Ashes Of The First Tyrant

The fortress shook.

It began as a low tremor beneath the stone, subtle enough to pass as mountain wind until the vibration deepened, growing louder, stronger, until dust rained from the rafters above Thalen’s bed. He sat up in an instant, half-dressed, blade already in hand.

Outside, a siren wailed low and mournful, not like the usual alert bells. This one was older. Forgotten. A relic for emergencies that hadn’t happened in decades.

Thalen yanked his coat on and sprinted into the hall. Other trainees burst from their rooms, confusion etched into every face. Aura flickered like scattered embers down the corridor as initiates scrambled for their weapons.

Iselle appeared at his side, blades already strapped to her back. "You felt that too?"

"Hard not to," Thalen muttered. "What’s going on?"

"Emergency alarm," she said grimly. "One of the outer sentry banners was destroyed."

Thalen froze. "You mean the protective sigils?"

Iselle nodded. "One of them shattered. Something got through the boundary."

The fortress had dozens of aura-infused banners that hung in the skies around the mountains each a ward of protection, powered by a combination of magic and aura. These banners repelled minor threats and warned of major ones. For one to be shattered meant something had entered the range of the stronghold with the force of a declared war.

The blade in Thalen’s hand hummed faintly, as if even it could sense what approached.