Returning to the present.
Gathered near the first floor's gate was a large army on standby, ranks of armored soldiers and support crews stretched across the approach to the platform. They stood in ordered lines, weapons and standards lowered, all faces turned toward the opened gate with a mix of hope and tense anticipation. The men and women waited for the portal to appear again, for the same threshold that had swallowed earlier parties to yield survivors or new pathways. Whispers passed down the ranks, prayers, reassurances, and silent calculations. Each unit holding to the single cautious hope that some of their comrades on the dungeon's 26th floor had survived and would return through that gate.
As the portal's shimmer stabilized, a deep, resonant hong rolled across the platform and a large silhouette emerged. At its head walked Commander Kryd'or, the acting lead-commander who had been stationed on the 26th floor before the disaster. He moved with the measured gait of a veteran, unhurried, and behind him came his fellow commanders: Veila, Barduk, and Miel. After the commanders, groups of survivors followed; battered soldiers limping on knees, support staff guiding the wounded, and small clusters of troops bearing the marks of whatever trials they had just endured.
The assembled army broke into controlled celebration at the sight. Support crews hurried forward with medical rigs, portable stretchers, and field devices, immediately setting to work assessing injuries and administering first aid. Wounded survivors were tended where they stood or lifted onto litters and carried toward waiting transport vehicles for evacuation to the surface. The rest of the soldiers stepped back as one, clearing a corridor of space with disciplined restraint to allow the medics room to work. There was relief in their faces, but they remained organized and sober; the celebration was careful, practical, focused on survival rather than triumph.
However, not everyone shared that relief. At the center of the crowd stood a small, immovable group who watched the incoming survivors with unreadable expressions. Their scales were a deep red, and each wore polished golden armor that caught the bluish light of the portal. Seven of them wore identical sets: plated vests scored with runic markings, vambraces and greaves that fit snug and efficient, and matching spear-like weapons held vertical at their sides. The uniformity made them look like a squad raised for ritual duty as much as war.
Their leader, however, marked himself apart. He wore full golden plate from neck to tail, a sculpted harness of interlocking plates that flowed down his spine into an articulated tail sheath. The chest and pauldrons were broad and reinforced, embossed with sigils and geometric ridges that suggested both rank and function; tapered faulds covered his hips and connected to cuisses that wrapped his thighs in layered plates. His gauntlets were jointed for movement but heavy with ornamentation; his greaves finished in sharp, efficient edges. Despite the comprehensive coverage, the leader's two large silvery horns remained exposed, curving up and forward from his forehead, unarmored and glaringly bright against the gold. The helmet's form rose to accommodate them, flanking the horns rather than enclosing them, which made the horns stand out even more. In posture and equipment he read as both ceremonial and deadly.
Ever since Kryd'or stepped through the portal, his gaze had found the golden cohort. He felt the weight of what their presence meant; a ritualized punishment meant to calm a fearful populace. In the face of an event this broad and catastrophic, someone would be required to take responsibility. A scapegoat presented so the empire's leaders could claim action and the citizens could focus their anger. Kryd'or understood the politics behind the display.
Kryd'or moved toward the golden group without hesitation. He stopped a respectful distance from their leader and raised his right hand to his chest in a standard salute.
"Commander Krydimus Stortur, on duty. Greetings, heralds."
Behind him, Veila, Barduk, and Miel copied the gesture and held it, solemn and steady, though none rushed to speak. The leader of the heralds inclined his head in acknowledgement. His voice carried the authority of someone accustomed to delivering judgments.
"Commander Stortur, I trust you remain in good health. The same, I assume, applies to the other commanders under your charge."
His words were polite, but there was an unmistakable undertone, an appraisal, not a greeting.
Upon hearing this, Miel's jaw clenched. His salute remained firm, yet the fingers of his other hand curled into a tight fist at his side, knuckles whitening beneath the scales. His eyes locked onto the herald with a simmering resentment, though he forced himself into silence. The herald noticed the subtle shift in Miel's posture but dismissed it without pause, treating the reaction as beneath his concern. He simply continued, his attention returning fully to Kryd'or.
"We must ask, however, where is the princess? The reports from the gate said survivors were expected under the princess's escort."
Kryd'or blinked, confusion spreading over his features as he answered, "What princess?"
Even Veila, Miel, and Barduk were confused by the herald's words. What did he mean by where is the princess? A royal was not allowed to venture into the underground dungeon ever since Emperor Urdulos took the throne. Even if they still could, the commanders would have been the first to be told. Vera stepped forward, voice sharp.
"Wait, why are you asking us about a royal's whereabouts?"
The herald's leader lifted his chin, eyes flicking over the four commanders as if measuring them. Before the herald could answer, Kryd'or raised his right hand in a slow, deliberate signal, palm outward. His gaze cut to Veila; the gesture said clearly enough. Do not join the conversation without permission. Veila understood. She halted mid-step and took one measured pace back.
"Herald," Kryd'or said, voice level, "tell us more about this information."
Noticing their genuine confusion, the herald adjusted his stance and delivered the information in a flat, formal tone.
