Chaosbound: Elarith Chronicles

A hunt was on, their target locked. The night lay thick with silence, a burial shroud over the ruins. Four figures moved through the abyss, unseen, unheard—yet undeniably present.

At the heart of the decayed field loomed the abomination—a Sovereign Malifuge twisted beyond recognition. Its body pulsed with unstable energy, its form grotesquely evolved beyond normal constraints. It wasn't alive, nor was it truly dead. It was wrong. And it wasn't going to last much longer.

A single warrior moved forward: Darktide, his presence towering, overwhelming. He didn't hesitate; he didn't need to. His broadsword gleamed under the fractured moonlight, its weight enough to split steel, to shatter bodies. The air hummed as he swung, a force beyond normal comprehension—power that didn't just destroy, but erased.

The Malifuge didn't even get to react.

The massive blade connected, its impact thunderous. Flesh tore, bones shattered, and the very earth beneath them cracked from the sheer weight of destruction. Then—silence. The abomination was dead. Not a battle, not a struggle—just execution.

Ripclaw crouched on a distant ledge, watching with casual amusement. "Too easy," he murmured, spinning a dagger between his fingers. Beside him, Aqua merely hummed in agreement, her spear resting lightly against her shoulder. "Even Phantomblade didn't need to do a thing," she noted, her voice calm, as if they had just finished a routine mission rather than slaughtering an unstable monster beyond human comprehension.

That was how it always went. That was why they existed.

Slowly, the group began to assemble, converging near the remains of the shattered Malifuge. Their movements were smooth, effortless—like actors entering the opening scene of a film, each arrival carrying its own weight. Ripclaw, light-footed, silent, a death-weaver. A predator in motion. Aqua, fluid, intangible, her body shifting between presence and absence like liquid shadow. Darktide, a monolith, his breath steady, his power absolute.

And then—Phantomblade. He had been present all along, watching, waiting, not commanding but existing as authority itself. He didn't need to speak, didn't need to issue orders. They followed because they knew.

Phantomblade stepped forward, the quiet gravity of his movement enough to demand attention. His sword rested effortlessly at his side, untouched by combat—because no fight had required him. His gaze was unreadable. His presence was absolute.

Finally, he spoke. "We have a new mission," Phantomblade said, his voice measured, unhurried. "From a Queen."

A Queen's Request

The throne room was vast, lined with grand tapestries and towering pillars—a place meant to command respect, to remind visitors of the power that sat upon the throne. But as the Shadowblades entered, the atmosphere shifted. They were not knights, nor generals, nor political figures bound by diplomacy. They were specters of war, executioners of unseen battles. To those unfamiliar with them, their presence alone demanded caution—feared, whispered about, never fully understood. Yet despite the reputation that preceded them, they carried no arrogance, only quiet certainty.

They walked without sound, without hesitation, their movements deliberate, precise. Ripclaw stepped forward first, his sharp gaze flickering across the room like a predator assessing his surroundings. There was always something dangerous about him—something lethal, barely restrained.

Beside him, Aqua moved fluidly, silent, unreadable, her expression blank save for a sharp awareness beneath her gaze. She did not speak unless needed—a presence more than a voice.

Darktide's heavy boots barely made a sound, though his towering figure radiated raw strength. He was a fortress, yet there was a calmness to him—a quiet confidence that required no boasting, no excess words.

And then there was Phantomblade. He walked at the forefront, not because he demanded leadership, but because it was naturally his place. He didn't need to assert dominance; it was already understood. There was no arrogance in his stride, only effortless authority—the kind that made men bow out of instinct, not obligation. His expression was calm, composed, a man who spoke only when necessary, but whose words carried undeniable weight.

Before the throne, they stopped. For a brief moment, silence stretched, thick with tension.

The Queen watched them carefully, her posture unwavering, her tone steady. "Your presence is noted, and I extend my gratitude," she said, her voice firm yet laced with sincerity. She understood who stood before her—not pawns, not servants, but warriors who answered only to the battles they deemed worthy.

"I regret that your arrival was not met with proper reception," she continued, with a slight incline of her head—not submission, but respect. "You did not come announced. But that is your way, and I will not question it."

