Rise of Tyrus

Morning came thin and silver over the High Plateau. Frost traced every weed and brittle stem; when the first light touched them, the whole basin glittered like a field of ground glass. Breath hung in front of mouths and then tore away in shreds when the wind nosed past the cliff.

Tyrus flexed his fingers once inside his gloves and watched the plume of his own breath unravel. It was a refreshing cold, unlike the bone-chilling dampness; instead, it was the kind that invigorated, making you feel sharper and more focused. A good morning for work that wanted stable hands.

To his right, Reo was in the middle of stretching, the way he always did right before it was time to carry out a job. Decked out in all-brown leather over a tunic, quick buckles and stitched seams, vambraces snug and scuffed, two daggers riding his belt, waiting to be used. Reo would touch the grip of one with his thumb, as if making sure it was there.

Strapped to his belt was the very rock Tyrus had given him yesterday. The rock had a small hole where a face's ears would be, and inside, fabric looped to clasp it safely. Reo found the rock to be special for its... once-in-a-lifetime features. Beforehand, he even assumed that Tyrus purposely carved it himself, claiming that there was not a chance it could naturally look like that. It took a lot to convince him he had no part in its appearance.

On Tyrus's other side, Grant filled the space like a mountain that had remembered it was a person. His breastplate and arm guards sat cleanly on his frame, every strap and buckle tightened. The sword at his hip rode in a plain scabbard while the shield on his back took the early sun and sent it back in a glare. With his arms crossed, he stood in the posture of someone already imagining where he'd have to stand in an hour to keep the worst from happening.

Fiona had shed the red-and-black cloak that made her look like a walking banner. She wore light with leather now, practical lines wrapped around poise, her staff cradled in her left hand, the right free for signals or spells. In the thin light, her braid looked almost copper; a few strands had torn free, softening her profile without making it any less threatening.

And Igneal—well, the noble refused to dress for the occasion. He wore fancy attire that looked tailored for salons instead of the wild, cut to flatter.

The shortsword's black leather hilt sat perfectly in his hand; an insignia etched along the guard winked with thin light. The gold-like sheen of his crossguard flashed when he turned his wrist. He looked like someone who expected the world to be impressed and was faintly insulted if it wasn't.

As for Tyrus, he mirrored Reo in leather protection, yet over it all he wore the enchanted coat Ivy had given him, called to its short form so the hem hit his waist.

No vambraces, though. Tyrus tried them and hated the way they bit his wrists when he bent, so his forearms were bare leather. The coat's weight at his shoulders felt like a hand, not heavy, just there. He was grateful for it as it served as another layer of protection alongside augmentation. With those two combined, he was practically walking around in a full suit of armor.

Wayne was not with them. Igneal had told him plainly not to interfere, and Wayne had obeyed without a peep. If he watched from somewhere, he did it without disturbing even the air itself.

The five of them stood over the basin for another minute, eyeing the ruins below them until Fiona finally signaled toward Reo and Tyrus with a nod. The short man tipped two fingers to his brow and rolled over the rim. Tyrus followed a heartbeat later. They both ran down the road carefully, boots finding purchase on loose stone and root-bound soil. The air thickened as they dropped, carrying the mineral scent of old stone and weeds.

When they reached the bottom and sprinted forward, the ruins opened before them like the ribcage of some massive, long-dead creature.

Streets that had once carried foot traffic and cart wheels now hosted only weeds and the patient work of weather. Buildings leaned against each other for support, their walls cracked and sprouting with vegetation that could strangle even the toughest of buildings.

At the heart of the ruins, they found the remains of a fountain, now a desolate, cracked stone basin choked with weeds and thorns. A statue plinth remained with only ankles remaining.

Further up, a building much bigger than its companions, yet just as run down as the rest, greeted them. The structure had probably once been a tavern or market hall, now reduced to half walls and broken timber.

This area was perfect to begin their strike. Center of everything, good sight lines from three directions, and a lot of cover to hide behind.

Tyrus crouched beside a wall and listened. Gentle sounds filled the morning, including wind whispering through broken shutters and the distant scratching of a beast claiming its space. But no immediate threat. Not yet, at least.

Once nothing caught his attention, Tyrus sprinted toward the fountain and stopped. He crouched and leveled his ring to the ground, releasing a few of the contents.

The shardcrown materialized first, its stone-crowned head thudding onto cracked cobblestones. Two skymasons Blue Dawn had slain along the way followed, their beaks catching the filtered sunlight and throwing it back at sharp angles. He arranged them with care, placing the shardcrown centrally, as if it had been interrupted while feasting on the birds.

To be certain, Tyrus drew his dagger and made clean cuts in the flank and chest, just enough to bleed. Crimson blood oozed out slowly, then dripped onto the cobblestones. The square absorbed the smell and carried it away, down the alleys and over the bushes.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Nothing draws scavengers like a good corpse spilling blood, and nothing draws hunters like scavengers feeding on a carcass. Now, on to the next step.

Tyrus looked over to where Reo was and gave him the thumbs up. The scout nodded, and his body glimmered. Not bright, but pulsing like banked embers through skin. His slender form seemed to fade as he moved, conserving energy and gliding effortlessly, navigating debris and vegetation. Tyrus lost sight of him in mere seconds.

He didn't linger. He slipped away on the square's north edge and headed for the tunnel mouths punched into the basin wall like giant knuckles driven through rotting wood.

The first tunnel entrance was a dark mouth set into the cliff face about ten feet above the street level. Tyrus scaled the wall using handholds worn by weather and time. When he reached the tunnel mouth, he could see webbing stretched across the opening like a poorly maintained curtain. Behind it, darkness that seemed to pulse with hunger.

