Shards of Honour

One of the guards lunges at Voryn, but with a fast, fluid motion, he launches himself at him, his thighs clamping around the sentry's neck. He flips back and the raw force of his momentum sends them both crashing to the ground, and Voryn uses the impact to twist their bodies mid-fall. The guard's neck snaps with a bone-crushing thud beside Voryn.

The second sentry raises his weapon above his head, its sharp tip aimed directly at Voryn's heart. But in a split second, Voryn grabs the limp body of the dead guard, pulling it in front of him like a shield. The point plunges through the guard's torso, its tip bursting out of his back. The sentry stands frozen for a moment before yanking the weapon free.

Voryn doesn't wait. With a swift motion, he tosses the body aside and slips out a throwing knife, sinking it deep into the second sentry's thigh. The sentry falters, dropping to the ground with a guttural cry. Voryn strides forward and renders him cold with a blow to the head.

He turns to face the towering double doors ahead. Voryn swings them open with all his strength, only to be met by a violent shockwave that hurls him back. His body slams into the ground with a sickening thud.

"Voryn!" Dorian screams.

Through the dust and chaos, an Archon appears—a magic-wielder with masterful supremacy in the elemental dominion. The only ones whose skill renders voidstones useless. His mastery is clear in the way even the air seems to bend around him. 

"I want him alive," the Archon commands. "Both of them."

The archer perched above adjusts his aim, switching arrows, this one significantly smaller, harmless and laced with a tranquilizing agent. With practiced precision, he notches the arrow and releases it. It flies through the air with deadly accuracy, striking Dorian in the shoulder. His roar of fury echoes across the courtyard. Distraught at the too-still sight of Voryn, ferocity drives his blows, sending men in the air as he runs towards Voryn.

The archer's second shot is faster this time, the arrow embedding itself in Dorian's opposite shoulder. The force of the impact causes him to stumble, but his rage only fuels his fury as he rips the arrow from his flesh and smashes the shaft of the second to half its size with his club. His body sways haphazardly as the tranquilizer begins to take hold, but he pushes through, roaring once more as he surges forward.

However, the effects are undeniable. His legs weaken, his movements sluggish, and with a final, desperate lunge, the world dissolves before his club drops and he collapses to the ground.

***

Dorian's eyes snap open, roaring awake.

"Easy," Voryn's voice echoes distantly, but not far.

"I cannot see you." Dorian's voice cracks with panic as he shifts, the harsh clank of steel fetters dragging against the stone floor. His arms are bound tightly behind his back, the cold metal biting into his wrists. The tightness in his chest grows, and panic surges through him like a crashing wave, leaving him gasping for air, each breath shallow and ragged. The effects of the tranquilizer are ebbing, but too slowly for his mind to settle.

"Breathe." Voryn's voice cuts through the storm, calm and steady, the old routine he's come to rely on when his panic veers towards chaos. "Steel, sky, and sea. Breathe."

"Steel, sky, and sea," Dorian repeats in a frantic rasp, clinging to the mantra like a lifeline. Voryn continues to echo the words in a soothing, rhythmic cadence, even without the close proximity of his presence, his voice alone is a grounding force against the rising tide. 

This is what first bonded them. Trauma but a raw thread tying their fractured souls together. Voryn numbs the past with the swig of a grog flask, pushing the memories back, but Dorian is not so fortunate. His mind is a constant storm, panic surging unpredictably, crashing over him in waves that no amount of ale can silence.

Slowly but eventually Dorian's breathing steadies, each inhale a little deeper, each exhale a little slower, until the tightness in his chest loosens and panic recedes.

When his pulse slows, and his thoughts begin to clear, Dorian takes in his surroundings. The walls of the cell are cold, jagged rock. The bars of the iron cage loom in front of him, casting long shadows across the damp stone floor. He shifts uncomfortably, realizing he has been stripped bare—no armor, no weapons, not even their undergarments. Both of them with nothing but their breeches and boots. 

The only adornment on their bare chests is a matching set of necklaces, each bearing a round iron pendant etched with the emblem of the Iron Wolf. 

