Denizens of the Labyrinth

Jazmel stepped out of the cold, dimly lit vault of the mausoleum, the air thick with the scent of earth and stone. His boots scraped the gravel path, the echoes of his footsteps a faint reminder of the silence that had settled over the place. He had come to this tomb of forgotten heroes to seek something—answers, maybe, or closure—but all he found was the weight of unanswered questions pressing against his chest.

As he turned to leave, a sudden flutter of movement caught his eye. An origami swan, its paper crisp and folded with a precise elegance that seemed out of place in the moment.

Moxores is under siege!

The words hit Jazmel like a blow to the chest. His breath caught in his throat, a cold wave of panic crashing over him. The stronghold of Moxores—the heart of their people, the bastion of the Black Wing—was in danger. Home. His people. Everything for which he had fought.

He didn't need to hear more. The swan, fragile and unyielding in his hands, felt like a symbol of everything slipping through his fingers. Without hesitation, Jazmel turned, the urgency burning in his veins. He ran, the weight of the swan in his palm grounding him, even as his thoughts scattered in every direction. His mind screamed for answers he didn't have. His legs moved faster, carrying him toward Moxores, toward the one place that had always felt like a sanctuary in the chaos.

But the dread settled in his bones like ice. What if it was already too late? What if he was running toward the end of everything? Each step felt heavier than the last, each breath more laboured, as the image of Moxores burning, crumbling under the weight of an enemy's assault, haunted him with every passing moment.

The swan, delicate and beautiful, was now a cruel reminder. A symbol of fragility in the face of overwhelming darkness.

Jazmel's heart thundered in his chest as his muscles, honed by years of battle and discipline, surged with raw urgency. The vault of the mausoleum had barely faded behind him before his body snapped into motion. He was no longer the calculating strategist; he was a force unleashed, a tempest of fury and desperation. His tempered form, forged by the weight of command and the fire of a thousand battles, moved like a beast unleashed.

He tore through the cold, craggy terrain, his boots digging into the earth with each stride, sending gravel scattering in his wake. His mind was a blur, consumed by the image of Moxores—the towering stronghold, the beating heart of his people—under attack. The strength of a tyrant coursed through his veins, but even it couldn't still the rising panic gnawing at the edges of his mind.

His eyes, sharp and intent, scanned the horizon as he sprinted toward the stone-carved temple—a forgotten relic of an older world, where the gate to Moxores lay hidden. He knew the path, every twist and turn, every shadow and flicker of light, as well as he knew his own body. The gate was a living thing, a doorway that breathed with the power of ages, and Jazmel had learned its rhythms long ago.

His pulse matched the speed of his steps. His breath came in harsh gasps, his body moving with the precision of a predator closing in on its prey. The beast within him roared, pushing him faster, harder. The ground blurred beneath him, the air a rush of cold that stung his skin, but he barely noticed. All that mattered was the portal—the gate that would take him back to Moxores.

The chill of the night didn't slow him; it fuelled him. His muscles screamed, his chest burned, but his mind refused to acknowledge it. The tyrant within him moved with the relentlessness of a storm, as if the very earth beneath him might give way to the force of his need. His hand found the stone, the markings of the ancient ritual glowing faintly in the dark. With a roar, he pressed his palm against it.

The world trembled.

The gate began to hum, its power awakening beneath his touch. Jazmel's eyes blazed, his fingers curling into the stone as the portal stretched open before him, the air rippling with the energy of an ancient power. Without a second thought, he thrust himself forward, his body passing through the shimmering barrier.

As he plunged into the light, the world of the mausoleum, with its quiet solitude, vanished, replaced by the all-consuming need to save everything he held dear.

Moxores awaited.

Jazmel's form tore through the shimmering portal, his body catapulted into the familiar yet jarring light of the black-winged stronghold. He stumbled as his feet hit solid ground, his pulse already pounding with the intensity of the moment. The air around him was thick with tension, and the heavy silence that usually greeted travellers here—the distant whisper of wings, the quiet vigilance of the gate's sentinels—was conspicuously absent. There were no guards at the portal's threshold, the stone floor empty and abandoned.

