Chapter 22 – Shadows Do Not Kneel
Duskroot was no longer just a hollowed-out warren of goblins and crude stone. It pulsed now—slowly, deliberately—like a heart learning to beat for the first time.
From the central spire, once a jagged rock formation that towered uselessly over the caverns, now rose the beginnings of an observation tower. Rope bridges, crude lifts, and spiraling stairs—most carved by claw, magic, or sheer labor—wrapped around its flanks. It overlooked fungal farms below, glowing blue and violet, nourished by diverted underground streams. Small creatures tended them—goblins, yes, but also a few beastkin and even two Nai'thari, draped in robes of spun kelp.
Velkhan watched all of this from a high platform, arms folded behind his back.
He wasn't alone.
"Two weeks since the alliance with the Nai'thari," Gobna said beside him, voice clear despite his youth. "They've sent emissaries, scouts, and one waterweaver. They seem serious."
"They are," Velkhan replied. "They remember what was stolen from them."
Gobna frowned. "Do you think we're… collecting too many strays?"
Velkhan turned to look at him, one brow raised.
"I don't mean it like that," Gobna said quickly. "Just—different needs. Different beliefs. Different species. One spark and it could all fall apart."
"Good," Velkhan said, not smiling. "Let them spark. Let them clash, argue, rage. That is how true unity is born. Not from silence, but from resolution."
Gobna didn't answer immediately. His sharp eyes watched the workers below. "You don't want peace, do you? Not yet."
Velkhan's gaze drifted upward—toward the ceiling far above, where shadows still clung thick and ancient. "Peace is not built on hope. It's built on structure. On blood, if needed. First, we build the body. Then, we teach it to breathe."
A faint whistle echoed from below. A signal. Gojiro's scouts had returned.
Minutes later, the war-goblin stood before them, armor covered in dust, one eye glowing with restrained fire. "We've got a visitor," he said grimly. "Not from the east tunnels. From below."
That caught Velkhan's attention.
"Below? That far?"
Gojiro nodded. "They call themselves the Chain-Born. And they don't ask permission to enter territory. They claim they own everything beneath the fourth depth."
Velkhan's fingers drummed against his arm. The fourth depth was supposed to be uninhabitable—unstable caverns, old lava veins, and collapsing ceilings. If something was alive down there, and organized enough to send emissaries, it wasn't a small matter.
"Did they send a message?"
Gojiro grunted. "Yeah. 'The Sovereign of Duskroot is requested. Come unarmed. Come kneeling. Or don't come at all.'"
A silence settled on the platform.
Then Velkhan spoke.
"We'll go."
Gobna stepped forward, clearly alarmed. "That sounds like a trap."
"Every power worth meeting feels like a trap the first time," Velkhan said. "But we'll not go kneeling."
He turned to Gojiro. "Prepare a small group. You, me, Gobna. And bring one Nai'thari diplomat if they'll spare one."
"And if they try something?" Gojiro asked.
Velkhan's expression sharpened. "Then they will learn that Duskroot is not made of worms and dust. We are not shadows that scatter—we are the dark that swallows."
---
The descent to the fourth depth took three days.
The terrain changed dramatically. From stone and fungus to sharp obsidian ridges and long stretches of dead heat. Strange creatures lingered in cracks—blind centipedes with metal-tipped legs, bats with scales instead of fur.
And then, at the edge of a great hollow, they found the Chain-Born.
They were tall. Too tall. Not like the Nai'thari's graceful beauty, or beastkin's primal strength. These things were lean, emaciated, and wrapped in chains—actual metal, wrapped across their torsos, faces, even embedded in their skin.
Their emissary stepped forward, a woman—or once a woman—whose eyes burned like old coals.
"I am Verrath. Speaker of Bindings. Who among you calls himself Sovereign?"
Velkhan stepped forward without hesitation.
"I am Velkhan of Duskroot. I kneel to no one."
The air grew still.
"Then you'll burn with your little tower," Verrath said.
She raised a hand—and the chains slithered.
But before any could strike, Velkhan's shadow extended. Not with violence. With *pressure*. A tide of ancient weight poured from beneath his cloak—an unseen force that bent the earth, that whispered old names into the stone.
Verrath flinched. And then… she laughed.
"Good," she said. "The weak pretend to kneel. The strong refuse and survive. You pass."
Velkhan's group exchanged glances, clearly unsure.
Verrath waved her arm. "Come. Let us speak. There is more than one kingdom rising underground. And war will come whether you want it or not."
---
They spoke for hours. Not as enemies. Not as allies. As rulers carving paths through darkness.
The Chain-Born were remnants of an ancient underground empire—one that had fallen, long before Velkhan's time, into civil war and madness. Their ancestors had bound themselves with chains, not just physical, but magical, to suppress emotion, desire, and hunger. A kingdom of pure discipline.
But that kingdom had cracked. And now, only scattered remnants remained—warriors, philosophers, and madmen. But they were rebuilding. Slowly. Just like Velkhan.
Before they left, Verrath offered a final word.
"When the surface world comes for you—and they will—they will bring gods, armies, and flame. When that day comes, remember the Chain-Born. We don't kneel. We shatter."
Velkhan gave no answer, but when he returned to Duskroot, he ordered the map chamber expanded.
And he carved one more name into the wall—**The Chain-Born Bastions**.
A reminder. A warning.
The underground was not empty.
It was awakening.
**To be countinue...