Nolan turned away and continued forward, cloak trailing like a shadow swallowed by the corridor. Alaric and Dalvin fell in step behind him, their blades sheathed but their muscles ready, the light from the arena catching on every edge of their armor.

They walked as they spoke, the stone stairs beneath their boots ringing with each measured step. The hall felt vast and empty, an echo chamber for danger, yet packed with the kind of silence that makes small sounds shout.

"Hey, where are you taking us? Where are we going?" Dalvin called out, voice brittle with irritation and a shot of pride. He kept his hand near his sword, the motion small but obvious.

Nolan didn't break his stride. He kept his gaze forward as if the path itself answered him. "Please, shh, shh, watch and see," Nolan said. His tone was soft, almost bored, but every syllable pulled attention like a hook.

Dalvin bristled. "But if you don't want to do that, just shut up or get the fuck away. There's no need for you to come." The words hit the corridor like a snapped wire, sharp and public. For a moment everyone around them seemed to lean in.

"Are you what the hell did you just say? Have you forgotten I'm the hero? I could slash you right now and nothing's going to be done," Dalvin snapped back, pride flaring hot enough to color his face. He straightened, trying to make himself look larger, ready to prove he still commanded respect.

Nolan stopped. The movement was small but the room reacted like thunder rolling in. He turned and looked at him with cold eyes, unchanging, unblinking, a look that made the heat drain from Dalvin's bravado. The air around Nolan tightened; it felt like a low wind before a storm, the kind that makes loose things hush.

"The moment you turn your sword against me, you become my enemy," Nolan said, each word steady and precise. His presence rose like pressure in a sealed room. "If that happens, I will erase your existence."

The sentence hung between them, impossible and absolute. Dalvin's hand hovered at his hilt, then froze. For all his talk of honors and titles, he could not move past the line Nolan drew with a single look. The color left Dalvin's cheeks; his mouth opened, then closed.

Alaric's jaw worked. He glanced from Nolan to Dalvin and felt the tension the way a man feels a rope tighten around his throat. He took one step forward, not to challenge, but to steady the fragile calm.

Around them, the corridor's torchlight seemed to dim, shadows lengthening as if to give Nolan alone the space he required. The three of them were a trio cut out of a frame: hero, challenger, and the quiet force that had just become ruler of the moment.

Dalvin swallowed. His pride cracked like thin ice under weight. He didn't reach for his sword. He only stood there, chest rising and falling fast, forced into silence by something colder than fear: the knowledge that he'd been measured and found irrelevant.

Nolan resumed walking. The three advanced as one, each step carrying them deeper into whatever lay ahead, into the dark heart of the problem Nolan had come to solve. Behind them, echoes faded; ahead, the unknown waited, and the air smelled faintly of ozone and old magics.

They kept walking. Darkness swallowed the stairwell, a pressure that made every torchlight seem small and stubborn. No one stopped. The three moved like shadows threading into the earth, boots whispering against stone. The air smelled of old smoke and locked doors.

Nolan paused, dropped his hand to the cold floor, and let his fingers press into the cracked marble. Then, with the same quiet force he used in the arena, he punched the stone.

The tile gave. It sank, a deep groan echoing down into the vault below. A hidden block shattered outward, and a yawning staircase revealed itself, a throat of black steps spiraling down with no clear end.

"What is this staircase? Where did it lead to?" Alaric asked, the torchlight throwing anxious shadows across his face.

"Well, I don't know," Nolan said, eyes narrowed, voice low. "But I know something's not right. It shouldn't be here." The single sentence hung like a warning.

Dalvin looked at Nolan and said nothing; his hands rested near his sword, every muscle taut.

They advanced. The stairwell swallowed light, but further down small wooden braziers, rough-hewn wartime relics, had been lit. Their flames guttered as if breathing in fear, throwing withered light against wet stone. Whoever had made this place had tried to hide it in plain sight; whoever had lit those fires wanted someone to find it.

