The cold winds of dawn swept across the towering dunes of Sol-Minora, the southern lands untouched by the chaos that had consumed Sol-Mayora. Here, in the heart of the Silver Axes' encampment, warriors trained under the first rays of the sun, their breaths turning to mist in the morning chill.
Near the great Stone Circle of Elders, two figures stood apart from the rest—Khaltar and Jhon, a name feared in all corners of the land. They trained in silence, summoning Mana from the depths of their being, the living energy that flowed through all things. Khaltar's arms crackled with raw energy, his veins pulsing with power, while Jhon focused on control, his fingers weaving unseen patterns in the air.
Their training's interrupted by the sudden arrival of Vrakar and Durn, the two crows of Boris Iron Vein, their black feathers shimmering with the dust of a long journey.
The Silver Axes' warriors murmured amongst themselves. It's rare for Boris' crows to fly so far south. It could mean only one thing—ill news.
Jhon wiped sweat from his brow and frowned. "Why are they here?"
Khaltar narrowed his eyes. "They do not bring messages of peace."
The crows cawed loudly before shifting, their forms dissolving into dark mist before reforming into spectral figures—ethereal echoes of Boris' trusted messengers. Their hollow eyes turned toward the two warriors.
"Boris is dead."
The words fell like a thunderclap upon the camp. Gasps and curses rippled through the ranks of the Silver Axes. Jhon's hands clenched into fists. Khaltar's expression darkened.
"Sol-Mayora has fallen," Vrakar continued, his voice hollow and cold. "The orcs have taken the land. Khadag the Breaker of Hosts now rules the Ember Sands. The clans have been shattered. The warlords slain. The banners burned."
Jhon took a step back, his breath shallow. "No... That cannot be."
Durn's spectral form flickered as he spoke. "The Black Sun Clan? Gone. The Priests of the Deep Sun? Butchered. The Sorcerers? Scattered. The Sand Surfers? Broken. The Iron Foot? Crushed. Only the dead remain."
Jhon looked around at the warriors of the Silver Axes, their faces twisted in shock and anger. He turned back to the crows. "Why have you come here?"
Durn's glowing eyes bore into him. "Because you are the last."
Vrakar's form wavered in the morning light. "You are the last bastion of warriors untouched by orcish dominion. If Sol-Minora does not rise... all shall fall to Khadag's horde."
Jhon's breath quickened, the weight of their words settling upon him.
Khaltar's hands crackled with power once more. "Then we prepare for war."
Jhon stood still, his fingers twitching as he recalled Torgo the Black's last words: "A warrior is not born as he is, but formed as he must."
The words echoed through his mind like the final toll of a war drum. His chest tightened, fists clenched at his sides. He had always believed that strength was earned through hardship, through the fires of battle—but now, he's standing at the edge of a war unlike any before.
Khaltar noticed his silence and narrowed his eyes. "What troubles you, brother?"
Jhon exhaled sharply, turning to face him. "Torgo knew this would happen. He saw the signs before any of us. He told me that a warrior is not simply born for battle but shaped by it—because war never truly ends." His voice wavered, but his resolve did not. "If Boris is dead, if all of Sol-Mayora has fallen… we are not just warriors. We are the last standing wall."
Khaltar's expression darkened. "The orcs remained silent for 800 years. They have slumbered in the shadows, waiting, watching. If they rise now, then their numbers must be beyond counting. That is why all the clans fell."
Jhon's jaw tightened. "Then we cannot afford hesitation. If we do not act, Sol-Minora will be next."
The warriors of the Silver Axes stood frozen, listening to the weight of their words. The morning wind howled across the camp, carrying with it the scent of distant death.
Khaltar unsheathed his greatsword, the blade glimmering with faint runes. "We must send word. Call every last free warrior to arms."
As the wind howled over Sol-Minora, Khaltar reached into his leather satchel, pulling out a rolled parchment. He whistled sharply, summoning Azmar, his loyal storm eagle, a beast of legend with feathers streaked in silver and piercing amber eyes. The eagle descended, talons gripping the outstretched forearm of its master.
With a heavy heart, Khaltar began writing the message in Sol-Minora's ancient tongue, a language rooted in the lost traditions of the Dune Kings and the Sun-blessed Warriors. The script, reminiscent of ancient dialects, curved elegantly across the parchment as he inscribed each desperate word:
"Kwa Wana wa Majangwa na Mabingwa wa Maji,
Majaliwa yetu iko hatarini. Mivuli mirefu ya Orcs imetanda juu ya Sol-Mayora, na damu ya mashujaa wetu inachafua mchanga wa jangwa. Tumepoteza ndugu zetu wa Iron Foot, Black Sun, na Mapadri wa Jua Kuu. Wamemalizwa. Wachawi wa Mashariki wameanguka. Hakuna anayebaki kusimama kati yetu na uharibifu wa mwisho.
Hatuna uchaguzi. Vita imekuja kwa kila mtu.
