It had been half an hour since sunrise, and the golden light bathed the tall spires of the Draven Castle in a warm glow. Outside in the courtyard, the household staff stood in quiet anticipation for the lady of the house to depart. Yet one important figure was absent—her son, Ryan.
Within the stone bones of the massive fortress, in a chamber dimly lit by slanted shafts of morning light, Ryan had sealed himself inside. His room was unusually quiet. The heavy curtains were drawn, and the flicker of an enchanted lantern cast long shadows across the walls. The young man moved with purpose. He had shoved aside his carved oak bed and knelt on the cold stone floor, prying free a single, timeworn tile with the precision of someone who had rehearsed this moment in his mind a hundred times.
From beneath the floor, he pulled out a compact toolkit—borrowed under false pretenses from the butler—and began to dig, his muscles taut with urgency. Earth and dust gave way beneath his enchanted pick, every strike guided by his will and powered by whispered incantations. Small sparks flickered at his fingertips, the result of minor spells weaving through his hands to speed the excavation.
Then—he hit it.
Not rock. Not metal.
But resistance—a static shimmer of energy humming softly like a caged breath.
A rune.
Etched into the soil with ancient precision, the rune pulsed with warding power. Protective magic, designed to stop anyone—especially someone like him—from reaching what lay hidden below.
Ryan crouched closer, eyes narrowing. "The court spared no effort," he murmured, running his fingers across the shimmering sigil. Its lines throbbed faintly, reacting to his touch.
He placed his palm firmly against it. For a moment, nothing. Then—crack. The rune shattered with a sound like ice breaking underfoot. The ground below softened as the ward collapsed.
He wasted no time. With a few more strikes and a burst of soil-manipulating energy, the floor gave way to a narrow shaft. Ryan inhaled, then dropped into the shadow below.
He landed lightly in the vault of House Draven, an ancient chamber hidden beneath the castle's foundations. The air here was colder, heavier—thick with the scent of old magic and sealed time. Around him were shelves of glowing relics, gilded chests, and weapon racks humming with residual power. Dust floated in golden motes through faint light emanating from floating orbs in the corners.
But Ryan wasn't here for wealth or glory. His eyes scanned the artifacts hungrily, searching for something rare: a limitless weapon—one that could unleash power endlessly, unbound by energy stores or time. The kind of weapon that could turn the tide of kingdoms.
He moved through the aisles quickly, bypassing spell-bound spears and glass orbs filled with bottled storms. Then, he stepped into a chamber darker than the rest. The moment he crossed the threshold, the room reacted.
A sudden spike in pressure hit him like a wave. A rune lit up beneath his feet, intricate and bright—a trap. He was frozen. His limbs turned to stone. The very air thickened around him, as if gravity had tripled.
He gritted his teeth. "Damn it."
This room had no mercy for intruders, especially those without cultivated strength. In this body—human, untrained, frail—he was at a disadvantage. His veins pulsed faintly with the echo of power long buried.
"Soul power… it's the only way."
Ryan closed his eyes. Deep within, in the still center of himself, he summoned it—a glow, a whisper, the raw essence of his being. His soul shimmered faintly, rising up like steam from his skin. The rune cracked. Then shattered.
As the magic broke, he sprang upward—straight toward the center of the room where a strange knife hung suspended by a thread finer than hair. Its golden sheath glowed dimly, unassuming yet unworldly. There was no visible aura, no hum of malevolence. But Ryan's instincts whispered that it was no ordinary blade.
He snatched it midair and somersaulted back just as the gravity inside the chamber intensified to a crushing magnitude. A second too late, and his bones would have collapsed inward.
Heart racing, he tightened his grip on the sheathed knife and continued his search.
His gaze flicked across more artifacts—some humming gently, others quietly dormant. Then, his eyes caught a faint gleam—something buried deeper, half-veiled in silk and spell-light. A stirring curiosity tugged at him.
But before he could reach it, the shrill chirp of his wrist alarm broke the stillness.
He froze. Someone might come.
The time was up.
Ryan didn't hesitate. He grabbed what he could—scrolls, rings, a tiny sphere that pulsed like a heartbeat—and scrambled back into the tunnel. With a few quick movements, he sealed the entrance. His hands, glowing faintly with soil magic, smoothed the tile and nudged the bed back into place. The room looked untouched.
He exhaled sharply.
But the door creaked open.
"Maya," he said without turning.