"Someone is here," Alaric murmured.

"It doesn't belong," Nolan said. "Keep moving."

They descended. Their footsteps rang in the long throat of the stairwell, a steady metronome. As they reached the lower landing, Nolan felt the hairs on his neck prick; someone was watching.

A figure darted from the shadows. He ran fast, small and desperate, his mouth moving in a frantic shape as he sprinted to warn a hidden master. The man's head turned once and froze as he saw Nolan, Alaric, and Dalvin.

Alaric braced to stop him. Nolan only raised a hand, still, a single motion that said more than a shout. "Don't," Nolan said. He let his hand fall. "Let him lead us. He'll show us where the boss hides."

They ran after the man. The rooftop of the underground chamber opened into a maze of low halls. The runner moved blind with fear, weaving between pillars and crates, trying to put distance between himself and the hunters behind him.

Then, abruptly, he stopped. He turned and faced them, eyes wild. "Why are you following me? Get away!" he spat. "If you come closer I'll kill you. Don't make me use my sword!"

Dalvin bared his teeth. "Such an insolent bastard," he snapped. He launched forward, blade rising in a practiced arc, swift, unapologetic.

The man's plea was cut short. Dalvin's sword split the air, and before anyone could process the motion, he struck true. The runner fell, cut clean. There was a wetness on the stone where he landed.

"Hey, yo, why did you kill him?" Alaric demanded, breath coming quick with shock and a flash of anger.

Dalvin wiped his blade on the man's cloak as if brushing dust from armor. "Someone like him isn't meant to live," he said, voice blunt. "He's evil. Evil must be killed."

Alaric's jaw tightened. "That wasn't necessary," he said quietly, eyes lingering on the fallen man.

Nolan's gaze slid between them, unreadable. "There's no need for you to keep yapping," he said, voice level. "Let's move."

They cut through the shadowed halls, the tension wound tight as a drawn bow. Every footstep might be a signal, every echo an alarm. The place smelled of old plans and newer betrayals; the deeper they went, the more Nolan felt the threads of something organized, patient, and dangerous.

Behind them, the dead courier lay still, one more small consequence in a house built for uglier things. Ahead, the stairwell wound deeper into the earth, and Nolan's cloak trailed the darkness like a banner leading them on.

As they kept moving, Nolan felt it before any sound reached them, a prickling at the base of his skull, that old warning-itch that meant danger. Zuru felt it too; the bond between them flared, a tremor like a second heartbeat. Nolan's hand tightened on his cloak.

They picked up speed, following the trembling runner through a narrow passage that stank of oil and old torches. The stone turned, the air grew colder, and then the corridor opened into a wide chamber, an arena sunk beneath the earth. Overhead, harsh electric lamps hummed, casting stark pools of light and long, hungry shadows.

In the center of that underground ring lay Zuru. He was down on the dusty floor, chest heaving, coat ragged, defeated, or at least badly wounded. Nolan's breath hitched. The beast looked up as they entered, eyes glassy with fatigue.

Alaric and Dalvin stopped short, staring. Nolan didn't want them to know the full extent of his bond with beasts, the way he could call, calm, and bind them. He flicked his fingers once, the motion small and private, and Zuru vanished as if folded into shadow.

"Idiot," Alaric muttered under his breath. "He summoned Zuru, what was that? Where did it go?"

"No idea," Dalvin's voice was tight. "One second it's there in the stand, the next it leapt into the middle of the arena. What the hell is he playing at?"

They didn't have long to speculate. A figure moved from the gloom at the far edge of the ring, a man whose face was completely covered, the cloth hiding every feature. He stepped forward, calm, like a conductor to a dark symphony. In his hand he rolled a stick between his fingers and pointed it at Nolan. At the staff's tip, a young rod flared alive in hungry orange flame, a narrow spear of fire that hissed and licked the air.

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