping stone came from somewhere deeper in the ruin—slow, deliberate, like a door or something heavy grinding against the earth.
One knight whispered shakily, "That wasn't us…"
Okhist planted his black gauntlet against the wall, steadying himself. "Hold your ground. Whatever wakes here does not frighten us." But his eyes gleamed sharply, betraying the weight in his words.
The torch finally caught, its flame flaring to life with a shaky glow. The knight holding it exhaled in relief, a strained smile splitting across his sweat-slick face.
"T-Ther—"
His words cut short with a wet choke. A crunch of metal echoed through the hall as a broad, jagged sword punched clean through his chestplate, its tip gleaming red in the torchlight. Gasps rippled through the formation—every knight's pupils shrank to pinpricks.
Then came the rattle.
A chain, black and rusted, slithered taut from the sword's hilt into the yawning dark beyond the torch's reach. For one horrifying heartbeat, the knight still twitched, torch trembling in his grip. Then the chain snapped backward with a vicious pull.
The man's body was ripped away, his scream strangled as he vanished into the abyss. The torch he'd held clattered to the floor, flame sputtering weakly, leaving the chamber once again in half-shadow.
Armor rattled as the others staggered back, blades raised, sweat dripping cold down their necks.
"What was that—?!" someone shouted, panic breaking their voice.
Okhist alone didn't flinch, though his jaw set like stone. Kazel, standing slightly apart, only smirked at the sight.
The gray knights' discipline shattered like brittle glass. Their eyes bulged, veins popping with raw terror as they screamed and bolted, trampling over one another in their mad dash to escape the darkness clawing at their backs.
"COWARDS!" Okhist snarled, the metallic hiss of his voice echoing inside the helmet. He clicked his tongue sharply, but it was useless—there was no chain of command anymore. The order's formation had dissolved into panicked scattering.
Kazel's brows furrowed as he watched the chaos. (Tch. Weak-blooded fools. They crumble before the hunt even begins.)
He dashed forward, steps light yet unyielding, falling in beside Okhist. The air grew heavier the deeper they ran, as though the corridor itself was squeezing inward.
Then—
A shriek tore from the back ranks. Kazel's head snapped over his shoulder in time to see another knight lifted clean off his feet, a blade erupting from his gut. The chain yanked again, dragging him mercilessly into the void beyond the torchlight. His armored limbs flailed, scraping sparks against the stone walls before the dark swallowed him whole.
The corridor suddenly felt smaller. The flickering torches showed only pale faces and wide eyes. Every shuffle of boots echoed too loud, too close, as if death itself was breathing down their necks.
"A narrow path with no room to maneuver," Kazel muttered, blue eyes narrowing as he skimmed the stonework. "A deathtrap by design."
Another rattle slithered through the dark—the chain wasn't done.
Okhist's gaze flicked sideways, catching Kazel at his flank. His tone was low, almost regretful."Nothing personal, young master."
Kazel's brow arched, then sank into a furrow. That look—he'd seen it countless times in past lives, in men about to betray.
Okhist's gauntlet clamped down on his shoulder. With one violent shove, Kazel's body lifted clean off his feet, momentum hurling him backward.
Out of the black, the sword zipped like lightning—its edge carved through the void, chains rattling with a hungry metallic cry. Steel bit into Kazel's back, right side first, before coiling around him like a serpent.
The chain crashed against the ground, clinking and coiling, a sound sharp enough to silence the ruin. Every knight froze in place, torches trembling in their hands, their breaths shallow.
Kazel raised his head slowly, blue eyes burning, and locked them straight on Okhist."Promise me one thing, Okhist," he said, voice steady, sharp as a drawn blade.
The black knight stiffened at the words, the weight of them cutting deeper than steel.
"Wash your neck when I return."
A killing intent snarled out of him, so suffocating that the torches guttered, shadows writhing along the walls. And then—the chain yanked taut. His body vanished into the darkness, not with a scream, but with a vow, echoing like the toll of a war drum.
The knights shivered. The ruin was silent, save for the fading rattle of chain links dragging their captive away.