"Commanders, the individual in question is Princess Feranaire Ubrus Loth'garth, eldest daughter of the Emperor. According to the witness report, she was last seen entering Valkor without authorization before the disaster occurred. There are no recorded signs of her departure. Based on this, it is presumed she was within the area when the incident began."
A line of silence followed as the four commanders absorbed the report. Shock showed first as a tightening around their mouths; skepticism followed in narrowed eyes and guarded stances. Questions crowded unspoken at the edges of their thoughts: Why would the princess defy protocol and enter Valkor alone? Why had the command center not been alerted immediately if the palace had known of her movement? Had someone deliberately withheld information? Their exchanged looks carried the weight of those suspicions, each commander recognizing that the facts, as presented, opened the possibility of a deliberate concealment or a deeper, more sinister plot.
"I believe this report is not reliable, herald. We haven't seen any trace of Lady Feranaire's presence before or after the disaster. Other survivors can confirm this," Kryd'or said, meeting the herald's eyes with steady intensity.
The herald stepped forward without changing his tone. He raised his head to match Kryd'or's gaze. Kryd'or standing at three meters, the herald at two point eight, so the exchange remained even.
"Commander Stortur," the herald said, voice flat and formal, "you do not have the authority to declare the report unreliable."
The air tightened. Before any of the commanders could respond, the herald continued in the same clipped cadence.
"By imperial decree, delivered to me by the Emperor, Commander Stortur, you are relieved of your rank for failing to protect a member of the royal family. You will be taken into custody for interrogation. All other commanders, and captains are suspended until further notice."
A golden emblem, about the size of the herald's palm, shimmered into being in his hand. He lifted it and presented it toward Kryd'or as he spoke the decree. The other commanders stiffened at the sudden severity of the order. Kryd'or held his silence, eyes fixed on the token. He recognized it as an authentic imperial seal, and he understood what the decree meant; the Emperor himself had placed this matter under direct oversight.
The golden cohort closed in immediately, forming a tight ring around Kryd'or with spear points leveled at his chest. The herald's leader stepped forward and spoke in the same flat, controlled voice.
"Offer your hands peacefully, Stortur." He held out his own hand as if to take Kryd'or's, signalling the soldiers to prepare the shackles.
Kryd'or watched them for several seconds, reading the formation and the faces beyond the spear tips. He let out a slow breath and extended both hands without resistance. He understood the decree was absolute; any resistance would only escalate the situation.
Miel did not move as calmly. He drew a blade in a single fluid motion, surged forward, and slashed at the nearest heralds. The cohort reacted as one, their training and sharpened reflexes anticipating the strike, parrying Miel's blow cleanly. Two heralds then moved with blinding speed and precision, thrusting their spears toward Miel's shoulders. He twisted and deflected the spear aimed for his right side, but the second spear found its mark on his left shoulder blade. The impact halted him, and his green dragon scales retracted; the pain and the sudden withdrawal of his power pinned him where he stood.
Miel grimaced, teeth clenched, but kept a hard, defiant look aimed at the golden cohort as he sank to his knees. Veila lunged immediately toward him, intending to help, but another herald stepped forward and leveled a spear at her. She skidded to a stop and froze, then shouted down at Miel with a sharp voice.
"What the hell are you doing!?" The words carried the weight of the breach, attacking a herald was a grave offense.
Kryd'or and the herald's leader watched Miel falter in silence. One of the heralds produced a compact set of specialized shackles and handed them to his leader. The leader stepped forward and fastened the device around Kryd'or's wrists. When the clamps closed they emitted a low click and a faint, pulsing light. The shackles discharged a restrained, humming energy. The energy countered Kryd'or's innate power; his red draconic scales receded, muscle tone slackened, and he visibly shrank. Where he had stood near three meters tall, he collapsed inward until he measured two meters, now shorter than the herald's leader. Without hesitation the herald's leader pointed to Miel.
"Shackle him for assaulting an imperial messenger," he ordered.
Two heralds moved in and bound Miel while others secured Kryd'or. With both commanders restrained, the golden cohort closed ranks and began to march away, hauling the two arrested men between their spear-rows.
Veila started forward, intent on following, but Barduk gripped her shoulder and held her back.
"Veila," he said quietly but firmly, "we must report this to Zenith Commander Zad immediately. Only he can help Kryd'or."
The words registered; Veila felt the logic in them. There was no point chasing after men acting under an imperial decree. Without tending to their wounds, the two remaining, suspended commanders forced themselves to their feet and wanted to get out of this damnable place as fast as possible.
Crowds of survivors watched the arrest unfold. Those who had heard the herald read the decree and now saw their commanders dragged away clenched their fists, faces hard with anger and hurt. The scene made clear that the incident would not stay contained, rumor and outrage would spread through the empire.
In the years to come, many would look back on this moment as the spark that shifted the empire's balance. Policies would change, loyalties would fracture, and the consequences of this single disaster would echo far beyond Valkor, reshaping the political landscape and the future of every faction involved.
...