His instincts screamed that something was terribly wrong.

A distant roar echoed through the cold, a violent sound that sent a surge of dread through his chest. The battle had already begun. The air vibrated with the clash of steel, the crackle of magic, and the brutal cries of conflict. His heart twisted with a deep sense of urgency as his eyes swept the scene ahead, searching for any sign of his people.

But no time to search. No time to waste.

As he charged forward, his body propelling him with the fury of a storm, a sudden flicker of sensation lanced through his mind—sharp, like an electric shock. It was a bond, a tether, something deeper than thought or reason.

Paldane.

His companion, his night dragon, pulsed through his veins with the kind of primal connection only a bond like theirs could create. He could feel the weight of Paldane's presence in his bones, the rhythm of the dragon's breath syncing with his own. The night dragon was there, somewhere.

Jazmel came Paldane's voice, low and steady in his mind, like a cool, calming shadow against the chaos. We are being attacked... by the Sworn.

The weight of the words sank into him, and his muscles clenched with new resolve. The Sworn—traitors, enemies, and darkness incarnate—were the last thing they needed right now. He could feel Paldane's wings shifting, the dragon's power stirring. Their bond was unbreakable, but the distance between them was wide, and the danger was closer than ever.

Without a moment's hesitation, Jazmel pushed forward, his boots pounding against the stone as the sounds of battle intensified around him. His mind sharpened, eyes scanning the area, his every sense heightened. The portal had led him back, but now, it was up to him to save Moxores.

He sprinted through the winding corridors of the stronghold, ignoring the chaos all around him—the war cries of his people clashing with the unnatural shrieks of the Sworn. There was no time to mourn what had been lost. He needed to reach Paldane, to unite with the dragon, to put an end to this nightmare.

As he rounded a corner, the distant sound of a deep, guttural roar reached his ears, a sound only Paldane could make. The dragon was close, but the danger was closer still.

"Hold on," Jazmel muttered to himself, his body already moving faster, the familiar sensation of his companion's presence now a beacon pulling him through the chaos. "I'm coming."

The battle raged in front of him, but Jazmel's focus was unshakable, his connection with Paldane a thread woven tight through his soul. No matter what awaited him, they would face it together.

The courtyard of Moxores, once a vast training ground, now seemed like a battleground. Its size had once boasted of strength, designed to hold a regiment of one hundred and twenty. But now, the ground was trampled, scorched by fire and heavy boots. The once-pristine stone was cracked and pocked, evidence of the onslaught that had hit the stronghold. The thick stone walkway, etched with careful precision, was shattered in places, where battle had raged. Once a serene place, now the pavilion was splintered, with parts of its roof collapsed under the weight of the attack.

Jazmel rushed forward, his boots slamming against the stone, the familiar landmarks distorted in chaos. The first doorway he passed—leading into the garden—was barely intact. The massive tree that once shaded the area now stood with charred bark, limbs broken, its protective canopy reduced to splinters. The garden, once brimming with herbs and life, was now overrun with ash and destruction. There were no more healing hands here, only the sickening stench of burning vegetation.

In the corner, the Willow knight that once greeted him with honour had risen, its bark armour splintered and cracked, still trying to fight, but its form was trembling, and its movements unsteady. The magic that had animated it flickered weakly, as if the very soul of the place were dimming with the attack.

Paldane's presence cut through the chaos like a thunderstrike in his mind. Jazmel, we are under assault. The Sworn—

Jazmel didn't need more. The connection with his dragon intensified the bond giving him clarity amid the madness. He moved on, his body a blur of rage and speed, his eyes scanning the familiar path that led to the heart of Moxores.

