Chapter 15: Into the Corner
798 Words
Chapter 15: Into the Corner
Rowan bowed with a fluid motion, polished and precise.
"As you command. Follow me."
Before anyone could move, Aric Blackthorn’s voice sliced through the air like a scalpel dipped in frost.
"Just me and Seris."
Darius Blackthorn flinched. A sudden frown contorted his face. He stepped forward, that trademark Blackthorn authority radiating from every pore.
"I'm afraid that—"
His words died on his lips. A slow, cold sweat trickled down his spine. The chill wasn't physical—it was ancestral.
He turned.
Rowan’s eyes had found him.
And they weren’t just looking. They were daring.
‘Is he threatening me?’
The question laced itself with fury as Darius’s jaw clenched. His aura roared to life, a maelstrom of crimson psionic heat flooding the air. The ground beneath his boots cracked from pressure alone.
He was no mere officer—he was a captain of the Sovereign’s Faction, the high seat of Blackthorn supremacy.
Rowan might wear the title of Blood Champion, but so did he.
To have a mutt from Black Reach, that sunless gutter of the clan, challenge his standing?
Unthinkable.
Then…
Silence.
Unnatural, absolute.
A coldness that sucked the breath from the lungs.
Darius looked around—and froze.
Every Black Reach warrior who had once kept their eyes trained on Aric now stared directly at him.
It started subtly. The twitch of a hand. The turn of a shoulder.
Then:
Killing intent.
It rolled through the courtyard like fog from a cursed fen, slow and inevitable.
One by one, the warriors reached for weapons, some brushing hilts with ritual reverence, others clenching fists until their knuckles shone pale.
He wasn’t a direct bloodline.
He was an outsider.
And outsiders didn’t threaten their own.
Not in Black Reach.
All it would take was one word from Rowan. Just one. And they’d lacerate Darius into forgotten meat.
His hand itched. The blade was there. Begging.
"What is the meaning of—"
"The Blood Sovereign himself," Rowan said, voice quiet but sharpened like obsidian glass, "has ordered me to escort the Ninth Vein to the Pit."
Temperature dropped like a guillotine.
He hadn’t raised his aura. He hadn’t screamed.
But power doesn’t need volume.
"It is the Ninth Vein’s right to choose his companions."
Rowan’s gaze didn’t blink.
"Do you plan to defy your Sovereign, Captain Darius?"
Air snapped taut. Reality thinned.
Knuckles tightened around steel. The eyes of Black Reach blazed.
A subordinate leaned close to Darius, voice like a dying ember.
"Captain… we’re outnumbered."
Rage flooded Darius's bloodstream like venom.
'That bastard. He boxed me in.'
Defiance would be rebellion. Resistance would trigger war.
All he wanted was to watch Aric break. To see the cracks crawl across that always-too-still face.
To see him flinch. To scream. To shatter.
But now…
Nothing.
Not even a glance.
Aric Blackthorn had ignored him. Entirely.
With clenched teeth, Darius spun on his heel, consumed by the burn of stolen satisfaction.
Rowan nodded once, a blade-smooth gesture, and turned.
"This way, Ninth Vein."
Aric and Seris followed without a word.
The warriors of Black Reach parted like a tide, their expressions unreadable. Pity flickered behind some eyes. Curiosity behind others.
Black Reach was the South’s graveyard, far from the gleaming halls of the Western Blackthorn Dome.
To those from the capital, these southern dogs weren’t even clan—they were shadow blood, exile-born and influence-starved.
They understood Aric. In their own way.
Not that it mattered.
No one would save him.
Maybe in his next life.
The fortress that loomed ahead wasn’t part of the Dome. It stood kilometers out, behind a wall that stretched into oblivion.
Rowan led them around the main gate to a smaller side structure. Humble in design. A breeding shed.
Gravethorns.
Creatures carved from primal muscle and engineered nerve. The shed thrummed with quiet snarls, hooves scraping, horns grinding against stone.
A warrior greeted them with a stiff bow, face carved in discipline.
"Ninth Vein. Blood Champion Rowan."
"Three mounts."
No argument.
Moments later, three beasts emerged, reins taut with anticipation.
Rowan gestured.
"The Pit lies beyond barren roads. These are faster than marching."
Aric approached his Gravethorn in silence.
It loomed. A mass of flesh, dark green skin stretched over battle-born bone, horn glinting like a killing fang. Its tail flicked with disinterest.
He reached forward, hand calm and cold.
The Gravethorn shivered.
Then, it froze.
Stared.
And bowed.
No training could explain it.
Even beasts knew their betters.
Seris had already mounted hers. For the first time… she met Aric’s eyes.
And didn’t look away.
Direct gaze between a maid and a direct descendant was punishable by death.
But Seris didn’t blink.
Didn’t flinch.
Something swam behind her eyes.
Something she wasn’t ready to say.
- Writer
