The Dying Arcane

Ronan's boots crunched against the damp soil as he moved through the ruined outskirts of Black Hollow. The once-thriving city, now nothing more than crumbling buildings and rusted relics of the past, stood as a grim reminder of the world's decline. Faint embers from dying fires flickered in the distance, their glow swallowed by the endless night.

A cold wind howled through the shattered remains of what was once a grand plaza. Statues of long-forgotten heroes lay in ruin, their faces eroded by time. The world had changed, and these relics of the past served as nothing more than hollow memories. Much like magic itself.

Ronan moved with caution, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He had been followed for the last mile—he could feel it. The air was too still, the silence too unnatural.

Then, a whisper of movement.

Ronan spun, blade drawn in a heartbeat. A dagger met his sword, sparks flying as steel clashed against steel. He pushed forward, forcing his attacker back.

A smirk greeted him in the dim light. Shira.

"You always did prefer steel over words," she said, stepping back and lowering her dagger.

Ronan exhaled, sheathing his sword. "You always have a way of sneaking up on people."

Shira grinned. "You're just getting slow."

He let the comment slide. There were more important matters at hand. "Did you find anything?"

She nodded and reached into her cloak, tossing a small, rusted emblem toward him. Ronan caught it, frowning as he examined the crest—a faded symbol of the Arcane Brotherhood, the very order that had been slaughtered.

"This was found on a Black Guard's corpse," Shira said, crossing her arms. "Tell me, Ronan… why would one of Malakar's soldiers be carrying the insignia of your fallen comrades?"

Ronan's grip tightened around the emblem. He had suspected betrayal, but this confirmed it. Someone from the Brotherhood had sided with Malakar before the massacre.

His mind raced back to that fateful night—the screams, the blood, the fire. They had been outnumbered, yes, but there was something else. It had been too easy. The Black Guard had known exactly where to strike, exactly where to cut them down before they had a chance to defend themselves.

Shira watched him closely. "We were set up, weren't we?"

Ronan nodded. "There's no other explanation. Someone fed Malakar information. Someone inside the Brotherhood."

Shira leaned against a broken pillar, her expression darkening. "And now?"

He looked toward the ruins, memories clawing their way back. The weight of his fallen brothers and sisters pressed against his chest like an iron chain. He had survived. But survival meant nothing without justice.

"I find whoever did this," he said coldly. "And I make them pay."

Shira studied him for a moment before nodding. "Good. Because I know where to start."

She turned, motioning for him to follow. "There's a Black Guard outpost a few miles east. If someone inside betrayed your people, that's where we'll find the answers."

Ronan adjusted his cloak. The hunt was on.