THE CURSED AND THE CROWN

The Chase Begins

The ashlands did not welcome night kindly.

The horizon still smoldered faintly from the day’s dying sun, but already the dark pressed in, swallowing the burnt skeletons of trees and the broken spires of stone that jutted from the earth like jagged teeth. Lyra pulled her cloak tighter, though the chill came not from wind but from the eerie stillness. Every sound—her breath, the crunch of her boots, the shift of her satchel—echoed far too loudly in a land that seemed made of silence.

Kael walked ahead, his stride purposeful, his figure a dark silhouette against the dimming glow. He hadn’t spoken since they left the ridge where the Creed scouts nearly found them. His hand hovered near his sword hilt, fingers twitching now and again, like a man who expected violence at any moment.

Lyra hated the quiet between them. It let her thoughts run too freely, chasing shadows she didn’t want to face.

She reached up to touch the satchel at her side. The shard pulsed faintly through the worn leather, a throb that quickened like a heartbeat when she pressed her palm against it. Each glow was brief, a whisper of violet light before sinking again into stillness. But it was happening more often now.

As though it knew something.

As though it hungered.

Lyra swallowed. “It’s been doing this since the fire, hasn’t it?” she said softly.

Kael slowed, just enough to glance over his shoulder. His face was unreadable in the gloom, but his eyes caught what little light remained, sharp and watchful. “Doing what?”

“You know what,” she said, forcing steadiness into her voice. “The shard. The light.”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he turned back, resuming his stride as though her words were little more than noise in the wind. “Relics are unpredictable. That’s why people fear them. You’d be wise to do the same.”

“I do fear it,” Lyra admitted, her hand still pressed to the satchel. “But fear doesn’t explain why it feels… alive.” She hesitated. “Why it feels like it’s leading us.”

That made him stop.

He turned fully this time, facing her with an intensity that made her breath hitch. “Don’t ever say that aloud again,” he said, low, sharp. His gaze flicked to the horizon, scanning the endless gray. “Not where ears might hear.”

A chill slithered down her spine. “Ears?” she whispered. “We’re alone out here.”

“No one is alone when they carry what you do.” His jaw clenched. Then his expression softened—just a fraction. “The Creed has hounds. They don’t need to see you to find you. They’ll hear every careless word, every heartbeat the shard betrays.”

As if to mock his warning, a distant sound rose on the wind.

A howl.

Low, guttural, echoing across the wastes.

Lyra’s blood froze.

Another answered it, closer this time, carrying a guttural timbre that no natural beast possessed. The hairs on her arms stood on end.

She looked at Kael, searching his face for reassurance, but found none. His expression hardened into cold resolve as he drew his sword in one fluid motion, the steel catching what little twilight remained.

“They’ve unleashed the trackers,” he said grimly.

“Trackers?” Her voice broke on the word.

“Hounds bred in fire, fed on blood.” He stepped closer, his presence suddenly overwhelming, steady in a way that made her cling to it. “Once they’re on a trail, they don’t stop. Not until they’ve torn through flesh and bone.”

Lyra’s throat tightened. “You mean… they’re coming for me.”

“For the shard,” he corrected, though his gaze lingered on her longer than it should have. “But they’ll kill anyone in their way.”

The howls rose again, closer, layered with the rhythmic clang of pursuit—boots striking stone, armor rattling. The Creed was moving swiftly, herding them like prey.

Panic clawed at her ribs. “What do we do?”

Kael didn’t hesitate. “We run.”

He grabbed her wrist, pulling her into motion. She stumbled but followed, boots kicking up puffs of ash as they sprinted across the barren slope. Her lungs burned, her satchel thumped against her side with each step, and all the while the shard pulsed harder, brighter, until violet light bled faintly through the leather as though mocking their attempt to hide.

“They’ll see it!” she gasped.

Kael’s grip tightened, pulling her along. “Then we need somewhere they can’t follow.”

The land ahead sloped downward, where broken stone gave way to a shadowy depression. Lyra squinted, her eyes straining against the deepening dark. At first, she saw nothing but rubble. Then she realized—there was an opening.

A jagged wound in the earth.

Kael angled toward it without hesitation, his strides long and sure. Lyra stumbled after him, her heart hammering, the sound of pursuit closing in with terrifying speed.

Another howl split the night.

Closer.

This time, Lyra swore she could hear the snapping of jaws within it.

