The Shadow Road was not a road at all—not anymore. What had once been a wide, torch-lit highway carved by ancient engineers now lay collapsed in sections, reduced to a twisting network of tunnels, forgotten aqueducts, and natural fissures. Water dripped from cracked ceilings; the air was thick with damp earth and the faint metallic tang of old blood wards long since faded.
Thorne led the way, a faint crimson glow from his scales providing the only light. Elara followed close, one hand trailing the rough wall for balance, the other resting lightly on the hilt of her dagger. The Eternal Resonance thrummed between them—subtle, constant. She could sense his alertness: the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his breathing stayed measured even when the tunnel narrowed to force them single-file.
"Watch the floor," he murmured. "Some sections still have pressure plates from the old Empire traps. Step wrong, and you'll trigger echo spikes."
Elara nodded, eyes scanning ahead. Isolde's memories supplied fragments: these tunnels had been used during the last great rebellion, before the Emperor's rise. Rebels had smuggled weapons, messages, even people through here. Many never made it out.
They rounded a bend, and the tunnel widened into a small chamber—once a waystation, judging by the rusted braziers and collapsed benches. A faint draft carried voices—low, murmured, human.
Thorne froze. His hand shot back, pressing Elara against the wall.
"Company," he breathed.
She strained to listen. Two voices, male, arguing in hushed tones.
"…told you, the bells rang three times last night. Palace is on high alert. They're saying the Anchor's alive. That she claimed two nodes already."
"Bullshit. The Emperor would've burned half the continent if that were true."
"Keep your voice down. If the wardens catch us—"
Thorne's eyes met Elara's. She gave a tiny nod: Listen first.
They crept closer, hugging shadows. Around the next corner, two figures huddled near a small fire: ragged cloaks, faces smudged with dirt, one clutching a short sword, the other a battered crossbow. Rebels—or scavengers. Hard to tell.
Elara stepped forward before Thorne could stop her.
The men spun, weapons raised.
"Easy," she said, hands up, palms open. "We're not imperial."
The one with the sword narrowed his eyes. "Everyone says that until the hounds come."
Thorne emerged behind her—wings half-unfurled, scales glinting. "If we were imperial, you'd already be ash."
The crossbow wielder swallowed hard. "Dragon Prince. Thought you were dead. Or exiled forever."
"Rumors are exaggerated." Thorne's tone was dry. "We're looking for the Veilwardens. Or what's left of them."
The two exchanged glances. The swordsman lowered his blade fractionally.
"You're the ones they're hunting. The girl with the crown mark. The one who turned wraiths on Mirael herself."
Elara let her sleeve ride up—just enough to show the silvery mark. It glowed softly in the firelight.
The men stared.
"Gods below," the crossbowman whispered. "It's real."
"We need passage to Veilhold," Elara said. "Quiet. Fast. And if there are any Wardens left inside the walls, we need to find them."
The swordsman—older, scarred across one cheek—studied them for a long moment. Then he jerked his head toward a side tunnel.
"Name's Kael. This is Ryn. We're not Wardens. Not anymore. But we know people who are. Or were. Follow us. But if you're lying…" He tapped his sword hilt. "We've got nothing left to lose."
Thorne's smirk was faint. "Fair warning."
They followed Kael and Ryn deeper. The tunnel sloped downward, growing colder, wetter. At one point, they passed a collapsed section—bones scattered among rubble, still wearing faded rebel insignia.
"Last group that tried the full route," Ryn muttered. "Echo ward malfunctioned. Spikes everywhere."
Elara felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. Isolde's voice whispered: They died guarding the path. Honor their sacrifice by succeeding.
After nearly an hour, the tunnel opened into a larger cavern. A crude camp had been set up: tents of patched canvas, a few crates of supplies, a handful of people moving quietly. At the center stood a tall woman in dark robes—silver threading along the cuffs in patterns Elara recognized from Isolde's memories.
Veilwarden sigils.
The woman turned as they entered. Mid-forties, sharp features, hair cropped short and streaked with gray. A faint scar ran from temple to jaw. Her eyes—storm-gray—locked on Elara's wrist.
Then on Thorne.
"You bring the cursed one here?" she asked Kael, voice low and edged.
"He's with her," Kael replied. "And she's the real thing."
The woman stepped forward. "Show me."
Elara extended her arm. The crown mark flared brighter—golden light tracing the incomplete crown, now more defined after the second node.
The woman inhaled sharply. "Anchor reborn."
She dropped to one knee. The others in the camp followed—some hesitant, some reverent.
"I am Lira Voss—no relation, I assure you. Last sworn Veilwarden of the Eastern Veil. We've waited generations for this moment."
Elara felt the weight of their gazes. "We need your help. The Emperor holds the Third Node. He's preparing to shatter the seal. We have to stop him."
Lira rose. "We know. Spies inside the palace say the ritual begins at the next new moon—three days from now. The throne chamber is sealed tighter than ever. But there is a way. A forgotten passage beneath the catacombs. Only a Warden can open it. And only an Anchor can survive what waits inside."
Thorne crossed his arms. "What waits?"
Lira's expression darkened. "The Devourer's first echo. A fragment it shed centuries ago to weaken the seal. It guards the final approach. Twisted. Hungry. It will test your bond—try to sever it."
Elara glanced at Thorne. Through the resonance, she felt his steady certainty.
"We've already proven our bond," she said. "We'll prove it again."
Lira nodded slowly. "Then rest here tonight. Eat. Heal. At dawn, we move. The Shadow Road ends at the catacombs. After that… there is no turning back."
As the camp settled—people offering blankets, thin stew, quiet words of hope—Elara pulled Thorne aside into a shadowed alcove.
"You trust them?" he asked quietly.
"Not fully. But they're the best chance we have." She stepped closer, resting her forehead against his chest. "And I trust us."
His arms came around her—warm, protective. "Three days. Then we end this."
She tilted her head up. Their lips met—soft at first, then deeper, a promise sealed in the dark.
When they parted, she whispered, "No matter what happens in there… we come out together."
"Together," he echoed.
Outside the alcove, the camp fire crackled. Lira watched them with something like quiet approval.
Dawn would bring the final descent.
And the Devourer's echo was waiting.
[End of Chapter 10 – To Be Continued...]