Shadows Beneath Ingunde

The journey through his dungeon was a familiar one. The stone corridors with their rugged walls set with iron sconces, each section shaped by the construction golems before locking into its final form. What had once been a crude shelter was now a proper stronghold, and every step through those halls reminded him of the choices he’d made and the work still ahead.

Upon entering the throne room, he did not sit immediately. Instead, he took a moment to scan the space, taking stock of his surroundings. Shadows flickered along the cavern walls, cast by the glow of torches mounted in iron sconces. The great stone chair that served as his throne loomed ahead, solid and imposing, the clan’s war banner standing in its place behind it.

Satisfied, he turned his attention upwards, focusing on the colony of batlings nestled within the high crevices of the chamber. With a simple mental command, he sent forth several of the tiny creatures, their leathery wings unfurling as they descended from the shadows. Each one carried a simple directive, zipping off into the dungeon to summon those he wished to see.

Then, he waited.

He did not have to wait long.

The sound of measured footsteps echoed down the hall — steady, confident. A stride belonging to someone who knew their worth and saw no need to announce it.

Elenara entered the throne room with effortless grace, her long blonde hair falling over her shoulders. The torchlight caught the pale shimmer of her skin, and her stride carried the assurance of a woman fully at ease.

She wore a deep emerald dress, its fitted bodice accentuating her curves, cinched at the waist with a dark leather belt. The skirt fell just below the knee, pleated to move easily with her steps. High black boots rose beneath the hem, sturdy yet stylish, while gold embroidery traced the edges of her sleeves and gown.

Poised and composed, she reached the chair before him and took her seat.

Grashok watched her, noting the steadiness in the way she carried herself. She had changed. Grown. There was no trace of hesitation in her movements—only purpose and presence. She was also very desirable.

But she was eager to speak—that much was clear. There was progress to report, and he forced his attention away from the curve of her breasts and the shape of her legs, back to the task at hand.

Settling back, Grashok prepared to listen.

Elenara leaned forward in her chair, her piercing blue eyes fixed on Grashok as she began her briefing. Her voice was calm, measured, and carried the weight of someone who had spent countless hours weaving threads of intrigue into a tapestry of chaos.

“Ingunde,” she began, her voice smooth and deliberate, “is a town on the edge. Once prosperous, now fractured. The people are divided—by class, by trade, by ideology. The Ratkin loom over them like a storm cloud, but instead of uniting against it, they’re tearing themselves apart — and much of that is by our design.”

She paused, letting the words settle. “The Town Council is in shambles. Mayor Garrick, once viewed as pragmatic but always opposed to us, is now seen as weak and indecisive. The letters I seeded have done their work — suspicion, whispers of betrayal, fractures everywhere. Some now look to you as the steadier hand; others cling to the Ratkin out of fear. Their unity is gone.

“Another councillor may hold the balance: Vos. He is young, careful, gathering those who reject both extremes. No one knows which way he’ll lean yet — but if he chooses a side, the council will follow.”

Her gaze sharpened. “The militia is worse. Captain Jorun is a hardliner, a bigot, and utterly incapable of even considering a future that includes us. As long as he holds his position, he will never allow the council to cooperate with us, and he will certainly never let the militia be anything but a weapon against what he calls ‘Greenskins’.”

She continued, her tone cooling. “I’ve fed him forged reports and anonymous warnings, each one nudging his paranoia higher. His men are exhausted, divided, and increasingly loyal to Lieutenant Callow. Callow is pragmatic, weary of losses, and far more open to an alliance with us. As it stands, a clash is coming.”

She shifted to the merchants. “The guild is split. Leobrand is opportunistic and receptive to my… correspondence. But Guildmaster Veylan and his circle resist fiercely. Their wealth is disproportionate for a town this size. I’ve planted rumours of corruption and hidden ledgers, but even with that, I cannot trace the true source of their coin. Someone is funding them. If it is the Ratkin, then their reach is deeper than we thought.”

Grashok’s claws tightened. “And the common folk?”

“Angry and desperate,” she replied. “Tomas Rigg has become their voice. I’ve nudged him with carefully placed messages — praise disguised as public sentiment, warnings disguised as gossip. He speaks of you as a protector, and the people listen. But he is impulsive. If he pushes too hard, he could ignite chaos the Ratkin would exploit.”

Her expression darkened. “And the Ratkin are moving quickly. They’ve assassinated — or more often simply made disappear — your supporters: militia, merchants, even scribes who dared speak in your favour. The bodies that do surface are left as warnings. They’ve poisoned one of the grain stores with a slow toxin, turning the guild and the Faithful against each other. They’ve burned key buildings and planted goblin weapons to frame us. They want Ingunde terrified, starving, and divided.”

She leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. “Ingunde is on the brink. The Ratkin want collapse. But if we act carefully, we can turn this chaos to our advantage — strengthening the town against the Ratkin and aligning it with us.”

Grashok exhaled heavily, drumming his fingers against his armrest. The situation in Ingunde was delicate—more delicate than he had initially realised. The factions were shifting, the town was breaking apart, and the Ratkin were playing their own game in the shadows.

They needed to act wisely.

Elenara studied him carefully, waiting for his response.