The jagged wound in the earth yawned wider as they neared, a hollow fracture where stone had collapsed long ago. Vines as black as tar hung down like grasping fingers, shivering as Lyra and Kael shoved through.

The opening was little more than a crumbling arch of fractured rock, half-swallowed by ash and roots. At first glance it seemed like nothing more than a ruin, but as Lyra stumbled inside, gasping for breath, she realized it wasn’t just a cave.

Stone steps descended into darkness.

Ancient. Worn smooth by feet long vanished, yet still strong enough to bear their weight.

Kael didn’t pause. He hauled her down the stairs, his sword hand tight, the faint scrape of steel echoing in the confined space. Behind them, the night exploded with noise—howls so loud the walls quivered, and the crash of armored men forcing their way through the vines.

The shard throbbed so violently in her satchel that Lyra nearly cried out.

It was alive—burning against her hip, pulsing in rhythm with the hounds’ cries, as though answering them.

“Kael—” Her voice cracked, but he cut her off.

“Keep moving.”

The descent seemed endless, shadows swallowing them whole until the faint starlight above was gone. The air grew colder, thick with the smell of damp stone and something older—dust and decay, but beneath it, a strange metallic tang that burned the back of her throat.

Lyra fumbled, her foot catching on uneven stone. Kael’s hand shot back, steadying her before she pitched forward. His grip was firm, grounding, and for a brief moment, his touch cut through the suffocating dark.

He released her just as quickly. “Stay close. Don’t fall behind.”

“I wouldn’t—if I could see anything,” she muttered.

He didn’t respond. Instead, he lifted a hand to the wall, brushing along grooves until his fingers found something. Lyra heard a sharp strike—the hiss of flint against steel. Sparks flared, then a torch caught, blooming with sudden flame.

The flickering light chased shadows back, revealing what lay ahead.

Lyra froze.

The walls weren’t bare stone. They were carved.

Murals stretched along the tunnel’s length, faded with age but still visible in the trembling glow. Tall figures robed in flowing garments, their hands raised to the heavens. Crowns shaped like wings, like flame, like thorns. A veil of shadow separating one side of the mural from the other—humans on one side, monstrous shapes on the other, their eyes painted in stark crimson pigment that had barely faded despite the centuries.

Between them, small shards glittered in the carvings. Not painted—embedded. Real fragments of crystal, set into the walls like stars frozen in stone.

The shard in Lyra’s satchel flared in response.

Her knees weakened, and she pressed her back against the wall, staring. “What is this place?”

Kael’s face flickered in the torchlight. His eyes were sharp, scanning the murals as if he’d expected them all along. “The catacombs,” he said quietly. “Remnants of the first war. When the Veil was born.”

Lyra swallowed, her gaze snagging on the shards in the wall. They looked identical to the one in her satchel, save that theirs had no glow. Dead. Empty. “Why are there—”

“Quiet.”

Kael’s command was sharp, his head snapping toward the stairs behind them.

From above came the clatter of pursuit. Boots, claws, guttural snarls. The Creed’s hounds were inside.

Lyra’s heart leapt to her throat. “They’re coming down.”

Kael’s jaw tightened. He raised the torch higher, scanning the tunnel. “Then we go deeper.”

He pulled her forward again, torchlight throwing grotesque shadows across the murals. The tunnel twisted, narrow and uneven, forcing them to half-stumble through. The sound of pursuit grew closer with every breath, claws scraping stone, the scent of ash and rot thickening until Lyra gagged.

Her satchel vibrated violently now, the shard’s light leaking through seams in frantic bursts. It burned against her side, searing her skin until she nearly tore it free to throw it away.

She didn’t. Somehow, she knew that would be worse.

The passage opened suddenly into a vast chamber. The ceiling arched high above, lost in shadow, its stone ribs etched with the same veiled figures from before. In the center stood a broken altar, shattered into three pieces, each carved with runes that glimmered faintly as the shard’s light touched them.

Lyra stumbled to a halt, transfixed.

The shard pulsed brighter—so bright she feared the Creed could see it from the surface.

Kael extinguished the torch with a sharp motion, plunging them into near-darkness broken only by the shard’s glow.

Lyra turned to him, whispering fiercely. “Why would you—”

He pressed a hand over her mouth, silencing her. His other hand went to his sword.

From the tunnel behind them, the first of the hounds’ howls echoed into the chamber.