Chapter 3 - SHADOWS OF THE ORDER
The woods erupted in violence.
The fifty shadow-knights charged forward, their obsidian blades trailing dark fire. Simultaneously, the automated turret towers of Black Ridge Garrison turned toward the tree line, their heavy machine guns spinning up with a terrifying mechanical whine.
Trrrrrrrrrrrr!
A hail of high-caliber armor-piercing rounds tore through the forest, shredding pine trees and kicking up clouds of snow and soil.
"Rowan, get down!" Lyra screamed, drawing twin pulse-pistols from her belt. She didn't shoot at Rowan—she turned and fired point-blank into the chest of the nearest shadow-knight, the high-tech plasma bolts blasting the warrior backward into the snow.
Rowan didn't have time to process her loyalty. His instincts, forged through years of heavy labor and awakened by the ancient king's armor, took over.
He raised his starlight broadsword. The blade ignited with a blinding surge of icy energy. He swung it in a wide arc.
SWOOSH!
A crescent wave of frozen force exploded outward, colliding with the oncoming storm of bullets. The rounds frozen mid-air, dropping uselessly into the snow like hail. The shockwave continued forward, slamming into the first line of shadow-knights and freezing them solid in mid-stride.
Alaric’s eyes widened in rage. "Useless fools! Use the Null-Casters!"
Three priests stepped forward, pulling heavy metallic canisters from their robes. They slammed the devices onto the ground. Instantly, a dark purple sphere of energy expanded, wrapping around Rowan and Lyra.
The moment the purple light touched Rowan, the magical glow of his armor flickered and died. The heavy starlight sword became immensely heavy, nearly slipping from his grasp. The icy needles in his blood turned to lead.
"My magic..." Rowan gasped, dropping to his knees.
"It's an anti-ether generator," Lyra gritted her teeth, firing her pistols at the priests, but the plasma bolts dissolved harmlessly against the purple field. "It suppresses all magical energy within fifty yards! We're trapped!"
Alaric walked forward slowly, a cruel smile spreading across his scarred face. He raised his ceremonial staff, its crimson tip gleaming with unholy light that seemed immune to the anti-ether field.
"The Ashford bloodline was always arrogant," Alaric mocked, standing over Rowan. "You think a shiny suit of armor makes you a king? You are a blacksmith's boy, Rowan. You belong in the dirt, breathing in smoke and soot."
Alaric raised his staff, aiming the sharp iron point at Rowan’s throat.
"Any last words for your father? I will be sure to deliver them before I cut his head off."
Rowan glared up at the Commander. Despite the suppressing field draining his energy, despite the cold steel near his skin, he felt no fear. He felt only the stubborn, unyielding iron of his upbringing.
"Yeah," Rowan spat, blood dripping from his cracked lip. "I have a message."
Rowan reached down to his belt, where he kept a small, heavy ball-peen hammer—the tool his father had given him on his tenth birthday, the only item he had taken from the forge when the soldiers dragged him away.
It had no magic. It had no runes. It was just dense, solid steel.
With a sudden, violent movement, Rowan lunged forward, sweeping his leg to knock Alaric’s staff aside, and swung the heavy iron hammer with all the strength in his blacksmith’s arm directly into Alaric’s knee.
CRACK!
Alaric screamed in agony as his kneecap shattered beneath the non-magical, blunt-force trauma. The Commander collapsed into the snow, dropping his dark crystal.
The crystal hit a sharp rock and shattered.
The moment the dark artifact broke, the anti-ether field flickered and collapsed.
Magic rushed back into Rowan’s veins like a roaring river breaking a dam. The midnight-blue armor flared back to life with terrifying brilliance. The starlight sword blazed with blinding celestial light.
“NOW, YOUNG KING!” Vaelith’s voice echoed across the mountainside.
A shadow larger than a warship swept over the forest. Vaelith dived from the clouds, his pale ivory wings cutting through the night air. The dragon opened his jaws and unleashed a torrent of blue dragon-fire upon the garrison's turret towers, turning the high-tech defenses into molten slag in seconds.
The shadow-knights panicked, scattering in all directions as the sky turned to ice and fire.
Rowan stood up, towering over the groaning Alaric Vane. He raised his foot and slammed it onto Alaric’s chest, pinning the commander to the frozen ground.
"Where is Marcus?" Rowan demanded, pointing his blazing sword at Alaric’s eyes.
Alaric coughed up blood, laughing maniacally despite the pain. "You... you think saving him changes anything? The Grand Trustee... Lyra's father... he has already activated the Sub-Level protocols. If you enter that prison, you enter a tomb!"
Lyra stepped up beside Rowan, her face pale. "He's telling the truth about Sub-Level Three. My father installed a self-destruct system filled with liquid thermite. If the base sensors detect an intruder near the high-security cells, the whole facility melts."
Rowan looked down at Alaric, his jaw set. "Then we'd better be quick."
Rowan knocked Alaric unconscious with the pommel of his sword. He turned to Lyra. "Are you coming, or are you going back to your father?"
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Lyra reloaded her pulse-pistols, her eyes locked onto his with unwavering determination. "My father chose his side a long time ago. It's time I chose mine."
Together, shielded by the chaos Vaelith was creating above the garrison, Rowan and Lyra sprinted toward the side entrance of the underground bunker, plunging into the dark, mechanical belly of Black Ridge.
