The scent of blood hung in the air—thick, metallic, suffocating. High Chief Garrok crouched in the shadows of a jagged crevice. The craggy, decaying walls were a mere dozen feet apart. His kin lay around him, broken and slick with crimson. Their armor unable to hold in the life that leaked into the dirt. The shamans drifted like ghosts among the fallen, chanting quietly to Kaelos. Their hands glowed with essence, flickering weakly, struggling to hold back the death of Garrok's brothers and sisters.
Ragna lay to his right, her massive form stretching over a hundred feet. Her once-majestic red scales were cracked and scarred. The edges of her folded wings scraped against the jagged sides. The shamans pried away the shattered scales, replacing them with plates etched in runes that gleamed faintly in the gloom. Her molten eyes blinked lazily, though her heavy breathing rattled, each exhale a rumble that shook his chest.
Garrok's hands trembled as he wove the last of their essence, pulling at shadows like thread. Cloaking them. Hiding them. Each strand of essence burned through what was left of their reserves. It was like feeding a fire with damp wood—futile and costly.
His knuckles whitened around the hilt of his sword. The humans marched above, celebrating their victory, oblivious to the truth buried in these sands. They thought they'd won.
But they had no idea. They didn't know about the caravan, the alliance with the elves, the seeds—lifeblood stolen from under human noses. If discovered, their ruse would spark a war to end all wars, for without those seeds, the orcs and elves—everyone—would forever bow to the humans, powerless, starving, and dependent. The humans would tighten their chains, forcing them into submission with unjust deals, hoarding the food that grew only on their lands, in their fields.
The thought of humanity's arrogant grip on the world's sustenance twisted Garrok's gut with rage, but he swallowed it down. Rage was a luxury they couldn't afford. Not yet.
He rummaged through a worn leather bag, his fingers closing around the familiar shape of the periscope. The battered metal cylinder gleamed dully in the faint light. The runes carved into its side seemed to stir, awaiting the spark of essence that would bring them to life. He focused his energy, channeling a thread of essence into the runes. The metal rippled, and the cylinder slowly extended, its thickness dwindling as it rose towards the top of the crevice.
The periscope reached its full length, two dozen feet of tarnished metal. Through its mirrors, Garrok surveyed the battlefield—a wasteland of charred earth, littered with the twisted bodies of both human and orc. Torn banners flapped weakly in the wind, and broken weapons lay half-buried in the blood-soaked ash. In the distance, the golden fields of wheat swayed gently, untouched by the carnage. Their serene movement a mockery of this hell.
Lowering the periscope, he let out a curse at his ancestors. If they hadn't betrayed Iona—the Fallen One—they wouldn't be here. They wouldn't be trapped in this dying world, clawing for survival while the gods above mocked them. But what was done was done. The gods erased Iona's name, twisted her into the monster they now feared. Yet there were the trolls and some of the orcs who remembered. They remembered she was right. That struggle, even through madness, was the path to strength.
That's why they fought. That's why they scavenged these cursed sands for essence crystals. Why their cities crawled across the dunes on steam engines, barely holding together. The crystals powered everything—the engines, the cannons, the shields. Without them, they were dust in the wind.
He glanced back at Ragna. The shamans had finished their work. Now, they hovered over his soldiers—those still breathing, those not yet swallowed by the dirt. Broken, but they had fought. They had done their duty.
He leaned against Ragna's flank, her warmth steady against his back. "Soon," he murmured, scratching her chin where the scales were still whole. "We'll fight again. But not yet. Give the caravan time to reach safety."
"Kaelos may watch over us," she rumbled, her voice like grinding stone, "but he won't save us from this."
Garrok scoffed. "True. We can't rely on him." The words tasted bitter, but he couldn't afford faith. Not in a god as shattered as the world he claimed to rule.
