Chapter 19 The Thieves Below
Darius moved through the lower tunnels of the Fortress of Ash like a living shadow, black mist trailing behind his tall, imposing frame. The unfamiliar heartbeats grew louder with every step. Rhen and Vael flanked him, weapons ready and expressions alert.
“Six of them,” Darius said quietly. “Living. Scared. They came through one of the old smuggling passages we hadn’t fully sealed yet.”
Rhen gripped his sword tighter. “Smugglers, most likely. The frontier breeds them like rats these days. Desperate people looking for any hole to hide in.”
They turned a sharp corner and stepped into a wide storage chamber lit only by a few dying torches the intruders had brought. The six men and women froze at the sight of the three undead figures emerging from the darkness.
There were four men and two women, all ragged, half-starved, and carrying heavy sacks and makeshift weapons. Their leader, a wiry man with a scarred face and sharp, calculating eyes, raised a rusty blade with shaking hands.
“Undead!” he shouted. “Run! Get out of here!”
Chaos erupted instantly. Two of the smugglers bolted for the side tunnel while the others drew knives and clubs, faces twisted in pure terror. One of the women screamed as she saw Vael’s massive form blocking the main exit like an immovable wall of death.
“Hold!” Darius commanded, his voice booming through the chamber with amplified necrotic power. The smugglers staggered and clutched their heads as his aura of dread washed over them like freezing fog.
The scarred leader dropped to one knee, breathing hard. “Please… we didn’t know anyone was living down here. We were just looking for shelter from the Crown’s patrols. We’ll leave right now. We swear it on our lives.”
Darius studied the group with cold, glowing green sockets. They were starving. Desperate. Their clothes were patched many times over and clearly stolen. One man had fresh whip marks across his back. They were morally gray at best, smugglers who likely sold information and stolen goods to survive in this broken frontier. Killing them would be simple. Efficient. Safe for the secrecy of his new Domain.
“Rhen,” Darius said, his voice completely flat and emotionless. “Kill them. We cannot risk the location of this Domain spreading.”
Rhen stepped forward but stopped after only a few paces. He looked at the terrified group, then back at Darius. “Commander… wait. Look at them. They’re not soldiers. They’re barely alive as it is. If we slaughter every living soul that stumbles into this place, what kind of empire are we actually building? Just another graveyard?”
One of the smugglers, a young woman with sharp features and a missing finger on her left hand, dropped her knife and raised both hands. “We can work. We know every trail and back road in the frontier better than anyone alive. We smuggle food, medicine, weapons. Anything you need. Just don’t kill us. Please.”
Vael stood completely motionless, awaiting orders, but his sheer presence alone made two of the smugglers press themselves desperately against the cold stone wall in fear.
Darius felt the cold logic of the System urging him to eliminate the threat immediately. Secrecy meant survival. But Rhen’s words stirred something stubborn and old inside his hollow chest.
“Rhen makes a fair point,” Darius said slowly, surprising even himself. “Killing you is easy. Useful servants are much harder to find. Swear loyalty to me here and now, and you may live. Serve the Hollow King faithfully, and you will eat and have shelter. Betray me…” He allowed the black mist to thicken dramatically around him. “And you will wish death had come quickly.”
The scarred leader swallowed hard, sweat running down his face. “You’re really him? The commander they said died on the battlefield? The one who’s been tearing apart their patrols lately?”
“I am,” Darius replied coldly. “And I am no longer the man who once served their rotten Crown.”
The smugglers exchanged nervous, desperate glances. The young woman with the missing finger spoke up again. “We’ll swear. We’ve got nothing left anyway. The Crown burned our last camp two days ago and took everything.”
Rhen lowered his sword and stepped closer to the group. “Smart choice. Work with us and you might actually live long enough to see that bastard king fall one day.”
Darius watched them carefully as they knelt one by one, swearing oaths with trembling voices. He could sense their fear, their desperation, and the calculating glint of self-preservation in some of their eyes. They were not truly loyal yet. But they could become useful tools for the empire he was forging.
“Vael,” he ordered. “Take them to the upper barracks. Feed them what we have. Give them basic quarters. Watch them closely. Any sign of betrayal, end them.”
The massive thrall nodded once and began herding the smugglers away down the corridor.
Rhen lingered behind with Darius after the group had been led away. “You made the right call, Commander. Terror has its place, but if you rule only through fear, you’ll end up with nothing but corpses and traitors waiting for the perfect moment to strike.”
Darius said nothing for a long moment. He could feel the cold detachment growing stronger inside him every single day, like ice slowly spreading through his veins. “Perhaps. But mercy is a risk I may not be able to afford much longer.”
As they turned to follow Vael and the new recruits, one of the smugglers, the scarred leader, suddenly tripped over a loose stone in the tunnel floor. A rolled parchment slipped from inside his coat and fell, unfurling slightly across the ground.
Darius’s glowing green sockets narrowed sharply. He reached down and picked up the document. The royal seal of the Holy Crown was clearly visible at the bottom. His eyes scanned the elegant, formal script.
\[Execution Order\]
\[Target: Darius Voss, former Commander of the Northern Legions.\]
\[Crime: High Treason against the Holy Crown.\]
\[Authorized and Signed: His Majesty King Arion Vale.\]
The king’s personal signature at the bottom was bold and unmistakable.
Darius’s grip tightened violently, crumpling the edges of the parchment. The date on the order was from two days before the final battle. They had planned his death well in advance.
Rhen stepped closer, concern in his voice. “What is it, Commander?”
Darius held the document up, the green light from his eyes illuminating the king’s signature clearly.
“Proof,” he said, his voice colder than ever before. “They didn’t just betray me on the battlefield. They sentenced me to death long before I even drew my sword that day.”
The scarred smuggler paled visibly. “We… we stole that from a royal courier two weeks ago. Thought it might be worth something on the black market.”
Darius stared at the royal execution order, the cold rage inside his hollow chest sharpening into something even darker and more focused than before.
The kingdom had signed his death warrant with their own hands.
Now he would sign theirs in blood.