Tyrus summoned and pressed the flat of the blade along the line, sending vibrations deep into the tunnel system. Somewhere in the darkness, something skittered in response.

The second tunnel was lower, almost at street level, hidden behind a curtain of hanging vines. Tyrus parted the vegetation carefully and found the opening—smaller than the first, but the webbing here was thicker. He repeated the process, triggering the trap. A crack echoed off the basin walls like a whip.

I need to move faster...

By the fourth tunnel, he could hear movement in the walls. Not just the random shifting of creatures disturbed from sleep, but the coordinated rustling of a hungry community wanting to eat. The rock spiders were waking up, most likely pleased that something was caught in their web.

At the last anchor, the tunnels trembled. Web sheets that had dried to chalk shivered and whispered against stone. Somewhere deeper in the tunnel system, answering calls echoed back—not quite sound, but vibration that spoke of many legs and hungry mouths.

This should be enough to call them all, hopefully. I hope this works!

Tyrus dropped from the last cliff face and sprinted toward cover, sliding behind the partial wall of what had once been someone's home. The foundation stones were still solid, offering protection from multiple angles while giving him a clear view of both the market square and the tunnel entrances.

At first, only small sounds caught Tyrus's senses, mostly the tick of his own pulse. He was, after all, basically in the nest's heart, dominated by hardscales and rock spiders.

Then the scrape of many legs leaving silk and finding rock. Again. And again. A body brushed a web line he'd nicked; it snapped and sang down the throat like a rope. From the first tunnel, out came a rock spider.

Its body was a canvas of dark gray plates sculpted together. Six ember-red eyes burned in a tight cluster above a pair of serrated pincers, the glow washing the rubble beneath in dusky crimson. The legs ended in obsidian blades that tapped whenever it adjusted its grip. As it swayed, hairline seams along its abdomen flexed. Dust lifted around it in tiny rings with each breath, as if the creature were tasting the air through the stone.

They would be magnificent to look at if they weren't so darn menacing up close! Tyrus still couldn't believe he had slain one of those things when he was just starting out as a sorcerer. Sure, he got lucky and killed a weakened one, but a rock spider was still a rock spider. Not just anyone in his shoes could claim they defeated a creature like that as a fledgling. Based on his observations of the first-year students, using mana sense further solidified his belief that he was likely an anomaly among his peers.

The rock spider looked around for the unfortunate soul caught in its web, legs tapping, then shifted aside when it noticed nothing was caught. Its bulk blocked the tunnel for a breath, and then another followed. A second, and then a third, and so on. Their serrated pincers clashed faintly against each other as they filed out, eyes glowing like coals in a brazier. Each one climbed down their tunnels like carriages riding down a slope.

The square was filling with the scraping of bodies. Webbing trembled as strands snapped, and Tyrus's heartbeat thudded in rhythm with the tapping of bladed legs. He held his breath behind the crumbled wall.

And then, Reo burst onto the scene. The scout slipped into view, his whole frame glowing with the soft shimmer of augmentation. He darted between rubble piles as if the terrain were built for him, leather creaking, daggers flashing only when the sun caught them. Reo weaved just enough to be a blur, but loud enough to kick stones yet lithe enough to dodge the thorns that plagued the town.

From the ruins, the hardscales answered. Tyrus heard the scrape of tails across cobble, claws scratching stone in quick succession. A hiss bled across the street like steam.

What followed was beautiful chaos.

A moment later, hardscales poured into the square in pursuit. A half-dozen at first, then more, squat bodies with rocky shells clattering as they charged. Their snouts flared, tongues lashing the scent trail Reo had given them.

Reo grinned as the beasts thundered after him, then cut left. He threaded around the fountain in a perfect loop; the hardscales snapping at his heels. He vaulted over the edge, touched once with his palm, and rolled to his feet with a laugh that carried across the square. Reo then disappeared behind one of the ruined buildings.

The pack spilled into the square, jaws snapping. And at that moment, the first of the spiders broke free from its tunnel and dropped onto the cobblestones. Its legs landed with a stone-crack, pincers flexing. When the others joined, it froze when it saw the arranged carcasses. Their mandibles clicked silently, processing scents and possibilities. Then they noticed the wave of hardscales barreling into the square.

One spider's whole body went still, legs splayed, abdomen lowered. From its spinnerets, a lengthy strand of silk extended and gently brushed the cobblestones close to the shardcrown. Another line anchored at the top of the fountain. On the same beat, two more spiders did the same. The hardscales didn't slow.

The first reptile hit the bait, jaws cracking down on the shardcrown's ribs with a sound like a chisel biting slate. Blood splattered across the cobbles. The second slammed into the first, tail whipping as it tried to bully a bite, and their shells ground together with a noise that made Tyrus's teeth ache.

The frontmost spider lurched forward and landed on the feeding hardscale and drove both pincers into the soft seam at the neck. The hardscale shrieked, whipped its tail, and threw its body into a roll. Stone dust and blood bloomed. The spider clung, silk lines going taut. Two more spiders hit the cluster a heartbeat later, anchoring more lines in a star around their prey.

The other hardscales didn't hesitate for a moment. They charged forward as a group, heads lowered, tails swinging, their tongues tasting blood and growing more ferocious. One tail slammed into the spider's midsection, the chitin cracking with a wet sound. Purple fluid splattered the weeds and the hardscale responsible. The ensuing clash between the two creatures was spontaneous and brutal.

All Tyrus could do was watch as his jaw dropped at the horrifying spectacle.