Enyi wana wa Emerald Oasis, Atoll Paradise, Whispering Palms, na Crystal Lagoon, naamini bado mnasikia sauti za wahenga wenu zikizungumzia zama za vita vya zamani. Najua, kwa muda mrefu mmekuwa watu wa amani, walinzi wa maji matakatifu na misitu yenye baraka. Lakini amani hiyo sasa iko hatarini. Orcs wanakuja—na hawatakuwa na huruma.
Nasema hivi kwa jina la Torgo, kwa jina la walioanguka, kwa jina la ardhi ambayo tuliahidi kulinda. Jikusanyeni. Jiandae kwa vita. Vita ambayo itamua ikiwa tutaendelea kuwepo au tutakuwa kumbukumbu tu katika historia.
Nawaomba—simameni nasi katika mwanga wa jua lililokolea damu. Fikeni Sol-Minora kabla jua halijashuka kwa siku ya tatu. Ikiwa hamtakuja, mtakuwa wa kwanza kuteketezwa baada yetu.
Kwa heshima, kwa ujasiri, kwa ardhi yetu,
Khaltar wa Panga Nyeusi, Mkuu wa Vikosi vya Silver Axes"
He rolled the parchment, sealing it with molten wax stamped by his obsidian ring, the symbol of the Silver Axes. Tying it to Azmar's talon, he whispered:
"Fly fast, my friend. The fate of Sol-Minora depends on the will of warriors who have forgotten their steel."
As Azmar disappeared into the sky, Khaltar turned to Jhon, his expression resolute.
"If they come, we may still have a chance. If they refuse… then we stand alone against the night."
Jhon smirked, gripping the hilt of his blade. "Then let's hope they remember what it means to be warriors."
With a powerful beat of its wings, Azmar soared into the sky, vanishing into the desert winds, heading towards the distant havens of those who had long abandoned war.
Though the people of these lands had spent centuries in peace, each sanctuary harbored warriors of legend—defenders bound to their sacred lands, rarely called to battle but now left with no choice.
A paradise hidden within the golden dunes, Emerald Oasis was a jewel of life amidst the desert's cruelty. Here, the Jangwa Mlinzi, or DesertSentinels, thrived. Warriors clad in emerald-green robes, infused with water-magic, wielding crescent-bladed polearms that could slice through steel like silk. Beast-masters who rode upon Sand Stalkers, sleek panther-like creatures adapted to the desert, capable of vanishing into mirages. Healers who could manipulate the oasis waters, weaving life and destruction into their spells.
At the heart of the Oasis stood Mzee Nyoka, an elder warrior who had not drawn his twin sabers in decades. Yet as Azmar descended, delivering Khaltar's plea, he knew the time for hiding was over.
"We have kept our blades sheathed for too long. If we do not rise, the waters we protect will run red."
On a labyrinth of coral and crystalline waters, Atoll Paradise was home to the Tideborn, warriors of the reef-guarded shores.
Harpoon-wielders trained in amphibious combat, able to fight both on land and beneath the waves. Wave-dancers, sorcerers of the tide, who could summon water to drown foes or harden it into spears of ice. Shark-riders, warriors who had bonded with massive reef sharks, using them as living battering rams.
The leader of Atoll Paradise, Sefu Bahari, once known as TheTsunamiBlade, had abandoned war for meditation. But war had found him again. As he read Khaltar's words, his fist clenched.
"If the Orcs touch these waters, let them know the fury of the sea itself."
Beneath the towering coconut trees, the Windwalkers trained. They were masters of speed and deception, their weapons as light as the air itself.
Twin-blade duelists, striking with the force of a hurricane. Windcallers, monks who channeled the desert breeze into concussive blasts. Falconers, who fought alongside razor-beaked birds trained to blind and disarm enemies.
Elder Nia Zephyr, once a feared assassin, sighed as she received the message. Her people had not fought in centuries. But the wind whispered of death approaching.
"Even the gentlest breeze can become a storm. We ride to war."
A sacred place of meditation and healing, Crystal Lagoon was thought to be a land untouched by bloodshed. But even here, warriors remained hidden beneath the surface.
The Moonveil Warriors, trained in the art of silent assassination, using crystal-forged daggers that could turn invisible in water.
Spiritbinders, monks who could call upon the spirits of fallen warriors, manifesting them as ghostly allies in battle. Tidal Wardens, whose shields of enchanted coral could withstand cannon fire.
At the heart of the lagoon, Grandmaster Zuberi watched the rippling water. He closed his eyes as the war call reached him.
"If the stillness of water is disturbed, we shall return the violence tenfold."
The fire flickered low in the Silver Axes' war tent, casting jagged shadows against the worn canvas walls. Khaltar, Jhon, and the others sat in grim silence, their thoughts heavy with the weight of impending war.
Then, Yaraq, a grizzled veteran and one of Khaltar's most trusted men, strode into the tent and sank onto the fur-lined ground beside them. His scarred face was unreadable, but his voice carried a tension that even hardened warriors did not take lightly.
