The air within the guild hall was stifling, heavy with distrust and the constant threat of betrayal. Tension seeped through its corridors, an unseen force that made every creak of the floorboards sound like the prelude to chaos.

Kiaran sat alone within the dim glow of his chamber, his hand resting on the cold, jagged edge of the relic embedded in his chest. It pulsed faintly, with a rhythm unnatural and gut-wrenchingly mocking in its suggestion of heartbeat. Closing his eyes, he saw once more in stark clarity the vision from the night before: flames that devoured everything in their path, cacophony of screams, and at heart, a towering figure in impenetrable darkness. The figure had spoken-not in words, but in a presence so overwhelming it seemed as though the world itself bent to its will.

Kiaran's jaw shut hard as the memory took hold. The rebellion against Lysander consumed every waking moment, but this vision spoke of something far greater, far more horrible. Was he playing at being a pawn in a petty guild war, or was his fight stirring forces best left slumbering?

A sharp knock at the door shattered his thoughts. His hand instinctively went for his blade.

"Enter," he said, his voice steady despite the turmoil within.

The door creaked open, revealing Alaric, his grizzled face etched with grim determination. His hand hovered near the pommel of his sword—a habit that betrayed his unease.

"We have a problem," Alaric said, skipping any pretense of formality.

"We always have problems," Kiaran replied, gesturing for him to speak.

"The eastern safe house," said Alaric his voice heavy with weight, "is gone. Lysander's men caught it at dawn. Left no one alive."

Kiaran's fingers dug into the edge of his chair. The safe house to the east was supposed to be more than just a refuge, but a symbol of resistance and a beacon for those still loyal to him. Its fall was not just any loss in the battle tactics; it was a message.

"And the others?"

Alaric hesitated, a crack in his usually impenetrable demeanor. "Compromised. Lysander's faction is tightening the noose around us faster than we anticipated. If this keeps up, we will have nowhere to hide by the end of the week."

Kiaran stood up, the weight of the situation crushing him like an anvil. "Call the others. We need to regroup now."

It happened in the hidden regions of the guild's western wing, far away from prying eyes and prying ears. The room was dimly lit, elongating shadows on the walls that seemed to mirror the fractured trust among the gathered rebels.

"We are running out of choices," Rhea said, her voice edged with frustration. She paced the room like a caged animal, her fiery red hair catching the flicker of the torchlight. "Every move we make, Lysander is already there, waiting. It's like he's reading our minds." A murmur of agreement rippled through the room.

"Because someone is feeding him our plans," Kiaran said, his voice cutting through the din like a blade. His eyes swept across the group, illuminating the faces in brief flashes of light and shadow. "We have a traitor." The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. "Are you accusing one of us?" Alaric asked, his tone measured, though his hand drifted closer to his sword.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"I'm stating a fact," Kiaran said, his voice frosty. "And until we find out who the traitor is, no one is beyond suspicion."

The room went still. Eyebrows flutter nervously; factions and reservations emerging in the unspoken depths of glances.

"Enough," Alaric said finally, breaking the tension. "We haven't got time for this. If we waste energy tearing each other apart, Lysander wins without lifting a finger."

He was right, of course. Kiaran nodded, but the steel remained unyielding in his eyes. "For now, we've got to keep our eyes on the battle at hand. But mark my words: I will find the one who betrayed us."

They had a target-the supply caravan headed out with arms and rations to the loyalist strongholds of Lysander. It would be an easy mission-to strike hard, take what they came for, and be long gone before the reinforcements could arrive. Yet as Kiaran guided his team through the twisted passages of the guild, unease nipped at the edges of his mind.

The air had been still, the shadows too deep. Every torch-lit flicker seemed to hide unseen eyes.

"Hold," he whispered, raising a hand to check the group.

The stillness went from glass-breaking sharp to deafening crash as Lysander's men exploded from hidden alcoves, blades shining in flickering torchlight.

It's a trap! Kiaran yelled, drawing his sword just in time to parry a strike aimed at his neck.

It was chaos now. The narrow corridor was a hellscape of clashing steel and cries of pain. Kiaran fought like a madman, every movement precise and deadly. Even as he cut down his enemies, his mind raced. Someone had betrayed them – once again.

"Fall back!" he yelled, his voice clear over the turmoil. "Regroup at the western courtyard!"

The retreat was a disorganized mess, the band of men scattering like leaves in the wind. Kiaran was the last one to withdraw, hacking through the enemy lines with brutal efficiency.

They finally regrouped in the semidarkness of the western courtyard, fewer in number, faces pale with exhaustion and fear.

“How did they know?” Rhea demanded, her voice shaking with fury. “How did they know exactly where we’d be?”

Kiaran didn’t answer immediately. His eyes scanned the group, searching for signs of guilt, for the smallest crack in the façade of innocence. “We were betrayed,” he said finally, his voice like ice.

“That’s ridiculous,” Alaric said, though the uncertainty in his tone betrayed him.

"Is it?" Kiaran retorted. "How do you explain tonight?"

The group dissolved into a cacophony of charges and denials, their unity tumbling before his eyes. He allowed them to continue arguing while his mind already went on to the next step.

Later that night, Kiaran found Selene in the depths of the guild, her dark robes blending seamlessly with the shadows. Her presence was almost spectral, her eyes gleaming like shards of obsidian in the dim light.

“You’ve seen it, haven’t you?” she asked before he could speak.

“The shadow,” Kiaran replied, his voice heavy with weariness.

Selene nodded. "This is no simple phantom of your curse," she said. "What you saw is only a part of something much older, much darker. And it awakens on account of you."

"On account of me?" Kiaran's patience wore thin, his voice edgy. "What does it want?

"It doesn't want," Selene said, her voice cryptic and haunting. "It takes. Your rebellion is not the battle you think it is. With every step you take, every choice you make, you draw closer to awakening something that should remain buried."

"Stop speaking in riddles," he snapped. "Tell me what I'm fighting."

Selene paused, her face an unreadable mask. "The shadow is bound to the source of your curse, Kiaran," she said at last. "Not a power—it is a creature, old and starving. And it has waited centuries for something like you.

Her words chilled him to the bone, but he had no time to think of them. The rebellion needed his attention, even as the shadow spread its darkness across the outskirts of his mind.

For it was on his way back to his quarters that the vision came again, with an intensity now far surpassing the first. The shadowy figure stood amidst the flames, its presence a stifling burial. And this time, it spoke.

You cannot escape me, Kiaran," it said, its voice a deep, resonant whisper that seemed to echo from the depths of his soul. "You are mine."

He sat up with a start, the words still echoing in his head. The rebellion would continue, but Kiaran now knew what the stakes were truly he was about to begin his fight against Lysander.