He turned the next corner, the stone stairs now broken and half-fallen, as if the earth itself had buckled under the weight of the siege. Below, he could feel the Mana essence—once hidden in the mine beneath the fortress—raging like a storm trapped in the bowels of the stronghold. But it wasn't the mine he was concerned with; it was the slaughter that awaited him above.

The portcullis that had once been a symbol of Moxores' unshakable defence now hung half-raised, the chains rattling from where they had been severed in the attack. The massive stone walls, which had stood strong for centuries, bore the scars of war—massive chunks missing, walls cracked and crumbling under the weight of enemy siege engines. The once imposing iron gates were now dented, scorched, and torn, allowing glimpses of the battle beyond. The very air seemed thick with blood and smoke.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Jazmel rushed forward, ignoring the gaping wounds of his home. He stepped under the broken walls, through the archway that once offered refuge, and onto the great stone bridge. The bridge, once a proud, steadfast path leading to Moxores, now felt fragile under his feet. The once-immense structure seemed to tremble with every tremor of battle. The waves of the sea below crashed violently against the stone, as if the ocean itself were mourning the destruction above.

The twin towers that flanked the bastion entrance loomed ominously, their jagged edges now scarred by flame and magic, the once-untouchable bastion reduced to a hulking monument to defiance and destruction. The iron portcullis that had once been a guardian now hung crooked, the weight of its chains too much for the worn winches to hold.

The once-mighty sigil above the gates—faded with time but still commanding respect—had been scarred, a deep gash cutting through it as if to mark the fortress's fall. Jazmel could feel the pulse of power inside the walls, but it was now tempered with a sense of impending doom. The gates were open, the shadows beyond them thick with the bodies of fallen soldiers, the flicker of torches casting an eerie glow on the carnage.

The entrance to Moxores, once a place of untouchable power, was now the mouth of a beast under siege. The very air around it crackled with the remnants of spells cast in desperation, the walls that had stood for centuries now on the brink of collapse. To enter Moxores now was to step into the heart of a dying beast, where every stone, every crack, whispered the strength of a bastion fighting to survive. And Jazmel would not let it fall.

Sworn were all around him, thousands of them had come. He wasn't sure how they had found him or was he sure of how they had entered this domain. But he would get to the bottom of it sooner rather than later.

The relentless thrum of the magic ballistae echoed through the air, its string vibrating with a deep, resonating hum before releasing with a sharp, crackling snap. Each bolt launched with an explosive roar, a burst of energy that crackled like thunder splitting the sky, sending ripples of heat and force through the air. The constant barrage seemed to warp the atmosphere, the air thickening with every shot, the sharp clang of the charged bolts striking their targets reverberating like distant thunder. The sound was deafening, a brutal rhythm of destruction that never stopped, a constant barrage that shook the very air with its power. It was a sound of war, of magic and steel colliding in unyielding harmony.

Sworn turned and seeing him rushed him. Jazmel held nothing back. Each strike with his katana was despair or dismay, death followed him like a cowl, and he fed it with lives.

Great rumbling dragon!

Jazmel forced through the waves across the drawbridge. His retainers were fighting back, but they were outnumbered. As soon as his dragon soared and tore through the flanks of the sworn. A cheer rose!

"The faction leader is back!"

Before they could even greet him, sounds above them ripped. Jazmel looked up and saw Baek fighting in the air. White orbs floated around him in orbit. He collided with a single figure and as they collided smoke of purple and lilac coalesced around them both.

"Is that poison?" Jazmel muttered to himself.

Chain spikes!

Chains shot forward from ahead of Jazmel striking sworn members who were trying to sneak up.

"Get into the stronghold!" Katie yelled and Jazmel rushed past her, not hesitating. It was clear that it was worse moving forward.

Jazmel rushed across the bridge, battles and fights were happening all around. But he didn't stop to help those who didn't need it. at the end of the bridge and directly beneath the portcullis. His friend the wolf man was holding the line.