"I knew the orcs would march upon Sol-Mayora, but…" he exhaled deeply, rubbing his forehead. "I never expected them to move this fast."
Jhon furrowed his brows. "You don't seem afraid of them."
Yaraq chuckled dryly. "Afraid of orcs? No. I've split enough of their skulls to know they bleed just like any other beast."
He paused, his expression darkening.
"But their shamans… their Necrocallers—they're the real nightmare."
The tent fell into an eerie silence. Even Khaltar, who had fought in a hundred battles, tensed at the name.
Jhon frowned. "Necrocallers?"
Yaraq nodded, staring into the fire as though seeing horrors from a distant past.
"The Orcish Necrocallers are unlike any other magic casters in this world. They do not wield fire, nor ice, nor storms. Their power is buried beneath the sands, hidden within the ancient remains of a forgotten age."
He clenched his fists.
"They call upon The Fallen—the fossilized dead. Creatures from a time before any of us walked this world. Beasts of incomprehensible size and ferocity, their bones bound in dark magic, moving as if flesh still clung to them. I've seen them before, Khaltar... and I never want to see them again."
Jhon leaned forward, his grip tightening around his sword hilt. "You mean to say… the orcs can raise the dead?"
Yaraq shook his head. "Not just any dead. The first beasts. The ancient kings of the land."
Khaltar's jaw tightened. "You mean the dinosaurs?"
Yaraq gave him a grave nod.
"Not just dinosaurs, as the scholars call them. The Fallen come in more shapes and sizes than we could count. Hundreds of species. Some no bigger than a warhound, others… bigger than fortresses. And each one reborn in undeath, faster, stronger, and twisted with magic."
Jhon's breath hitched as Yaraq listed the horrors the Necrocallers could summon. Khaltar's hands trembled slightly as he listened. Even for a battle-hardened warrior, this was no ordinary enemy.
"How many can they summon?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Yaraq swallowed hard. "I once saw a single Necrocaller raise an entire valley's worth of bones. That was one shaman. Now imagine an entire legion of them, working together, calling upon the graves of an entire age."
Silence. Jhon finally broke it, his voice shaking. "Then this isn't just an orcish war anymore. This is something else entirely."
Khaltar closed his eyes, exhaling sharply. "Then we have no choice. If the Necrocallers march with The Fallen, then the time for hesitation is over."
He stood, gripping his blade.
"We fight now, or we are nothing but dust beneath their bones."
As Yaraq's grim warning about The Fallen still hung in the air, another figure approached the war tent—a woman, cloaked in heavy furs, her eyes hardened by experience.
Reza the Windkeeper, a scout and healer among the Silver Axes, strode forward, her presence commanding. Though lean, she carried herself with the quiet strength of someone who had seen too much and survived worse.
She barely acknowledged the stunned silence of the men as she spoke, her voice cutting through the air like a sharpened blade.
"Silver Axes have always protected women and children. But this war is different. The orcs don't just slaughter—they multiply."
The words sent a shiver through the tent. The meaning was clear. Jhon clenched his fists, his jaw tightening.
"They take women as breeding stock," Reza continued, her voice laced with disgust. "And they don't care about age. If we lose this war, it won't just be death waiting for them—it will be a life worse than death."
The men exchanged dark looks. None of them had ever doubted the brutality of the orcs, but hearing it spoken so plainly made it real.
"We must hide them," Reza pressed, stepping closer. "Not in the usual shelters. If we lose, the orcs will tear the land apart looking for captives. We need somewhere they can't be found. Somewhere beyond the reach of war."
Khaltar, who had remained silent until now, exhaled sharply. His mind raced through possibilities. "There is no fortress strong enough," he murmured, more to himself than to the others. "No city that won't eventually fall. If the orcs and their Necrocallers bring the full force of The Fallen, every wall will crumble."
Jhon stepped forward, his voice tense. "Then where?"
Khaltar's eyes narrowed as an idea formed in his mind. "There is one place. Gehenna."
Yaraq frowned. "You mean the caves beyond the Black Ridge? That place is cursed—"
"Exactly." Khaltar's voice was firm. "No orc will venture into the Gehenna. Not even their shamans."
Yaraq hesitated. "You're talking about the Undermaze—the tunnels that run beneath the mountains, deeper than any have dared to map. Even the dwarves sealed their entrances and swore never to return."
"Because they are afraid of the things that dwell there," Reza added grimly. "The things that have never been seen in daylight."
"Better to face unknown horrors than a certain fate," Khaltar countered. "If we keep them here, we're just delaying the inevitable. But if we send them below—"
"—Then maybe they have a chance," Reza finished.
"Then it's settled," Khaltar said at last. "Gather every woman and child who cannot fight. We move them before dawn."
Jhon nodded. "And the warriors?"
Khaltar turned toward the burning horizon. "We fight until the last breath."