She stormed in. Her voice cracked through the quiet like a whip. "She's your mother! Do you even care? She built this life for you—you're the son, the grandson, of a Duke! And you act like it means nothing!"
Ryan turned slowly, face unreadable. "Maybe I don't know its worth," he said. "Because I was born into it. But I never asked for it. And that doesn't mean I'm unworthy of it. It simply means—I've seen enough to know what really matters."
Maya's voice trembled with frustration. "Why are you still here? What are you planning? You think you can take over this house?"
Ryan didn't answer. The butler entered behind her, eyes lowered. Ryan nodded.
"Two cloaks," he ordered.
Maya was speechless. Within minutes, they stepped out into the streets of Draven, cloaked and unnoticed.
Ryan led her down winding alleys, past aging stone walls and crumbling archways. The air smelled of iron, wet clay, and distant fires. The city stretched far below the grandeur of the castle—alive with voices, but weighed down by despair.
As they moved through the marketplace, Ryan gestured to the vendors. "Look closely. The fruits? Rotten. The vegetables? Barely edible."
They passed hunched laborers unloading carts with hollow eyes. "They're starving," he said. "Wages aren't enough. They break their backs and go to bed hungry."
He kicked a lamp post—it toppled over with barely a push. "This is what governs them. Broken things."
They reached the edge of the schoolyard. The building was barely standing. Children ran between broken bricks and cracked windows.
"It's all corruption," Ryan muttered. "My father... he was supposed to protect this place."
Maya followed, overwhelmed. "But... how do you know all this?"
He glanced at her. "I've seen every record. Every ledger. Every hidden document."
Then he led her to the outskirts. Here, homes weren't homes—just ruins with cloth-covered gaps and mud-lined doorways.
"This is where our people live," he said softly.
Maya's voice wavered. "Shouldn't we tell the court? They'll listen."
Ryan's laugh was cold. "The court knows. They simply don't care. They're playing at thrones and crowns. My father backed the wrong prince. Now he's a fallen advisor, and the people? They'll be crushed before spring."
Silence stretched.
Finally, Maya asked, "Then what will you do?"
Ryan met her eyes, calm and firm. "Nothing much. I'll just own the city."
She blinked. "What?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he pulled her into the shadows of the slums, down a path barely wide enough for two.
"Where are we going?" she whispered.
"To the foundation of my city," he replied.
"The foundation? What does that mean?"
He paused and looked back.
"To the underground," he said. "To the underworld."
Maya's breath hitched. "Ryan—don't."
But he didn't stop.
He walked ahead, cloaked in silence, vanishing into darkness like a soul returning home.
Maya panicked, trying to convince him to stop. But Ryan didn't give her time. He walked straight into the lion's den.
Ryan had pieced together a vague idea of where the Lion's Den might be, guided only by the skeletal layout of the city. It was little more than a hunch, but it stirred with certainty deep in his gut. The Den, he believed, was hidden beneath the surface—underground, like a secret kept too long.
He moved through a narrow passage, barely wide enough for his shoulders. The air grew cooler, heavier, as the light dimmed behind him. The passage led to a ruined house, its frame skeletal, walls fractured by time. Ivy crept through the cracks, and the scent of damp rot clung to the air.
He opened the creaking door. Dust swirled in the shaft of light spilling through the doorway. Before him, a staircase spiraled downward into darkness.
It was completely unguarded. Abandoned, or so it seemed.
Without a second thought, Ryan descended.
But what he found below wasn't the cold, empty basement he had expected.
Instead, the stairs opened into a wide stone cavern. Smooth walls stretched outward, and flickering torches burned steadily along the edges—placed with care, casting golden light and deep shadows that danced across the rock.
This place was maintained. Recently.
Maya, following close behind, felt a chill creep up her spine. Something about this felt... wrong.
She was certain now: Ryan somehow knew the way to the underworld. But how? It made no sense. Since arriving in Draven, he had never stepped beyond the house except to visit the brothels—always with her beside him as a shadow, as his blade.
And yet, here he was, navigating the hidden paths as if he belonged to them.
She stayed alert, her hand never far from the hilt of her curved blade.
As they moved deeper into the cavern, their path came to an abrupt halt.
A massive door stood before them—carved from black stone, its surface engraved with runes that pulsed faintly with an inner glow. This wasn't just a door. It radiated presence.
Within moments, Ryan recognized it: a dungeon gate.
