RAVEN’S GAMBIT | Episode 72: Flames in the Citadel
Theron Blackroot stalked through the obsidian corridors of the floating Citadel like a shadow cast in judgment. His boots echoed faintly against the metal-veined stone, every step drawing him deeper into the strange architecture of the place—elven in grace, infernal in purpose.
He had searched every floor, every alcove. No sign of Raven.
His grip tightened around the hilt of Blackrazor. The blade pulsed with unnatural hunger, its edge whispering for souls.
“We’ve searched every inch,” Theron muttered, frustration mounting.
"Not every inch," Blackrazor spoke aloud in his mind, a cold silk voice slithering through his skull. "There are hidden conduits of magic here… rooms folded in on themselves, bound by power you cannot yet wield."
Theron raised a brow. “Show me.”
Without another word, Blackrazor glowed darkly, and a previously seamless wall shimmered with faint blue glyphs. Theron passed through it, into a chamber bathed in flickering green light.
Before him stood an arcane masterwork: crystalline control pillars, ancient celestial runes, and a massive viewing sphere suspended mid-air. He stepped forward, stunned.
“The Citadel’s heart,” he whispered. “A command chamber…”
"A helm," Blackrazor replied. "You could fly this place across worlds, reshape mountains. Raven’s power rooted here... but she is not."
Theron stepped back, a dread creeping into him. “Where is she?”
There was silence… then:
"Keraptis."
Theron froze. “The mad wizard of White Plume Mountain? That was centuries ago. He should be a skeleton, dust.”
"He was never merely mortal." Blackrazor’s voice turned grim. "He forged me. And my siblings. Wave. Whelm. He built us not just to be weapons—but to bind gods to his will. He has returned."
“Then… if he’s powerful enough to defeat Raven—” Theron’s voice caught. “What hope do we have?”
Blackrazor pulsed. "Then we don’t fight to win. We fight to feed. And to end him."
Suddenly, a thunderclap shook the Citadel. Firelight blazed from the far end of the chamber.
Theron turned, eyes narrowing.
Efreeti.
The sky outside burned orange as Zahur the Flame-Sworn descended with his warband—flames wreathed around his obsidian armor, eyes glowing like twin furnaces.
“Intruder!” Zahur bellowed. “This place belongs to the Flame Court now!”
Theron unsheathed Blackrazor fully.
“Come take it then,” he growled.
They came like an inferno—twelve efreeti warriors, blades aflame, spells hissing from their fingers. Theron ducked and spun, cleaving through the first two with an upward arc that silenced their roars forever.
Blackrazor screamed in delight as their souls were consumed.
"More," it begged. "More!"
Theron obliged.
He flowed like dark water, cutting and parrying, twisting through strikes and hurling spells of pure necrotic void. Flames singed his cloak, but his heart burned colder.
Zahur met him in the center of the chamber, wielding a flaming scimitar the size of a surfboard.
“You are strong, mortal,” Zahur growled, “but you will die screaming.”
“I’ve already died once,” Theron whispered. “Try again.”
They clashed.
The battle shook the Citadel.
Zahur fought with fury and pride, but Theron’s blade feasted without remorse. Inch by inch, blow for blow, Zahur faltered.
And finally, Blackrazor plunged through his molten heart.
The efreeti king gasped—and his soul was swallowed whole.
The silence afterward was suffocating.
Theron stood alone amid the ashes, smoke curling from his shoulders, his chest rising and falling.
“Is it done?” he asked, not sure who he was speaking to.
"I am full," Blackrazor whispered with dark satisfaction. "For now. You are stronger than before. And you will need every ounce of that strength."
Theron nodded slowly and looked toward the control sphere once more.
“We’re coming, Raven,” he whispered. “Just hold on.”