Grashok finally leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Then we proceed with care,” he said at last. “Jorun needs to fall. The merchants are watched. Find out more on Vos. And Tomas Rigg… we keep him on his path, but we make sure he does not lose his way.”

Elenara smiled, a slow, knowing curve of her lips.

“Exactly what I was thinking.”

Grashok looked up from Elenara and was momentarily startled to see that the Elder, Ellyn, and Nyxie had entered the chamber and taken their seats without his notice. He had been so absorbed in Elenara’s briefing that he hadn’t heard them arrive. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows across the stone walls of the dungeon, and the air was thick with the scent of damp earth and burning pitch. The Elder sat with his usual air of quiet authority, his gnarled hands resting on the head of his staff, while Ellyn and Nyxie exchanged knowing glances, their expressions unreadable.

Turning back to Elenara, he gave a firm nod. “You’ve done an amazing job,” he said, his voice carrying warmth and approval. “Truly, you’ve already proved your worth to this dungeon a dozen times over.”

For the first time since she had begun her report, Elenara hesitated. A flicker of something unreadable crossed her features—surprise, perhaps, but layered beneath it, something more. Pride, yes, but also something unspoken, something she had yet to put into words.

Her lips parted slightly, as though she might say something, but instead, she merely inclined her head, recovering quickly. “Thank you, Big Boss.”

Grashok, oblivious to the storm of emotions he had stirred within her, leaned forward slightly, his crimson eyes fixed on hers. “Is there anything you need?” he asked, his tone practical but not unkind. “Anything at all to aid your efforts?”

Elenara took a moment to collect herself, her mind racing as she considered his question. She was not one to make hasty requests, and she knew the importance of choosing her words carefully. “Yes,” she said at last, her voice steady despite the flutter in her chest. “We need to know how the Ratkin are infiltrating the town and disappearing our supporters. We can’t get in ourselves, so we need to find a way to stop them.”

Grashok’s brow furrowed. He leaned back in his throne, his clawed fingers tapping against the armrest as he considered her words. He already had an idea of how it was being done. “I may know the answer to that.”

He shifted in his seat, straightening his shoulders as he began to explain. “On my way back, I fell into a tunnel. It wasn’t natural—it was dug, running towards Ingunde. It was filled with Ratkin. We fought them, but the real problem came after. The explosion.”

The others listened intently, the weight of his words sinking in.

“There was a strange black powder in that tunnel,” he continued. “When it caught fire, the whole thing went up—tore through rock, collapsed the entire passage. I’ve never seen anything like it. If they have more of it, that’s a problem.”

The room fell silent as Grashok’s words sank in. Nyxie, her violet eyes narrowing, was the first to speak. “It wasn’t magic,” she said firmly, her voice cutting through the stillness. “I would have sensed it if it were. This… black powder… it’s something else entirely.”

Elenara nodded, her mind already racing with possibilities. “I’ll look into it,” she said, her tone resolute. “We need to understand what it is and how the Ratkin are using it. If they have a weapon like that, it changes everything.”

The Elder, who had been silent until now, inclined his head slightly. “I will assist in this matter,” he said, his voice gravelly but steady. “Such a substance could pose a grave threat if left unchecked.”

Grashok’s gaze shifted between them, his expression thoughtful. “Good,” he said at last. “We can’t afford to ignore this. Elenara, you’ll take the lead, but keep me informed of any developments.”

Elenara nodded, her mind already turning over the implications of this new threat. But there was another matter she needed to address. “If they have a tunnel system beneath Ingunde, hidden and maintained by the Ratkin it would explain how they’ve been making people disappear without a trace. We need to ensure that the scouts that are watching the town look out for them. If we could find an entrance…”

Grashok nodded. “I’ll send word to Snippa, I don’t like the idea of these tunnels being used unchecked. If there’s a way to find out if there is more of them, we need to figure it out.” He signalled to one of the goblin guards who rushed off to convey the message.

There was a brief silence as the implications settled among them.

Then Elenara exhaled, rolling one shoulder before continuing, “There’s something else,” she said, her voice hesitant for the first time.

“I also need more help.”

Grashok arched a brow.

“There’s too much correspondence,” she explained. “Letters to write, information to gather, messages to analyse. I can only do so much alone.”

At this, Ellyn, who had remained quiet until now, spoke up. “The new humans,” she said, her voice smooth and measured. “Some of them may be able to read and write. I will see who among them have the skills you need and send them to you.”

Elenara nodded in appreciation. When she glanced at Grashok, her posture shifted—straighter, brighter, as if bracing for his reaction without meaning to. A faint colour touched her cheeks, quick and unguarded. Grashok caught it, though he wasn’t sure what to make of it.

He gave a satisfied grunt, leaning back slightly. “Good. Then it’s settled.” He glanced at Elenara again, allowing the faintest hint of a smirk to touch his lips. “And you—keep up the good work.”

Elenara dipped her head, but there was something in her eyes—a flicker of warmth, of something unsaid, something lingering between them.

She turned back to her papers, but her fingers brushed absently over the sleeve of her dress, as if grounding herself.

Grashok took note of it but said nothing.

For now, there was work to be done.