Bannerman moved through the chaos of battle like a force of nature, his body a perfect blend of man and wolf, his every step powerful and deliberate. The magic thrumming beneath his skin ignited with each strike, coursing through his veins in pulsing waves, amplifying his primal instincts. His sharp claws, now fully extended, gleamed in the light as they raked through the air with terrifying precision, slashing through flesh and armour alike. His feet, wide and clawed, dug into the ground with each lunge, propelling him forward with the speed of a predator on the hunt.

Howl!

The mournful howl ripped from his chest and for a few seconds. The sworn who were trying to enter the bastion were frozen. This was when the black wing faction retainers rushed forward to strike. killing the sworn and decimating that wave. But more came, always more. The sworn were almost innumerable before the shallow numbers of the faction.

Flaming evisceration!

Jazmel leapt in, blue flames scarring and scoring death and wounds all around. Bannerman saw the flame and made his way over to him.

His glowing, white hair swirled around him like a halo of power as he fought, the once-tousled strands now a stark contrast to his smooth, brown skin. He moved with a fluidity that was both human and animal—each swipe of his claws was followed by a low, guttural growl, his eyes flashing with a wild, unrestrained fury. His jaw snapped with the force of a wolf's bite, his fangs gleaming in the moonlight as he tore into his enemies. Bannerman was a storm, a tempest of fury and precision, his beastly nature fully awakened and unstoppable.

Each slash of his claws sent enemies tumbling, each strike of his feet shattered bone, and with every movement, he left behind a trail of devastation. The power within him was not just magic—it was the raw essence of the wolf itself, unleashed in a torrent of violence and strength. He fought like a creature born for this, his form a terrifying blend of the wolf's primal grace and the man's calculated precision, unstoppable in his pursuit of victory.

"You are back!" Bannerman growled.

"What happened!" Jazmel asked, over the din of battle.

"We returned and it was already under attack." Bannerman grumbled.

"Everyone else here?" Jazmel asked, fighting close by his friend.

"Everyone who should be." Bannerman responded.

"Get Katie back inside the walls. I need you to start retreating. When you got most of everyone back, I want you to drop the portcullis. We can't keep letting them enter!" Jazmel said and Bannerman grumbled.

The once-pristine courtyard that had stood as a testament to Moxores' strength was now a battlefield of carnage. The ground was littered with fallen soldiers, the blood of his people staining the stone beneath their bodies. His heart clenched with each step; the familiar sights now distorted by the chaos of war.

He turned his gaze toward the garden, the place where life had once flourished—where herbs and medicinal plants had been carefully cultivated to heal wounds and save lives. But what he saw shattered him.

The great willow knight—the tree guardian that had watched over the sacred space, a symbol of Moxores' resilience—was nothing but a charred, broken husk. The once-mighty figure, crafted from living wood, was now a smouldering ruin. Its bark, which had once been thick and strong, was burned black, its limbs twisted and shattered from the onslaught. The guardian's form, once a towering sentinel of protection, was now reduced to nothing more than ash and embers. The great tree that had stood behind it, the heart of the garden, was little more than a burned, leafless skeleton of its former self.

Jazmel's chest tightened with a wave of grief and rage. The sight of the guardian—his symbol of protection and life—reduced to smouldering remains was more than he could bear. His eyes lingered on the broken figure, the silence in the garden now a haunting reminder of the destruction Moxores had endured.

He clenched his fists, the sting of loss mingling with the fire of vengeance. This was no longer just a fight for survival; it was a fight to reclaim everything that had been torn apart. Jazmel pressed forward, his resolve hardening as he moved deeper into the bastion, the memory of the fallen guardian fuelling his every step.

As he moved through the courtyard, he killed every sworn member he swore. The system notifications were ringing up. But he quelled them, he didn't have time to check his stats and exp. No he was focused on other things.

Stormflare

Jazmel heard and bouts of storm fuelled fire rained all around. Sworn assassins and cultists cried out in death cries and woes. Burned by the fury of storm and anger.

