The Dying Arcane

The underground passage smelled of damp stone and old blood. The flickering torches barely illuminated the path ahead, casting long, shifting shadows against the walls. Ronan walked behind the hooded woman, his instincts sharp, his hand resting near the hilt of his sword. Every step he took was filled with hesitation.

He didn't trust her.

The Forsaken Brotherhood were ghosts—whispers in the dark, a faction of outcasts and killers who worked from the shadows. Some claimed they were nothing more than assassins, while others believed they were the last protectors of the old ways. Either way, Ronan knew one thing: no one joined them without a price.

His voice broke the silence. "How long have you been following me?"

The woman didn't slow her pace. "Long enough."

"That's not an answer."

She finally turned her head slightly, the dim torchlight reflecting off her green eyes. "And yet, it's all you're getting."

Ronan clenched his jaw but said nothing. He had no choice but to play along—for now.

After a few more minutes, the narrow tunnel opened into a massive underground chamber. The ceiling arched high above, reinforced with old stonework and steel beams. Dozens of figures moved in the dim firelight, clad in dark cloaks and armor. Some sharpened weapons, others tended to injuries. But all of them carried the same look—hardened survivors of a dying world.

A large stone table sat at the center of the room. Around it stood several people, their presence commanding attention. One of them, an older man with silver-streaked black hair and a scar down his cheek, watched as Ronan entered.

"So, this is the last of the Brotherhood," the man said, his voice rough but steady.

Ronan met his gaze. "Who are you?"

The man stepped forward. He carried himself like a warrior, his dark armor scratched and battered from years of battle. "Name's Garran Voss. I lead the Forsaken."

Ronan's eyes narrowed. The leader of the Forsaken Brotherhood.

Garran gestured toward the hooded woman who had brought him here. "You've met Shira. She speaks highly of you."

Shira. So that was her name.

Ronan crossed his arms. "I don't care what she thinks. I want answers."

Garran smirked slightly. "Good. So do we."

He turned to the table, motioning for Ronan to join them. Shira stepped beside Garran, her arms crossed, watching Ronan closely.

A worn map was spread across the stone surface, marked with several locations in blood-red ink. Ronan recognized some of them—ruins, abandoned strongholds, and places once tied to magic.

Garran tapped one of the markings. "We know the Brotherhood was betrayed. The attack wasn't just a military strike—it was a cleansing."

Ronan's fists tightened. "By who?"

Garran exhaled. "The Dominion led the assault. But someone from inside your order helped them."

Ronan's breath slowed. He had already suspected as much, but hearing it confirmed sent a fresh wave of fury through him. "Who?"

Shira spoke this time. "We don't know their name yet. But we do know they're still alive… and they're working directly with Lord Malakar."

Ronan's body tensed.

Malakar.

The warlord who had been growing his influence in the shadows for years. He wasn't just a military leader—he was something much worse. A man who thrived in chaos.

Ronan had fought his forces before, but never directly faced the warlord himself. If Malakar had played a role in the Brotherhood's downfall, then Ronan's mission wasn't just about revenge anymore.

It was about war.

Garran studied him. "We want the same thing, Vale. The Dominion and Malakar are trying to erase magic from this world. You may not trust us, but if you want vengeance, you'll need us."

Ronan's eyes flickered toward Shira, then back to Garran. "And what do you want from me?"

Garran's smirk returned. "The same thing you want. Blood."

Silence filled the chamber.

Ronan exhaled slowly. He had always worked alone. But the Brotherhood was gone, and the Forsaken were offering him a path forward.

A path drenched in blood and shadow.

After a long moment, he reached for the dagger at his belt, flipping it in his fingers. Then, without hesitation, he drove it into the table, the blade sinking deep into the wood.

"I'm in."

A dark grin spread across Garran's face.

Shira's expression remained unreadable.

And in the depths of the underground stronghold, the Forsaken began planning their next move.

The war had only just begun.