Shards of Honour

As wanted outlaws with bounties worth a king's ransom. It is always safer to stay on the move. Voryn and Dorian hewn the habit of never staying at one place too long, which was why they traveled and reside on the ships of corrupt captains and smugglers, paid for their silence which none could be trusted, no man could be if their compliance came at a cost, which meant that compliance could be swayed given rise to a more tempting offer.

"I still say the southeast gate is our best gambit," Dorian mutters, the scrape of his whetstone against the club's flank punctuating his words. "Single access via the bridge—defended at both ends—but the moat beneath flows directly into the estuary. We could have a ship waiting there to make our escape."

The statement hangs in the air, unanswered, the silence stretching like taut rope. Dorian's eyes flick up, his movements slowing as he glances at his companion.

The two are seated outside on the ship's main deck, near the waist where the salty breeze carries the scent of brine and damp wood. Voryn hunches over a pile of parchments spread before him, rifling through them with a furrowed brow, his focus intense as he examines the same schematics for the ninth—or perhaps tenth—time.

"What is it now?" Dorian finally asks, his voice tinged with impatience.

Voryn doesn't look up. "I'm no architect," he begins, "but there's something wrong with these plans. A section of the fortress—here." He taps the parchment, his finger tracing the lines. "It doesn't connect. The structure seems to vanish into nothingness."

Dorian shrugs, unimpressed, and resumes his sharpening. "Could be an underground chamber. Why does it matter? The prize is kept in the uppermost level—heavily defended, as expected. Whatever's below isn't our concern. Do not let your paranoia supersede your judgment."

The rasp of the whetstone fills the air again, but Voryn's gaze remains fixed on the schematics, a niggling suspicion gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. His finger tracing over the intricate lines of what appears to be tunnelwork—though they lead, perplexingly, to a void. Like there is a parchment that is missing.

"My judgment has kept us alive. Your indifference allowed us to spend a fortnight in the gaols of Irlis."

"Will you ever let that go?" Dorian says with a riot of laughter. "Irlis was a paradise compared to the prospect of the Blackspire. How was I supposed to know they staged a hostage crisis to bait us into an ambush?"

"By not asking the right questions," Voryn says simply.

"That would require me to think, and why do that when I have you to do that for me?"

Voryn glances up and they share a discreet smile before Voryn's expression solidifies into a stoic mask.

"On your word, we can refute the lord's offer. And turn back now."

"And forfeit such a sum?" Voryn chaffs at the absurdity. "With this, we can grow our holdings a hundredfold and use what's left to carve our names in Revelreach. That's if you don't waste our earnings on another whore."

He lifts the club to stab it in his direction. "Watch your tongue—she loved me."

"She loved what you did for her," Voryn corrects. "At the expense of our own coffers."

With a casual flourish, Dorian hefts the club over his shoulder, the heavy shaft resting against his broad frame like it's weightless. "You know what your problem is," he says, his tone half-jesting, half-serious. "Love—or rather, the lack of it. You love no one."

"I love you," Voryn replies, his attention fixed on the schematics spread before him. 

Dorian snorts. "I love you too, but I don't count. Not unless it's me you wish to bed."

"I'd sooner become a eunuch," Voryn shoots back, his voice as flat as ever.

Dorian erupts into laughter, a booming sound that seems to jostle the ship more than the waves beneath it. "I'll make you a deal, then," he says, his grin as wide as the horizon. "I won't so much as glance at a woman if you swear off ale."

Voryn finally looks up again. Dorian arches a challenging brow with the faintest twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth. The parchment in Voryn's hand rustles as he slowly lifts it higher, obscuring his face as the move only draws a low chuckle from Dorian, his mirth spilling into the salty breeze.

***

The fortress looms like a dark titan on the horizon, its formidable structure anchored by four sprawling extensions, each connected to the mainland by narrow stone bridges. The bridges arched over a deep moat that feeds into a winding estuary, its dark waters reflecting the pale light of the moon. At both ends of each bridge, sentries stand resolute, their eyes scanning the night for any hint of movement. High above, lookouts are perched in watchtowers, their lanterns casting flickering beams across the grounds. Along the defensive façade, guards move with disciplined precision, weapons glinting faintly in the night.

What neither Dorian nor Voryn could anticipate is the heightened security. Since the last season, the garrison has doubled, with patrols sweeping even the outermost perimeters of the woodland fringe.