The plan was fragile. They'd sent most of their forces to guard the caravan. The orcs and elves fought side by side, knowing they wouldn't all make it. The monsters that roamed the Burnt Sea—the Lesser Spawn and their masters—would tear through them. But they had to make it. If they couldn't steal enough seeds, the humans would choke them out in a season. Starvation would do what war could not. They had been a thorn in their side for far too long.
The wind shifted, carrying the faint whispers of footsteps, and a familiar figure approached—the elf mage, Aeristha. She moved like a breeze, her every step soft, yet deliberate. Despite her youthful appearance, she was old—older than anyone he knew. She was closer to godhood than any other mortal, and there was a weight to her presence that made him uneasy.
"High Chief," she said, her voice low, sharp. "The humans are celebrating their victory, but they're blind. This battle is far from over. And we will win the war."
Garrok grunted, scanning the battlefield again. "I'll call it a victory when my army sees another sunrise."
"You've taken down ten of their dragon riders. Dozens of griffin riders are dead. You've lost eight dragons. Twelve wyverns. By any measure, that's a win."
Garrok snarled, turning to face Aeristha fully. "A win?" he spat. "We lost four dragon eggs. They'll hatch four more riders while we've lost four of our own. This won't change a damn thing."
Aeristha stood firm, her eyes locked on his. "This battle will change everything. If the humans discover the caravan, they'll finish what the monsters start. If we don't keep them occupied here, we risk losing everything. They'll rally the dwarves and the goblins with promises of grain, and they'll drown you in blood."
"And what of the soldiers I lost today? My army of twenty thousand reduced to a mere five hundred." The weight of their deaths pressed down on him, heavy and suffocating.
"You chose the expendable, Garrok. The weak, the politically inconvenient. Better they die buying time for the caravan than starve in the coming winter."
"So you would have me sacrifice the rest as bait?"
"They're doomed either way, Garrok," Aeristha replied. "Death by steel or death by starvation. Let their deaths have meaning. Let them secure the survival of our people."
Garrok turned away, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. "And what of you, Aeristha? Will you stand with us, or vanish like the morning mist?"
Aeristha didn't answer immediately.
"I'm not here for charity, High Chief," she said, her voice dripping with disdain. "The resources you and the elves have spent on this gamble won't cover my continued service. The moment Kaelos arrives, I'll be gone. If you're lucky, he'll be sane long enough to help you."
A distant thundering noise began to grow, faint yet ominous. Garrok's heart raced as he searched for the source of the sound through the periscope, dread settling in his gut. There, beyond the horizon, a second human army approached, marching to reinforce their comrades.
Not enough time. Not enough.
Tension coiled tight in Garrok's muscles. Each moment added weight, like a thousand unseen hands were pressing him down. His neck hairs bristled with the primal urge to kneel. Then Kaelos appeared, an impossibly large presence that warped the very air, a force beyond comprehension.
Each movement felt like wading through wet ash, each step dragging him deeper into the stifling grip of Kaelos' power. His legs buckled under the suffocating pressure. He fell to the jagged ash. The earth, eager to claim him, tore at his skin.
Kaelos loomed above them, an overwhelming presence that seemed to warp the very air around him. Those still able to move sank to their knees. Their bodies trembled in helpless submission. The shamans pressed their faces into the blood-soaked ground, whispering frantic prayers. The air thickened, heavy with Kaelos' aura. It was a force so crushing it bent the strongest to their will, snapping them like brittle reeds before an unforgiving storm.
Garrok looked up, his breath catching in his throat as he beheld Kaelos—the Shattered God. His scarred, jagged form normally radiated chaotic energy. But, the scars were dull. They did not leak the dangerous, searing energy that signaled his madness. For now, at least, he was sane. A rare mercy.
Everyone knelt. Everyone but Aeristha. Her eyes locked on the god as Kaelos glared at her, molten eyes narrowing.
"If I didn't need your services, I'd crush you," Kaelos rumbled, his voice like thunder.
