I WILL FOLLOW YOU TO THE GRAVEYARD

The Sunken Arsenal

In the Holy Empire of Solis, towering monuments reached for the sky, yet its most profound mysteries lay buried beneath the earth.

Exodus moved stealthily through the capital's hidden aqueducts, his footsteps muffled by the sound of rushing water. The air was heavy with the scent of mildew and ancient stone, contrasting sharply with the cold that seemed to emanate from his own skin. He needed no torch; his abyssal eyes turned the pitch-black tunnels into a twilight of cold silver and pale gray.

His destination was the Sunken Arsenal.

Exodus had discovered this forgotten military depot long before Marius Vex sought power and even before Viktor Stormborn taught him the ways of the sword. Built during the First Cleansing, the Empire once feared invasions from deep-dwellers. But as the conflict shifted above ground, the arsenal slipped from memory, absent from imperial records.

Exodus possessed the only key. Here, neither Marius's patrols nor Lyra’s compromised spies would search.

He paused at a massive granite wall, which to any ordinary observer would seem like just another foundation. But Exodus knew better. From his cloak, he drew his heavy broadsword. Pressing the blade's tip into a hairline fissure, he channeled energy from the Graveyard. Ancient runes within the stone recognized the Commander’s weapon. With a deep, resonant groan, the stone slid back, revealing a staircase spiraling into darkness.

As he descended, the stone door closed behind him, sealing him within the silent depths.

Inside, the arsenal lay untouched. Rows of iron racks held suits of outdated vanguard armor, crates of black-powder, and bundles of steel-tipped halberds—an army’s worth of iron, slumbering in shadows.

At the chamber's center stood an oak planning table, its surface cluttered with outdated continental maps. Nearby rested a simple iron-banded chest.

Exodus approached and opened the chest. It contained remnants of his past: plain black leather riding gear, a cloak without the imperial sun-crest, and a tarnished silver locket with dried soil from his childhood village, long destroyed by Solis’s enemies. He picked up the locket, straining to recall the sun's warmth, fresh bread’s taste, and the thrill of a hard run.

But those memories felt distant, like someone else’s story.

The Graveyard had stripped him of sentimentality. He felt nothing looking at the locket, only emptiness where his soul once resided. He dropped the trinket back into the chest and shut the lid. His past was no longer his concern; his future was.

Exodus discarded his ceremonial armor, letting the silver plates fall to the stone floor. He shed the symbols of loyalty, the medals of victory, and the crimson cloak of triumph. Beneath, his skin was ghostly pale, veins of Revenant corruption sprawling across his torso like frozen lightning.

He felt no pain, no need for blood. His broken bones had healed perfectly, fused by the underworld’s dense, gray matter.

He donned the plain black leather gear and the unadorned cloak. No longer Commander Thorne of the Holy Empire, he was now the executioner of the dead.

Exodus drew his broadsword, placing it on the oak table. The ghostly green symbols on the blade pulsed slowly, sustained by the death-magic radiating from him. He closed his eyes, exploring the boundaries of his new existence.

He discovered he needed neither sleep nor food; the Graveyard’s hunger fueled him. But there was a catch. When he reached out with his mind to sense his nine betrayers, he found the connection sharpest within the city. If he ventured too far from Solis, the ties weakened, limiting his ability to track them. The Graveyard anchored him to the site of his betrayal. He could not leave Solis until justice was served.

*Nine graves,* echoed the chorus in his mind, their voices bouncing off the stone walls. *Two marked. Seven untouched. The golden one grows restless.*

Exodus opened his abyssal eyes, faint green light casting shadows in the dark room. A surge of frantic energy from the surface jolted him.

It wasn't Lyra. It was Kael Darkwater.

The young lieutenant’s flame flickered wildly, signaling panic. The invisible mark's psychological torment had worked too well. Kael was no longer hiding; he sprinted through the high-quarter toward a specific, guarded location.

Kael was unraveling. An unraveling traitor was prone to fatal mistakes.

Exodus sheathed his broadsword with determination. The safehouse was secure. He understood his constraints. Now, he would witness the first domino fall.

He turned toward the stone staircase, his black cloak swirling behind him like smoke as he prepared to ascend to the surface.