Phantomblade nodded subtly—an acknowledgment, but not an apology.

The Queen turned, scanning the room briefly before commanding: "Leave us." The nobility hesitated, shifting uncomfortably, but none dared to defy the order. Within moments, the hall emptied, save for a select few—her most trusted figures, the ones who understood the severity of this request.

Only then did the Queen allow the moment to settle before speaking again. "I am no fool. You are no soldiers to be commanded, nor mercenaries to be bought." Her words carried weight, her authority unwavering even as she spoke to beings that answered to no throne but their own cause. "I wish to ask your aid. Formally."

Ripclaw smirked slightly, but said nothing. Aqua remained perfectly still, unreadable. Darktide crossed his arms, listening with quiet interest.

But Phantomblade? He simply watched. Not coldly, not dismissively—just thoughtfully, measuring the request without haste.

Then, his voice came—calm, steady, effortlessly composed. "Speak. Tell us everything." No arrogance. Only readiness.

The Queen exhaled slightly—relieved, perhaps, that there would be no needless games, no resistance born from pride. This was why she had chosen them.

The War That Was Always Ours

The chamber was quiet—not out of restraint, but out of necessity. The Shadowblades listened, absorbing every detail: every name, every recorded event of Abyssal corruption, and the Malifuge's unstable evolution. They did not interrupt; they did not react impulsively. They simply absorbed.

Phantomblade stood at the forefront, arms crossed, his expression unreadable yet attentive. When the briefing came to a close, the Queen waited—not with expectation, but with patience. She understood who she was speaking to; she would not demand immediate responses.

Phantomblade finally exhaled—a slow, measured breath. "Your terminology is new to us," he admitted, his tone light yet unwavering. "Your classifications—the Malifuge, their sovereigns, the structure you've built around understanding them. These are details we did not have."

He let the words settle before continuing. "But their nature?" His gaze flickered slightly, a sharpness beneath the calm. "That—we have faced before."

Ripclaw tilted his head slightly, fingers tracing the edge of one of his daggers. He had that look—the quiet acknowledgment of a past war, an unspoken familiarity with the kind of enemies now being named. Darktide simply grunted—a sound that could have meant agreement, or simply acceptance. Aqua was still, unreadable, but Phantomblade knew she was already memorizing the details in silence.

Then, Phantomblade met the Queen's gaze. "It seems we have the same enemies." There was no dramatic declaration. No overdrawn speech. Just undeniable truth. "We have been hunting them for far too long." His tone was steady, composed, yet it carried weight—the weight of countless battles fought before anyone else even recognized the war had begun.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

"This may be the hardest mission we have ever faced," Phantomblade admitted, his voice calm yet weighted. "But it changes nothing." Silence stretched for only a moment before he continued. "We are bound to no kingdom, no throne, no politics. Our loyalty is to the land—to the people who wake each day unaware of the horrors that stir beneath their feet. This war is ours."

His hand rested lightly on the hilt of his blade, not in aggression, but in quiet reverence. "This is why we honed our swords—to strike down the abominations that would devour the world before it even understands its own undoing."

He glanced toward his team now—the warriors who had stood beside him for countless battles, the ones who had never once wavered. "Will you die in battle with me?"

Ripclaw smirked, eyes flashing with something primal. "I've been waiting for you to ask."

Darktide let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders. "We follow you to the death, Phantomblade. Always."

Aqua merely nodded, her silent way of saying what needed no words.

Phantomblade turned back to the Queen. His acceptance had already been given—but now, it was absolute. "This mission—this war—we lead it. When the time comes, we will need your army." His tone was unwavering, deliberate. "How much strength do you possess? Will you prioritize this? How much are you willing to sacrifice to support this mission?"

The Queen met his gaze—not shaken, but measured. "If I did not understand the cost, I would not have summoned you," she answered simply. "When the time comes, you will have everything I can give. Whatever it takes."

A moment passed, then Phantomblade nodded—not as a gesture of submission, but of respect. "Then we fight."

Behind Closed Doors

The heavy doors to the council chamber slammed shut behind them, marking the end of another relentless meeting with the queen and her advisors. The air of rigid decorum they'd maintained for hours began to crumble as the Shadowblades trudged through the corridor to their quarters, exhausted but relieved to escape the grand hall.