In the shadowy recesses of the forest under the heavy shroud of night, a sentry's gaze freezes on a massive silhouette—hulking and still, half-concealed by the gnarled trunks and twisted branches. A cold prickle climbs his spine, but he does not shout an alarm. Instead, he moves with practiced restraint, signaling his comrades with deliberate gestures. The others, catching the silent commands, fan out in disciplined formation, slipping along the flanks of the trees. Step by careful step, they close the circle, the quiet tension stretching as they tighten their net around the intruder.

"Stand where you are."

"Well, I was not levitating."

"Turn around!"

Dorian swivels out of the way to reveal Voryn behind him who hurls a throwing knife. The blade embeds into the guard's shoulder as the sheer force pulls him to the ground before Voryn brandishes his sword. The crossguard is designed with a dramatic flair, curving upward into menacing, claw-like prongs. And the hilt itself is adorned with ornate embellishments.

Dorian hefts his club like an ogre and releases a bestial roar before he charges and with a powerful swing, one blow to the gut sends a guard flying back and the impact cracks the trunk of a tree before he flops bonelessly to the ground.

A line of guards, clad in gleaming armor, with their towering weapons plunge their heads into the ground. The earth itself responds, rumbling with the runeflow of the arcanal currents—a cosmic network where magic courses and shifts into distinct disciplines. The energy ripples outward, converging toward the Elemental Crux, a nexus of pure elemental power that defines one of the five quadrants of the realm.

The guards' weapons, now thrumming as conduits of the earth's energies, send fragments of stone and chunks of boulders floating upward. With a deafening crack, the rocky projectiles rockets toward their target, streaking through the air with terrifying force. Voryn sprints, weaving and twisting through the onslaught with preternatural agility. Debris explodes around him as he launches into a series of forward flips.

"Up ahead!" Dorian shouts before he ignites then tosses a small, pulsing Voidstone. Its surface shimmers with a dark, unearthly light that hums in Voryn's palm. Voidstones are renowned for their ability to disrupt elemental flows, disturbing the connection between the wielder and the quadrants. Only the most skilled sorcerers and arcane maestros are capable of severing the pure lifeblood of magic—to both bear and etch such runes in flesh and steel designed to completely sever or even redirect the natural flow of elemental magic from the quadrants.

Voryn secures the voidstone to his chest harness, the resonant hum syncing with his heartbeat. "Let's make this a fair fight," he says with a rare smile.

A disorientating ripple sweeps through the guards as Voryn advances. The glow of their enchanted weaponry falters, dimming, their bodies slackening as if the magic is being sapped even from their bones. Several stumble back, clutching at their weapons because of the voidstone's disruptive frequency. The very act of drawing power from the arcanal currents now causes searing pain, forcing them to falter.

Voryn smirks as they exploit their vulnerability as Dorian ploughs through a cluster with powerful arcs, bursting his way through, and those Voryn can't render unconscious even with every attempt, Voryn deals with the stubborn stragglers with matching slits to their throats, quick and merciful.

Dorian bursts from the treeline, a whirlwind of booming, earthquaking motion heading straight for the southeast bridge, drawing the attention of the guards stationed at the far end. From the shadows of the treeline, Voryn remains unseen, a phantom cloaked in silence as he watches the unfolding diversion. The guards, along with the watchmen above, fall prey to the distraction, their focus pulled to the massive figure closing in.

Dorian, ever the showman, delivers a performance—a dance of death as he toys with the guards. He spins, lunges, swinging his club like a mindless fiend but not with enough force to kill. The guards' formation splinters as they try to contain the enormous brute.

Meanwhile, Voryn slips silently into the moat, the black water lapping at his armor as he submerges. Like a shadow made flesh, he moves beneath the bridge, clinging to its underbelly. The grooves in the weathered stone provide precarious handholds as he ascends, every motion deliberate and soundless, crawling towards the flank like an insect. 

Above, the oblivious sentries linger, their duty-bound discipline fraying as their eyes are fixed forward on the fray, debating whether to leave their posts to aid their struggling comrades as Dorian taunts them further with his rowdy laugh carrying above the clash of steel. 

From the flank, a low voice cuts through the tension. 

"Your comrades fight as they look—with much regret."

The sentries whip their heads to the side, startled by the sight. There, perched on the ledge of the bridge like a gargoyle, is a man clad in dark, lightweight armor. Voryn's silhouette is as still as carved stone, his predatory grin catching the faintest glint of moonlight.