Cursed-Soul-Chapter 20: The Trembling Throne-

Keiran moved swiftly, weaving through the panicked crowd, his focus on the children. He reached the young girl, scooping her up into his arms.

"You're safe now," he murmured, setting her down behind a stack of crates. "Stay hidden."

Vael engaged with the guards, his movements a blur. His dagger found its mark repeatedly, disarming and incapacitating without lethal intent.

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Selara swiftly delivered kicks to the guards and blocking them to advance and providing cover for fleeing townsfolk.

Captain Aric's eyes locked onto Keiran. Recognizing him, a sneer curled his lips.

"You," he spat, drawing his sword. "You're the cause of this insubordination."

Keiran faced him, the weight of the key pressing against his chest. "The Selection ends today."

Aric lunged, his blade aiming for Keiran's heart.

Keiran sidestepped, the world around him sharpening. He felt the energy within, the same force that had knocked the guard earlier.

He focused, channeling it.

The ground beneath Aric's feet trembled, causing him to stumble.

Seizing the advantage, Keiran delivered a swift kick, sending Aric sprawling.

"Retreat!" Aric commanded, signaling his men. "Fall back to the factory!"

The guards obeyed, retreating in formation, leaving the wounded and the cages behind.

The square quieted, the townsfolk staring in stunned silence.

Keiran turned to the crowd. "No more will we live in fear. The Selection is over. Stand with us, and we'll reclaim our town."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the assembly. Hope, a long-forgotten sentiment, flickered in their eyes.

As night enveloped Eldermire, Keiran, Vael, and Selara convened in their lodging.

"We've made a statement," Vael began, "but Armon won't take this lightly."

Selara nodded. "He'll retaliate. We need to be prepared."

Keiran retrieved the key from around his neck, placing it on the table.

"The throne beneath the factory," he said. "It's the source of his power. We need to destroy it."

Vael frowned. "We don't know its full capabilities."

Selara added, "And Asheron is still captive."

Keiran's gaze hardened. "Then we free Asheron. And we end this, once and for all."

Selara nodded, her stance shifting, ready for combat.

The square erupted into chaos.

A scream tore through the air—then another, as flames roared up the side of a stone building. Vael's eyes burned bright, sparks flying from his fingertips as he clenched his fists. He hadn't meant to hit the guards so hard, but panic had surged like a wildfire. People were running. Children clung to their parents. Guards shouted, blades drawn, rifles raised, and someone had rung the warning bell.

"Move!" Keiran shouted.

They were already running, ducking beneath the awning of a merchant's stall, slipping past crates and overturned carts. Behind them, the shriek of steel boots on cobblestone rang louder with each heartbeat. They didn't need to look back to know who was coming.

"Down the alley!" Selara barked, pulling Keiran by the sleeve.

Vael flicked his hand again, sending a blaze into a stack of barrels. It exploded in sparks, a shield of flame that bought them seconds.

Just seconds.

But it was enough.

The trio vanished into the tangled arteries of the town, weaving between crumbling stone walls and wooden slats warped from years of weather. Their breath came in ragged bursts. Smoke and shadow chased them. Somewhere behind, a horn sounded—sharp and shrill.

"We don't have time for another route," Keiran gasped. "We use the tunnel—now."

They doubled back, got out of the town making it to the factory.

The plan had always been to wait.

Not anymore.

Keiran's thoughts blurred into instinct. The world narrowed to running, to keeping ahead of the storm Armon had unleashed. The Selection hadn't even begun, but blood was already on the wind.

They reached the side of the factory, hearts pounding like drums of war.

"Guards'll be on the main gates," Vael said. "This side's quieter."

They darted through the alley between rusted sheds, past piles of broken crates and spools of rotting wire. Keiran's hand found the familiar stack of crates—they hadn't been moved. Perfect.

"Move these," Selara said. "Now."

Together they shoved the crates aside. Dust burst into the air, and behind the pile lay a scorched patch of metal, barely visible against the dark factory wall.

Vael dropped to one knee, ran a finger across it—and flame answered his touch. Thin, searing lines spread across the surface like veins of gold. Metal hissed. The section of the wall gave way with a pop of warped bolts.

A makeshift crawlspace.

Just big enough.

One by one, they slipped inside and dragged the crates back over the hole.

Darkness swallowed them whole.

Keiran led the way with a broken flashlight they'd recovered during a supply run. Its beam flickered weakly, like a candle caught in a storm. The air smelled of oil, rust, and mold—familiar. Home, in a sick, twisted way.

They passed the silent workstations.

The conveyor belts were dead, their belts hanging limp like the tongues of dead beasts. Machines stood still, but the room didn't feel empty. It never did. Not truly.

Keiran didn't speak. Not yet.

He only glanced back once—Vael behind him, tense and twitching with leftover flame. Selara, calm on the surface, but her eyes were flicking too fast, like she was preparing for something she couldn't yet name.

They reached the stairs. Then the storage level.

Then, the locked door.

Keiran reached into his coat. The key clicked into place.

The door opened with a moan of metal and dust, revealing the tunnel.

They entered together.

It was colder now.

The air tasted like stone soaked in regret, untouched by sun or voice. The tunnel stretched before them, the broken lights above casting ghostlike glows in patches. Some flickered dimly, most were dead. Their footsteps echoed off the cement like whispers.

Vehicles long abandoned stood to the sides—squat transports with wheels coated in webs and filth. Empty seats. Shattered mirrors.

"We could use these," Vael muttered, knocking on a rusted van's side. "If any of them worked."

"They won't," Keiran said. "They're relics."

"And so are we," Selara added quietly.

They walked until the sounds of the factory above faded to silence, replaced by the soft drip of condensation. Then they stopped.

A clearing—a chamber in the tunnel where the path split three ways. One led deeper into the dark. One curved slightly, broken by rubble. The third... sealed with another iron door.

Keiran approached it. No lock this time—just a thick handle, heavy with disuse. He pulled. It groaned, then opened into a second chamber, larger.

Here the air was different. Heavy. Charged.

Symbols were etched into the stone—faint, worn, long forgotten. The smell of something old lingered.

"What is this place?" Selara asked.

"Not just an escape tunnel," Keiran whispered. "Something else."

He stepped inside. There were makeshift beds here. Old tools. Empty crates. Scratched walls.

And on one wall, barely legible beneath layers of grime:

"The Oath shall break the chain."

They all stood in silence.

"What does that mean?" Vael asked.

"I don't know, Maybe the prophecy" Keiran said. But he did. Somewhere deep inside, the words felt like something that had been waiting for them. A message from the past—or a warning for the future.