"At least," Dorian mutters, his voice thick with irony, "I can't be blamed for this... folly for a plan."

"You say this to the one person who can free us," he shouts back. "Or have you forgotten who suggested the southeast gate?"

Dorian snorts, though it's strained. "As a path of escape... Never leave from where you enter. Any odd fool could've told you that."

"I will not heed the counsel of one who wanders willingly into snares," Voryn retorts calmly.

"At least my error was an unfortunate misstep, whereas your grand strategy only secured our failure!" Dorian barks back.

"You two bicker like children," says a third voice.

The Archon appears before Voryn's cell, flanked by a company of soldiers. No one could have predicted the arrival of an Archon—beings of such immense power that their allegiance nor aid cannot be bought. They can only be enlisted by the divine, for purposes far beyond mortal conflicts. This presence meant that something far more valuable is hidden within these walls than mere treasures or collectables.

With a flick of his hand, and with a groan of metal, the Archon commands the iron gate to slide open on its own. Two soldiers rush inside, one of them swiftly forcing Voryn to his knees. 

"How did you know he was here?" the Archon demands, his voice cold and precise.

"Who?" Voryn answers, genuinely bewildered by the question.

"Who paid you to assassinate him?" The Archon's tone sharpens with suspicion.

"We are not assassins," he states simply.

The Archon's eyes narrow, and he casts a brief glance over his shoulder, giving a subtle nod. A few of the soldiers disappear and seconds later, the sound of a struggle erupts from the corridor. Voryn can hear the muffled grunts of men, followed by the heavy thud of a body being forced into submission. Dorian's large frame is held upright by the others, his knees forced into the cold stone, and a soldier holds a spiked whip.

"That's supposed to scare me?" Dorian sneers.

The soldier's lips curl into a faint smirk as he clenches his fist. A ripple of fire runs through the whip, setting it alight with an ominous glow. Dorian's eyes widen as the flames lick the edges of the spikes. With a raised hand, the whip cracks through the air, and it tears into Dorian's skin, the spikes embedding themselves into his flesh. Dorian's scream echoes through the cell, a sound of pure agony that sends a tremor through Voryn's chest.

Grief surges within him, propelling him forward, but the soldier behind him shoves him back down to the ground, forcing him to kneel.

"To harm him is to harm yourself!" Voryn roars, his voice raw with fury.

The Archon's eyes glimmer with dark amusement. "How did you know he was here?"

Another scream rips through the air, this one gut-wrenching and muffled, emanating from the neighboring cell beyond the rock wall. Voryn's heart leaps, and he lunges forward once more. A second soldier steps forward, quickly restraining him despite the steel bands clamped around his wrists.

"Stop!" Voryn shouts, struggling against their grip.

"Tell me what I wish to know!" The Archon's voice rings with an unyielding command.

Another wave of screams pierces the air, and Voryn's mind shatters at the sound. His resolve cracks, and he breathes out, defeated. "We heard rumors... rumors of a fortress cradling great wealth. They said the antechamber housed a vault full of jewels, a kingdom's worth."

"Thieves," he muses. The Archon laughs, a cutting sound. "There is nothing in that antechamber but old books—unless, of course, you value knowledge as an equal prize."

With a sharp flick of his fingers, the Archon signals the soldiers to withdraw. One by one, they file out, leaving only the two of them in the cell, the last soldier retreating with a final glance over his shoulder.

The Archon pauses before turning to leave, but Voryn speaks again, his voice bitter and resigned. "When you kill us... I would rather be tossed into the sea than buried. I get claustrophobic."

A glimmer of humor flickers in the Archon's gaze. "This contingent you see may operate as a private army," he replies with a wry twist to his brows, "but we still abide by the laws of Nytheris. You will be tried and charged once transport arrives to deliver you to the prime capital." His eyes dart to the necklace. "The Iron Wolves—the bounty on your heads could make every man here retire from their share."