Darktide reached the door first, pushing it open with his usual steady strength. He stood aside, his massive frame letting the others pass through, muttering, "Come on, get inside. You all look worse than my gauntlets after a swamp dive."

Ripclaw slouched through the doorway, flipping his dagger absently in one hand. "I'll take the swamp over another council meeting. At least the mud doesn't talk about 'regional stability' for an hour straight."

Phantomblade entered next, his graceful stride betraying just the faintest weariness. He paused to close the door behind him, leaning against it briefly. "They might've gone on about 'regional stability,' but I kept thinking about something more... profound." He walked toward the window, his voice taking on a cryptic edge. "The moon watches us tonight, like... like a witness to... uh, something significant. Shadows, perhaps. Or decisions. I don't know."

Aqua snorted as she flopped onto the couch, her boots still on. "Boss, that was barely coherent. Were you planning to confuse the council with that? If so, you succeeded."

Ripclaw smirked, dropping into a chair near her and twirling his dagger faster. "Greenhorn's got a point. Honestly, Boss, your poetry's getting worse by the day. Maybe the moon's judging us for sitting through that meeting."

Phantomblade cracked a faint smile but didn't turn around. "Perhaps. Or perhaps the moon... uh... whispers truths that only shadows understand. No. Wait. That doesn't sound right either."

Aqua groaned dramatically, leaning back on the couch with a flourish. "I give up. Biggie, can you please tell Boss that his poetry needs a reboot?"

Darktide sighed heavily from the corner, where he was already wiping down his broadsword with meticulous care. "Let Boss have his poetry, Little Sissy. At least he's not squabbling over desserts like you and Brother Claw."

Ripclaw grinned, leaning closer to Aqua. "Speaking of desserts... you owe me one after stealing five last time and calling it 'team strategy.'"

Aqua bolted upright, her face flushed with indignation. "That was not stealing—it was tactical energy preservation! And stop calling me Greenhorn!" She jabbed a finger at him, her voice rising in defiance. "Say that again, and I'm telling Boss!"

Ripclaw chuckled, flicking his dagger into the air and catching it effortlessly. "Sure, squeaky voice carries far. Go ahead—tell Boss. I'd love to see him settle dessert disputes with some vague moon metaphor."

Darktide glanced at them, his cloth now swiping over the pristine surface of his gauntlet. "Enough, both of you. Little Sissy, Brother Claw, you're making unnecessary noise again. Rest or find something productive to do. And, Aqua—your room is separate. Go sleep properly for once."

Aqua crossed her arms stubbornly, digging her heels into the couch cushions. "No way! I'm staying right here. You won't separate me from Boss!" She turned toward Phantomblade, who was still gazing out the window. "Boss, back me up here!"

Phantomblade didn't look back, his voice distant. "The shadows stretch long tonight, like... the bonds of loyalty unbroken. Or maybe... no, that's not quite right..." He paused, tilting his head slightly as though hearing invisible whispers.

Ripclaw burst out laughing, nearly falling out of his chair. "Boss, I think Little Sissy's loyalty broke her logic instead!"

Aqua lunged for a cushion and hurled it at Ripclaw, who dodged with his signature predator-like reflexes, his grin never faltering. "Nice try, Greenhorn. You need to aim better if you're going to throw pillows at a Shadowblade."

Darktide pinched the bridge of his nose, setting his gauntlet aside to pick up his helmet. He muttered under his breath, "Why do I bother..." before speaking louder. "That's enough, you two. Aqua, you're staying in your room tonight. And, Ripclaw, keep your comments to yourself unless they're useful."

Ripclaw snorted but obeyed, leaning back with exaggerated laziness. Aqua grumbled, still refusing to move from the couch, while Phantomblade muttered fragmented lines to himself as he stared at the moonlit gardens outside. Darktide returned to his cleaning, the rhythm of his polishing the only steady sound amid the playful chaos of the room.

Night descended fully over the palace, casting long shadows across the walls of their quarters. Yet even as fatigue weighed on their bodies, the Shadowblades remained true to their odd harmony—a family bound not by formality, but by love, loyalty, and endless quirks. What new adventures awaited them tomorrow? Only time—and the shifting shadows of fate—would tell.

