The interior of the Bation was dim, illuminated by pale rays of sunlight leaking through shattered windows.

  Their pallid glow did nothing to warm the space, nor to chase away the sense of wrongness that clung to the air like ancient rot.

  The scene before them was one of complete abandonment.

  Tables overturned, chairs strewn about like refuse.

  Paintings marred by ash and soot.

  Tools of daily life: brooms, pots, pans, washing cloths. Scattered like strange offerings to something long fled.

  Furthermore, a stench lingered, acrid and oily.

  It came and went with the wind threading through broken stone and fractured glass, as though the building itself exhaled decay.

  The scouts moved slowly, blades drawn, shields high.

  They swept each chamber with deliberate caution, opening doors as though they expected the walls themselves to bleed.

  Each step taken with the knowledge that silence could kill.

  But no matter where they went or what corners they checked, every room the same: empty.

  No rebels. No servants. No blood. No corpses.

  Only disorder. All too still, too purposeless to be mere happenstance.

  One of them counted his heartbeats to measure time.

  Two hundred fifty-eight. Two hundred fifty-nine. Two hundred sixty.

  “We have to go,” he whispered. “Time’s up.”

  The other nodded, but then paused.

  A flicker at the edge of his vision held him.

  “Wait.” He murmured back.

  “Enemy?” came the reply. His companion’s grip tightening around his blade’s hilt.

  “No.” He said, lowering his voice further. “Just… odd. I think I saw something. There, near the servant’s quarters. That corner.”

  “I’ll cover you. Go.”

  “Alright.”

  He nodded. Slipped forward low, focused. Shield raised. Eyes narrowing.

  The corner in question lay half-hidden behind broken shelving and discarded linen.

  What caught his attention wasn’t movement, but colour.

  The ash was… wrong.

  It was finer than soot. Duller in colour. Easy to miss among the clutter. As if someone had placed it there on purpose.

  The stench was stronger here.

  Heavier. Clawing.

  More insistent than a rabid beast’s breath.

  He crouched, and narrowed his eyes further. Dipped his fingers into it. Brought them to his nose and nearly gagged.

  The smell struck like a blade to the gut: sulphur, iron, something rotted.

  His body recoiled. Instinct screamed.

  Without hesitation, he smeared the strange dust over his gauntlets and shield, rose, and turned, moving fast. Urgency rising in his throat with every step.

  “Out,” he muttered. “Now.”

  The other took one look at his face and followed. No questions. No delay.

  The return was swift, controlled. But haunted by the stench they carried.

  Outside, Alric stood like a blade sheathed in stone. Eyes fixed on the entrance.

  The moment the two figures emerged from the haze, he raised his fist. His men halted, shields lowered waiting.

  “Report.” His voice flat.

  The lead scout stepped forward, chest rising with effort. Grime streaked across his hands and shield.

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

  “No enemy presence Lord Commander. No traps either. But... the Bastion itself is wrong.”

  Alric’s gaze narrowed. “Speak.”

  The scout continued, gesturing with his ash-smeared shield.

  “The place is in complete chaos. Pots, pans, clothes, ash, soot littered the ground. No blood though, not even the slightest hint of resistance or fighting. It’s as if everybody up and vanished mid-retreat.”

  He paused, then lifted his shield. “And this… powder mixed with the soot. Different texture. Duller. I took the liberty of carrying it out for you to see, sir.”

  Alric didn’t move at first. A knot slowly coming to rest in the pit of his stomach.

  “Smells like?”

  “Rotten eggs and metal.”

  A beat of silence ensued. Alric extended his hand. “Shield.”

  As the scout procured it, Alric brought it to his nose.

  The reaction was slight. His grip tightened on the shield, and his jaw stiffened. But for those who knew him, it was thunder.

  Black powder? Here?

  He didn’t know how, but his mind turned like a siege crank.

  Who gave it to them?

  The scout, reading the darkening line of his commander’s brow, continued his report.

  “The scent was everywhere, sir. Faint. But persistent. It was especially strong near the servants’ quarters, on its floor, hiding beneath the soot, surrounded by shelving and tattered rags.”

  Alric’s gaze steadied on the bastion’s gaping maw.

  “How far to the central hall?”

  “Three rooms, at most.”

  “Any active fires? Torches? Candles?”

  “No sir, just light and ash from outside.”

  Alric waited a moment longer, eyes fixed on the building.

  The Bastion breathed. Not in sound. But in sensation. Something beneath the stones was waiting to exhale.

  His voice sharpened to a spearpoint. “Everyone! fifteen paces back. Eyes on the building!”

  Like a well-oiled gear, the men moved with synchronicity backward, eyes locked forward.