Aeristha raised an eyebrow. "You could try. But the contract is over, and I have more important matters to attend to." With that, she began channeling essence. A gust of wind swirled around her feet, growing stronger, faster. The winds tugged at her cloak, swirling into a tornado that began to lift her, ready to carry her away.
Kaelos' lips curled into a smirk. "I could offer you what you seek—the secret to godhood. You've chased it for centuries."
Aeristha hesitated. Her hands lowered, the wind around her falling still.
Kaelos' gaze shifted to Garrok, and the weight of his attention nearly broke him. "You've done well, Garrok. But the Ruin Beasts stir beneath the sands. They're coming for your caravan. Your army will die."
Garrok's throat tightened with dread. Ruin Beasts. The very name sent chills through him—creatures that could crush armies as if they were nothing more than ash in the wind.
"And a third human army marches to join the others," Kaelos continued, his voice low, dangerous. "Use the Skybreaker Cannons. The thunder of them firing will draw the Ruin Beasts here. Let them finish the humans."
Garrok opened his mouth to protest, but Kaelos' power silenced him. His chest constricted, and his vision blurred as the weight of the God´s presence pressed down, a crushing wave of inevitability.
Then he saw Ragna. Her eyes, unwavering, fixed on his. Slowly, she nodded. Her presence steadied him, pulled him back.
Garrok pushed against the pressure, his legs trembling, muscles burning. "No." His voice was hoarse, but firm. "We won't die here. We can help our brethren defend the caravan. Only the engineers need to stay. We don't need this slaughter."
Ragna stepped forward, shadowy flames flickering from her nostrils. A low growl rumbled in her throat. "I won't let the Ruin Beasts ravage the human villages beyond the battlefield. I will not stand by while tens of thousands are slaughtered for nothing."
Kaelos' smile faded, replaced by cold fury. His scars flared with a searing light. The air around him thickened, humming with violence. Garrok's vision exploded with pain, but he held on. He wouldn't be Kaelos' puppet. He wouldn't be his pawn.
But that thought was soon overshadowed by the pressure, which tightened around Garrok like a vice. His knees buckled under the weight of Kaelos' will, and the ground rose up to meet him. Blood leaked from his and Ragna's eyes and ears, the thick warmth sliding down their faces and necks. The searing golden-red light that spilled from Kaelos' jagged scars blinded him, painting the world in hues of fire and ruin.
For a moment, Garrok saw past the shattered god—the thing that was once more than this. There was a rage in him, but beneath it, something deeper: desperation.
Then, in his mind, visions exploded. They were of ancient wars, cities turned to ash, and towers crumbling under the fists of gods. Of armies broken by endless slaughter. The images burned into his thoughts, searing glory, destruction, and despair into the fabric of his soul.
The silence that followed Kaelos' wrath was worse. Even the wounded orcs around him lay still, too terrified to groan in pain. Kaelos' voice cut through the oppressive stillness like a blade, sharp, cold, and absolute.
"Stop hiding your army. Go. Restore your essence and make the correct choices. Or I will ensure the humans find your precious secret."
His words were a command, and Garrok's body crumpled beneath their crushing weight. He collapsed onto the blood-soaked ground, trembling. The rage and power that had once filled him drained away, leaving only bitter exhaustion.
Ragna moved swiftly. With a precise strike of will, she severed Garrok's mind from his broken body, cutting through the threads that bound him to the mortal realm. Pain seared through him, sharp and overwhelming, as the separation tore him from the physical. But even as the agony burned, Ragna's mind enveloped his, wrapping him in a protective cocoon. She pulled him deep into the sanctuary of their shared bond, away from the wrath of the mad god that still thundered around them.
For a moment, there was nothing—no pain, no fear, no anger. Only the void.
Then they emerged. Minds stripped of their physical forms, they materialized in the familiar chamber of their essence pool. Here, they were beings of pure energy, glowing orbs of light intertwined by something deeper than blood or flesh. Garrok's essence pulsed with shadow, rimmed in pale fire, while Ragna's blazed crimson, threaded with dark veins of power.