Clyde's First Encounter

Clyde adjusted the strap of his bag nervously as he stood outside the polished metal doors of the Vanguard's transport. The orders had been delivered with the utmost formality—a direct assignment from the queen herself. He was to assist the Shadowblades, the legendary team known for their extraordinary missions and near-mythical achievements. The Vanguard's best. The queen's most trusted. And now, his temporary companions. It was both exhilarating and terrifying.

Clyde swallowed hard as the doors slid open with a faint mechanical hiss. He stepped inside, his boots clinking softly against the vehicle's sleek floor. The interior was spacious, dimly lit, and eerily quiet, with an air of calculated calm. A faint hum of the transport's systems filled the space, but his eyes were immediately drawn to the group gathered at the center.

The Shadowblades. They were everything the stories had claimed and more.

Phantomblade stood at the forefront, a commanding presence framed by the faint shadows flickering around him. His sharp gaze locked onto Clyde as he stepped forward, extending a hand. "Clyde, welcome. I trust your journey was uneventful?"

Clyde shook his hand stiffly, his nerves rendering him clumsier than usual. "Y-yes, sir. Thank you for... having me. It's an honor."

Phantomblade nodded, his expression calm but unreadable. "Come, let me introduce you to the team."

Clyde followed him hesitantly, his eyes darting between the others as Phantomblade gestured toward each one.

"Ripclaw," Phantomblade said, motioning toward the man lounging in his chair with one leg draped over the armrest. He was twirling a dagger between his fingers with a kind of casual, effortless precision. Ripclaw grinned, raising an eyebrow at Clyde. "You look nervous, Greenhorn. Relax—we don't bite. Well, Aqua might."

Clyde blinked, his cheeks flushing. "I—uh—I'm not nervous, just—"

"Leave the poor soul alone," Darktide interrupted, his deep voice rumbling from his spot near the rear of the transport. He was polishing a massive broadsword, his imposing figure radiating quiet authority. "You're going to scare him off before we even start."

Ripclaw chuckled, tossing his dagger lazily into the air. "Not my fault he's fun to tease."

Phantomblade's calm gaze shifted to Aqua, who was perched on the edge of the table near the claymap. She was flipping through one of Clyde's journals, her sharp eyes studying the pages. As soon as Clyde's gaze landed on her, Aqua looked up and smiled faintly.

"We've met before," she said softly. Her tone wasn't quite warm, but there was a strange, unguarded sincerity to her words. "Thank you... for saving me in the prison."

Clyde blinked, his mind racing as recognition struck him. "You—you were there. I remember you!" He paused, uncertain whether his words sounded too eager, but Aqua's faint smile didn't falter. She gave him a small nod before returning to the journal.

"One of us isn't here at the moment," Phantomblade added, his tone carrying an air of quiet mystery. "He prefers to stay in the shadows until he's needed. You'll meet him soon enough."

Clyde tilted his head curiously but decided against pressing further. The last thing he wanted was to overstep on his first day.

"It's an honor to work with you," Clyde said finally, his voice steadier now. But as he looked at each of them, he couldn't shake the mix of awe and intimidation that swirled in his chest. They weren't just warriors—they were legends.

Phantomblade smiled faintly before addressing the group. "Clyde is the one responsible for gathering the evidence that brought us here. His discoveries about the Malifuge and the events surrounding it were instrumental in this mission. Without him, the queen wouldn't have turned to us."

Clyde blinked, stunned by the remark. "I—I don't deserve the credit. I had help from my team and the Royal Vanguard. It wasn't just me."

Ripclaw snorted. "Yeah, yeah, don't be so humble. If Boss says you're good, then you're good."

Darktide nodded in quiet agreement, though his focus remained on his broadsword. Aqua glanced up briefly, her lips curling into the faintest smile before returning to her examination of the journal.

Phantomblade placed a hand on Clyde's shoulder. "You'll do well here. Just follow our lead—and trust the process."

As Clyde settled into his seat near the claymap, his nerves finally began to ease, though the weight of the Shadowblades' presence lingered. He had been given an incredible opportunity—to work alongside legends. Now it was up to him to prove he was worthy of it.