Sadé was in the thick of it, surrounded and they were trying their best to pin her in. above her, Corin fought other sworn captains, stronger and more experienced veterans from the occult assassin group.

With a single bound, Jazmel was beside Sadé.

Flaming evisceration!

Jazmel swung his blade and blue flame spurt free in sickled slashes.

Great rumbling dragon!

Pouring Mana into its creation, a fully formed dragon of Mana, likened to Paldane. It was all blue and red, the colours of Jazmel's Mana and he wrought fury with it. using it to bludgeon all the sworn about them and using it create space.

"bring the storm!" he yelled and Sadé smiled and grinned happy to see him.

Storm crown!

Her crown which had once been made of conjured thunder had changed. Evolved, into something much denser and stronger. The crown was formed with blue, white tinged fury. But the Mana was greater, stronger twice fold. It was massive in power, and she used it to conjure, calling a thunderstorm above them.

Thunderstorm!

She uttered, the rumble in the clouds above was so loud. Jazmel covered his ears, but it was so great in power that the very bastion rocked with the turbulence of the volume.

Arcs of thunder crashed into the courtyard. Smashing down and crashing into the ground. Friend and foe were struck, but Sadé had no control over that. Jazmel knew she didn't use this skill easily. But there was nothing else they could do.

"Nice try!" a voice yelled. Just as a single man entered their periphery. Jazmel immediately could tell he was strong.

A lone figure emerged from the haze of smoke and rain. He moved with a deliberate, unhurried confidence, his presence commanding the battlefield as if the chaos bent to his will.

The man was tall, his figure draped in a long, dark cloak that billowed in the storm's winds, its edges glistening with strange, shifting runes that pulsed with an unnatural light. His armour gleamed beneath the cloak—a dark metal that seemed to drink in the light around it, etched with cruel, angular designs that whispered of forbidden power. His face was partially obscured by a helm, its jagged edges framing cold, piercing eyes that seemed to see through flesh and soul alike. Every step he took felt like an imposition, the air itself growing heavier, as though his very presence was a weight pressing down on Jazmel's chest.

The storm above seemed to answer to him, the arcs of thunder striking in rhythm with his movements, casting his form in a harsh, spectral glow. His aura was a suffocating force, oppressive and unrelenting, pressing into Jazmel's senses like a tide of malice. The Mana that thrummed through the air turned cold; its natural flow corrupted by the dark energy radiating from the man. Jazmel felt his own strength falter, his body tensing instinctively as if in the presence of a predator far more powerful than himself.

This man was no ordinary leader. Jazmel could feel it in the marrow of his bones—the raw, overwhelming strength that emanated from him. This was a being who had conquered power itself, a commander of the Sworn who stood apart from mere mortals. The weight of his presence threatened to crush Jazmel, but beneath the oppressive tide of fear, a spark of defiance ignited in his heart. Whatever this man was, whatever darkness he commanded, Jazmel would not allow it to consume him. Not here. Not in Moxores.

"He is strong." Jazmel whispered and Sadé agreed.

"You thwarted us repeatedly. What did you think was going to happen?" the man said, drawing a single longsword from his belt hidden by his cloak.

Jazmel did what he could to prepare but not before the man slashed the air. He didn't even call out a skill, he simply swung with the strength of his arm. Jazmel raised his sword to block the strike and was knocked back. Not off his feet but enough to let Jazmel know he was not even trying.

He drew a potion and handed it to Sadé. One of his rigorous vigour potions. She swigged it and instantly looked better for it. he himself drew another potion, the crimson rampage. He was about to consume it but to his relief Charme appeared.

Dark axis!

She appeared and landing with a crash into the ground, she threw aside the bodies of sworn she had dealt with.

"leave him to me." She said, not looking over her shoulder but clearly for Jazmel and Sadé.

"You are not enough." The man said, sadly sounding disappointed.