The chamber surrounding them was small. Its translucent walls shifting through soft hues, refracting the energy that pulsed between them. Beyond those walls churned an endless void, rolling with unseen tides of power. Clear, luminous essence gathered at the chamber's floor, beading on the walls before flowing into a pool below.
Two great runes, etched on opposing walls, pulsed with a faint, steady rhythm—the core of their connection. These runes bound their souls together, anchoring them to the dragonfire and shadow that fueled their bond. Countless other runes were inscribed on the surrounding walls, spells painstakingly learned and inscribed over the years.
"Gorrak-spawned wretches," Garrok cursed, though the sound of it echoed differently here. No voice, just the raw projection of frustration, rage, and fear. "Raghgar! Essence-drained coward!"
Ragna's essence flickered angrily beside him, a surge of crimson light illuminating the chamber. "Kaelos will destroy everything in his path if it suits him," she growled, her voice a deep, rumbling presence.
Garrok nodded and forwent replying, instead directing his essence toward the runes, focusing on the task at hand. They couldn't afford to fall apart, not now.
They wove the essence, guiding it with practiced precision along the minute channels that were inside the walls. The walls pulsed as the raw energy flowed into them, casting brief flashes of light into the void. The condensation quickened, and the pool below deepened ever so slightly. It was a slow process, but they had learned patience.
"Do you remember," Ragna asked, her voice softer now, as her essence glowed gently beside Garrok's, "when this room was barely an inch across?"
Garrok let out a bitter laugh, his own essence flickering faintly. "I do. Back when we were still fledglings, barely able to survive the trials. Only two runes back then—Dragonfire and Shadow. We thought it was the entire world."
Ragna's light brightened, warming their bond with shared memory. "The arrogance of youth. We thought we could become gods by force alone."
"But now we know better," Garrok said, the weight of years heavy on his soul. "Power alone isn't enough. Not in this broken world."
The silence that followed was thick with unspoken understanding.
The orcs were dying. Slowly, inevitably, like everything else in this world.
The humans marched ever closer, their forces stronger with each passing day. Their arrogance, their hunger for dominion, their alliance with the gods—it threatened to consume them all. But they didn't understand what was coming. They didn't know about the caravan. The seeds.
They didn't know that we had no choice but to keep moving. To fight.
"We'll die either way," Garrok said quietly, breaking the silence. "Kaelos will burn us all if we fail. The humans will starve us if we run. We have no escape."
Ragna growled deep in her soul, the fury of a dragon burning through her. "We are not beaten yet, Garrok. We still have time."
"Time?" Garrok laughed, a hollow, bitter sound. "Time for what? The caravan is on the move, but the Ruin Beasts are stirring. The Horde Masters will be upon them soon. And now a third human army marches for us."
Ragna's light dimmed, a shadow passing through her essence. "We have one choice," she said, her voice low, grim. "As much as it pains me to admit it, we need to bring the Ruin Beasts here. Let them tear the humans apart. Draw them into the same trap they'd lay for us."
Garrok recoiled at the thought. "We'll be slaughtering innocents—entire villages are in their path. The blood will be on our hands."
"The blood is on our hands either way," Ragna snapped. "If we don't act, the caravan is lost. The alliance with the elves is broken. The humans will turn the world to ash to protect their precious fields. And we will all die in the dirt."
Garrok wanted to argue, to find another way, but deep down, he knew Ragna was right. They were out of time. Out of options.
Garrok closed his eyes, the weight of it all pressing down on him. His essence flickered, barely holding together. "Let's go back. Call the engineers. Tell them to ready the Skybreaker Cannons."
Ragna's presence flared beside him, a grim satisfaction radiating from her as they turned to face the inevitable.
"Let the beasts come," she said. "And may the gods choke on the blood they spill."