The Archon departs and the gate glides shut behind him. Voryn glances at his necklace—tokens bestowed upon them by a grateful elderman after their employment to defend a local settlement against raiders. But Dorian and Voryn went beyond mere duty—they hunted down the raider leaders, cutting them down to send a clear and brutal message: the settlement was now under their protection.

Voryn eyes lifts, he waits just long enough to make sure the entire corridor is vacant. He leans back on his knees and with his wrists still bound, his fingers slip into his boot to reel out the obsidian sliver made from a mineral undetectable to even the most attuned. He uses it to unlock his fetters that drop to the ground before he lunges for the gate. He waves the sliver over the keyhole-less pad and glowing glyphs appear as he waves a luminous input as a thief would fiddle with a lock, weaving the sliver across the symbols in deliberate patterns. One by one, the glyphs brighten, their radiance intensifying until the final one flares and the gate slides open with a soft hum.

Voryn glances down the corridor to ensure it's clear before darting toward the neighboring cell. Knowing the combination of glyphs, tracing a familiar sequence of glyphs as glowing light fills up the selection before it glides open and he surges to Dorian's side to see the blistering marks of the whip crisscrossed on his chest, his skin still sizzling.

"Dorian, speak to me."

Dorian blares out tortured groans before it transforms into a rumbling chuckle. "You seemed to be in more pain than I was."

"Though I know well you have endured far graver torments, your cries remain a torment I would sooner not endure."

"All for the ruse," Dorian says as he allows Voryn to help him to his feet.

"And your tremors?" he asks quietly, as if it is a secret.

Dorian's smile dims. "Stable," he says curtly.

They escape the cell and dash down the corridor. Ahead lies the single-access stairwell, but before it, their possessions lie scattered—a haphazard pile of armor and personal effects alongside their weaponry displayed neatly on a sword rack.

"How considerate of them to lay it all out for us," Dorian quips, his tone biting with mockery. He shakes his head, his expression darkening. "Gods, the arrogance of elementalists."

They rush to the rack, their movements sharp and purposeful as they begin to don their armor. Voryn monitors him as a wince flashes over Dorian's face with every shift and pull.

"What do you know of our employer, the mysterious lord?" Voryn asks, his fingers deftly fastening a leather strap. "It's no mere chance this artifact is housed within a fortress guarded by the Nytheran Vanguard. And I doubt their presence here is without significance."

Dorian exhales sharply, his brow furrowed. "I know nothing of him—or perhaps, neither did he. But strategically? It's a clever place to hide something of worth. This artifact must be far more valuable than we realized."

"Or of whomever they are guarding. The Archon mentioned—him, someone of great importance. Guarded by a private soldiery speaks to his value as a political instrument," Voryn speculates.

"A controversial one, no doubt," Dorian adds, "if he is not held within the custody of the crown's seat. Yet, given their zeal, it's plain we do not hunt some influential rabble-rouser nor a pawn bartered between kings. We seek the artifact, and once it is ours, we vanish into sea and shadow."

"And you know what it looks like?" Voryn presses, his voice low but urgent.

Dorian nods firmly. "And you know the way?"

Voryn's gaze sharpens. "Every corridor, seared into memory."

Weapons in hand, they waste no time. Voryn takes point, leading them up the winding stairwell, its narrow confines forcing them to tread carefully. As they near the arched landing above, the faint glint of steel catches their eye—a lone guard stationed at the flank of the archway.

Dorian grins slyly, ascending the last step with an exaggerated swagger as though he is the Archon himself. The guard stiffens, his grip tightening on his weapon as alarm floods his features, but before he can raise it, Voryn moves like a shadow. He seizes the man from behind, an arm tightening around his throat with ruthless precision. The guard thrashes, his struggles weakening as the chokehold robs him of air.

The weapon slips from his hand, and Dorian flicks his boot upward, sending the tall shaft into the air. He catches it mid-flight, spinning it once in his grip with a smirk as Voryn melts back into the shadows. Moments later, Voryn reemerges, the guard nowhere to be seen.

Dorian tosses the recovered weapon to him with an easy motion. Voryn catches it smoothly, tucking it away as they press forward, silent and determined.