The Warden's Legacy

Prologue- The Forgotten Warden

The Forgotten Warden

The city was silent that night, but Isiah McRonin knew better. Silence in the city wasn't peace—it was anticipation. It was a breath held too long, waiting for chaos to erupt.

He stalked through the dark streets, his heavy coat billowing behind him, the stitched runes on its fabric faintly glowing in the dim light of the streetlamps. As he passed, shadows seemed to bend toward him, as if the city itself recognized him.

A voice crackled in his earpiece, sharp and tense.

"Isiah, you there?"

He touched the piece in his ear. "I'm here, Calla. What've you got?"

Calla's voice was clipped, urgent. "I've been tracking a spike in the ley lines. Southside. Warehouse near 47th and Drexler. It's bad—something's tearing into the magic there. You need backup?"

Isiah snorted, the sound low and humorless. "Who'd you send? The ghosts of the Wardens?"

There was a pause on the line. He knew Calla hated that kind of talk. She was one of the few allies he had left, one of the few who hadn't been burned out or buried by the weight of what it meant to protect the city.

"You don't always have to do this alone, Isiah," Calla said, softer this time.

"Yeah, I do," he muttered, cutting the connection before she could respond.

The truth was, he had done it alone for years. Too many years. The Wardens had fallen one by one, scattered by betrayal and the insidious pull of the darkness they fought. He had watched friends—no, family—succumb to greed, madness, or death. And then he had watched his real family—his wife, his two young sons—become casualties of his unending war.

He clenched his fists, shoving the memories down as he approached the warehouse.

The faint hum of magic pulsed in the air, sharp and discordant. Isiah pressed his hand against the cold metal of the door and closed his eyes, reaching out with his senses. The magic inside was wild, wrong, like a storm bottled up and ready to explode.

"Isiah," a low voice growled from behind him.

He turned, his hand instinctively reaching for the dagger at his belt, but he relaxed when he saw who it was.

"Thorn," he said, his voice a mixture of relief and annoyance.

The man who emerged from the shadows was built like a tank, his bald head gleaming under the flickering streetlight. Thorn had been one of the last Wardens to leave. They hadn't spoken in months.

"You're still alive," Isiah said dryly.

"Barely," Thorn replied. "Heard whispers about you chasing down trouble. Figured I'd check it out. You're welcome, by the way."

"Thanks, but I don't need a babysitter."

Thorn snorted. "From the looks of you, you might." He eyed Isiah's coat, the frayed runes barely holding their glow. "You're running on fumes, old man."

Isiah ignored him, turning back to the door. "Something's tearing into the city's magic. You feel it?"

Thorn's expression hardened, his usual smirk vanishing. "Yeah. Feels like a void. Whatever's inside... it's hungry."

"Then let's deal with it."

Inside, the warehouse was cavernous and cold, the air thick with a metallic tang that made Isiah's skin crawl. The walls were lined with broken crates and shattered glass, but at the center of the space was the real source of the disturbance: a circle of jagged, glowing runes carved into the concrete floor, pulsating with dark energy.

Standing at the edge of the circle was a figure cloaked in shadow, their hands outstretched over the runes. The air around them shimmered with power, tendrils of dark magic curling like smoke.

Isiah's voice cut through the stillness, sharp as a blade. "You've got about ten seconds to tell me who you are and what you think you're doing."

The figure turned slowly, their face obscured by a hood. When they spoke, their voice was calm, almost amused.

"Isiah McRonin. The last of the Wardens. I was wondering when you'd show up."

"Congratulations. You found me," Isiah said. "Now step away from the circle before I make you."

The figure laughed, a cold, echoing sound. "You're already too late. The city's magic is mine now. You can't stop this."

Isiah moved quickly, his dagger slicing through the air, but the figure raised a hand, and a burst of dark energy sent him flying backward.

"Isiah!" Thorn's voice rang out as he charged, but the figure waved a hand, and Thorn was stopped mid-step, his body frozen in place.

The figure stepped closer to Isiah, who was struggling to his feet. "You're weak, Warden. The city doesn't need you anymore. It needs power. My power."

Isiah gritted his teeth, summoning the shadows around him. The darkness coiled like a living thing, wrapping around his arms, his legs, until he was a part of it. "You think you can take the city's magic? You'll have to go through me."

The fight was brutal, magic clashing against magic, the air crackling with energy. Isiah's strength was waning, but he pushed forward, each strike fueled by sheer determination. Thorn broke free of the figure's hold, joining the fight, but even together, they were barely holding their own.

Finally, with one last surge of power, Isiah drove his dagger into the circle's center, shattering the runes. The figure let out a scream of rage as the dark energy collapsed, the warehouse shaking with the force of it.

When the dust settled, the figure was gone, but so was Thorn.

Isiah stood alone in the ruins, his dagger broken, his body trembling. He knew this wasn't a victory. The city's magic was still fractured, still vulnerable. And he was running out of time.

Authors note ———-

Thank you for diving into The Warden's Legacy! This story has been such a journey to create, and I'm beyond excited to share it with you.

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@KeeAaron