  Then, without turning his head, Alric called out .

  “Klethiar!”

  “Yes, my Lord?”

  “There’s powder in the walls.” Alric said evenly.

  Klethiar straightened his posture, armour clinking as he snapped to attention.

  Alric continued.

  “Send in four sappers fully equipped. Four guards with them. They are to follow the scout’s path precisely.”

  “Tell them to search every corner, every crevice, every join. Counterweights, flame triggers, anything that reeks of subtlety must be dealt with appropriately.”

  He added,”Wet cloths for their faces and hands. Anything smouldering, they snuff it out."

  Klethiar thumped his chest. “As you command.”

  He moved quickly, calling out names, selecting men who had survived worse, who had crawled through the ruins of Liliare still wet with fire. Trusted hands in cursed places.

  A beat later the scout took over the briefing sketching a rough layout in the ash with a dagger, marking the servants’ quarters and the spot where he found the powder.

  He lifted his hands again and let the smell do the rest.

  When all was ready, the second team crossed the threshold, disappearing through the breach like phantoms.

  Then, silence.

  The kind that makes steel feel heavier in the hand. The kind that teaches men how to know gods exist.

  Alric stood unmoving, every heartbeat a heavy strike against his ribs.

  His fingers closed around the shaft of his spear as if choking a thought he dared not to speak.

  Time stretched. The world outside the Bastion became a distant echo.

  Boulders smashing against wood and stone.

  Men fighting to the death.

  Wails of agony stripped of humanity, leaving only desire behind.

  All. A distant. Sound.

  As if to break a spell, a figure emerged. Ashen. Gaunt. Eyes too wide.

  The sapper raised a hand.

  All clear.

  Alric exhaled. “Report.”

  The man stepped forward and spoke with the stiffness of someone who hadn’t stopped living the memory.

  “There’s powder. Everywhere.”

  He gestured with his hands, pointing back at the Bastion.

  “Lines of it. They’re thin and buried. They pass through floorboards, cracks in the walls, even broken furniture. Everything is smeared with it”

  “All of it leads to the great hall at the centre.”

  Alric’s brow furrowed. “Any traps?”

  “None that we saw. No wires. No obvious fire triggers. But the powder… it’s like a web. Laid down with carefulness of hands and mind.”

  The sapper paused, his voice dropping low.

  “We… we also found who we presume to be the rebel commander.”

  Alric’s stare sharpened. “Speak.”

  “He’s strapped to a chair in the middle of the great hall. Barely holding on to life. No guards.”

  Silence descended once again. This time like steel draped over his mouth.

  Mutiny? Possibly. But why leave him in a powder-laid bomb? A trap? But where’s the match?

  The one who threw the ceramic pot? A martyr?

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes, my Lord.” The sapper said quietly. “We think it’s ceremonial. A hex of some kind maybe. Nothing we know of though.”

  Alric’s jaw tensed. “Circle?”

  “Yes Lord. The entire great hall is a ritual circle drawn with black powder.”

  Alric said nothing. His gaze became stone.

  A breath passed. Then another.

  “Drawn with it?”

  “Yes, my Lord. Carefully laid. Symbols we do not recognize. Designs we’ve never seen.”

  Alric looked past the sapper, into the gaping mouth of the cursed house.

  Then: “I’ll see it myself.”

  Klethiar interjected immediately.

  “But, My Lord-”

  “This matter is mine to end.”

  His voice cut through any remaining protest. There would be no more discussion.

  “You remain here. Secure the perimeter. If anything moves, you strike it down. If anything screams, you run.”

  Klethiar saluted, jaw clenching. “Yes, my Lord.”

  Alric turned, already moving. He selected seven elite Stormguard. Cloaked in blackened bronze and grey.

  Each man had earned their place.

  One took a blade meant for Alric. Another strangled a traitor with a broken bowstring when all weapons were lost. Another yet had braved two-hundred men alone, killing them all in a single night, hand contorting around the hilt of his blade.

  None needed words. All understood the weight of this march.

  Together, they passed through the breach. The jagged stone seemed to inhale as they entered, like a mouth swallowing hope.

  The corridor greeted them with oppressive silence and the unquenchable stench of decay and metal.

  It came and went in wafts of misery, curling through the broken windows like dead hands.

  They moved deeper past shattered doors, narrow halls, empty chambers where life had fled as if warned.

  But with every step, Alric could feel it tightening.

  Something pulling at the edges of reason, watching.

  The cracking of glass and rustling of metal announced their arrival to the shadows below.

  And then, a whisper without echo. A sound without maker.

  Breath, without lungs.