Maya stared, frowning. The architecture made no sense. The cavern had been rough stone—earth and time etched into its walls—but this… this was something else entirely. The door shimmered faintly, untouched by dust, the stone polished smooth like obsidian. Magic clung to the air here, thick and restless.
This is a dungeon, Maya thought. The certainty bloomed cold in her chest.
Ryan felt it too. The surge of arcane power was undeniable. It seeped from the walls, into his bones. He shivered—not from fear, but from the unknown. No one had ever mentioned such a place beneath the city. The idea of it—something so vast, so powerful, lying undisturbed—rattled him.
There were too many questions. And none of them had answers.
But answers only came to those who dared step forward.
As he reached for the door, Maya caught his arm.
"There's danger ahead," she warned softly. "We may not return from this."
Ryan turned, meeting her gaze. "Call whom?" he asked. "Half the guards are bound by the Court, and the rest… taken by her. We have no one. You're the strongest in this city now."
Maya's lips tightened, but she didn't speak. She couldn't argue.
It was the truth.
Ryan faced the door again. With one steady motion, he opened it. The ancient hinges groaned like a creature waking from slumber.
Together, they stepped inside.
They were no longer in a natural cave. The space beyond the door was a constructed corridor, perfectly symmetrical. Runes glowed softly above them, etched into smooth stone tiles that formed the ceiling. Pale blue light spilled downward, illuminating the path ahead.
It was eerily quiet. No echoes. No wind. Just the hum of sleeping magic.
This dungeon was not just old—it was alive.
The corridor twisted, climbed, and descended again. And then, it opened into a chamber.
They were not alone.
Ryan stepped forward, his boots echoing softly across the stone floor, the sound swallowed by the chamber's stillness. His eyes swept the room. Fifteen, maybe sixteen figures stood ahead, cloaked in shadow like statues forgotten by time. Some leaned against the walls, arms crossed, their armor catching slivers of dying light, while others knelt, heads bowed in ritual silence, as if waiting for judgment.
But one lifted his gaze—and recognition passed between them, a flicker like a spark dancing across dry leaves.
Ryan's eyes narrowed with quiet curiosity. The man was no stranger.
Beside him stood another, cloaked entirely in a dark robe that seemed to drink in the light—a silhouette shaped from shadow itself. His presence was… unsettling. It was like staring into a void wrapped in fabric, the space around him subtly distorted, like heat rising from scorched earth.
Maya leaned in close, her breath warm against Ryan's ear, and whispered, "That's Solan. He controls the underworld in Draven. Every crime, every secret, every whisper below the surface… flows through him."
Ryan nodded slowly, lips curving into a faint smile.
Useful, he thought. Solan might one day be a powerful ally—if handled carefully.
But the robed man beside him—that was different.
Ryan's instincts screamed. There was something primordial cloaked beneath that hood—something that felt older than language, older than flame. It wasn't just magic. It was a weight, a pressure in the air, like the gravity of a black hole, invisible but inescapable, making the hairs on his arms rise.
He leaned toward Maya. "Do you know who that man is?"
She shook her head, eyes narrowed. "No. But he's masking something. I can feel it—like trying to look through smoke."
Ryan studied the man closely. Only half his face was visible beneath the shadowed cloth, but the way he stood—rigid, still, like a blade waiting to be drawn—spoke volumes.
There was power there. Cold, patient power, like ice wrapped in silk.
Meanwhile, the others gathered in loose clusters. Many bore the mark of northern mercenaries—worn leathers dulled by sand and blood, jagged tattoos etched like battle maps across their skin, eyes sharpened by hunger and war. Others moved like ghosts from the underworld—black-market enforcers cloaked in anonymity, expressions unreadable, posture coiled.
Most of them knew Solan. That was clear. They watched and waited.
But nothing happened.
Tension thickened like acrid smoke curling from a dying torch, prickling the skin, filling lungs with an invisible warning.
Minutes passed.
Then the air shifted.
A figure moved from the far side of the chamber—graceful, fluid, silent as silk gliding over stone. His presence parted the stillness like a knife through fabric, every step echoing with eerie precision.
Ryan's lips curved once more.
He's here.
But with him came something else—a scent of fire and steel in the air, as if a forge had been stoked somewhere nearby. The heat of a coming storm coiled just beneath the surface, ready to burst.
He knew.
There was going to be a little drama.