Khaltar stood at the edge of his tent, his scarred fingers tightening around the hilt of his blade. The wind carried the scent of burning sand and old death, but it was the sky that made his blood run cold.
Above Sol-Mayora, where the heavens had once burned with golden fire, black and violet clouds churned like a bleeding wound. The very stars seemed swallowed by an unseen maw, leaving nothing but a void where no light could escape.
Jhon stepped out from his tent, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He was still half-dressed, the leather straps of his armor hanging loose as he squinted into the darkness. "What in the seven hells has you standing there like a statue?" he muttered, adjusting the belt around his waist.
Khaltar didn't answer. He simply raised his hand and pointed toward the sky. For a moment, Jhon didn't understand. Then he saw it.
Far beyond the dunes and oceans, past the ruined bones of ancient war machines, the horizon split open like a festering wound.
Khaltar lowered himself onto a worn-out camelhide seat, his heavy frame sinking into the weight of exhaustion. He exhaled slowly, his breath uneven, as if the air itself had turned to poison. The flickering lantern inside the tent did little to hold back the oppressive black-violet hue seeping in from outside.
Jhon remained standing, arms crossed, his brows knitted together. Outside, the murmurs of the restless camp grew louder—men shaken awake by the unnatural tremors now whispered prayers, some sharpening their weapons, others too stunned to move.
Khaltar rubbed his temples, then looked up at Jhon with weary eyes. "Do you know why Sol-Mayora and Sol-Minora have never fallen?"
Jhon hesitated. He had fought in dozens of battles, seen fortresses burned to the ground, cities reduced to rubble, entire armies slaughtered in a single night. But what Khaltar was saying felt different—like a war they had already lost. "Because no army can cross the ocean between them with ease?" Jhon guessed.
Khaltar shook his head. "Because nothing has ever crawled out of the abyss before."
Jhon stiffened. "You mean—"
"The Fallen never rise unless something worse calls them back." Khaltar's voice was grim. "And looking at that sky, this isn't just a single army. There could be thousands. Hundreds of thousands."
The words hung heavy in the air, sinking into Jhon's chest like a blade. "The ocean separates Sol-Mayora from Sol-Minora," Khaltar continued, "But if this many have risen... then the lands across the sea are already being devoured."
Jhon clenched his fists. "Then we're safe."
Khaltar scoffed. "Safe? Against what, exactly?" He leaned forward, eyes glinting in the dim light. "What happens when there's nothing left out there?"
Jhon didn't answer.
"When Khadag finishes stripping every land across the sea to the bone, where do you think he'll go next?"
A chill ran down Jhon's spine. "You're saying... he'll come here?"
"Do you think he won't?" Khaltar snapped. "When have the orcs ever left a battlefield untouched? When have they ever spared an enemy?!"
Jhon swallowed hard. Khaltar could see the realization dawn in his eyes. "You've never seen them sail, have you?" Khaltar muttered. "Neither have I. No one has. But that doesn't mean they don't have them."
The thought sent a fresh wave of fear rolling through Jhon's gut. "If Khadag decides to sail for Sol-Minora... Then nothing will stop him."
Khaltar rose to his feet, his presence commanding the attention of every warrior within the Silver Axes encampment. His iron-plated boots ground into the sand, and with a sharp exhale, he turned toward the gathered men.
"Listen well, warriors of Sol-Minora," he bellowed. "We stand at the edge of oblivion. The Fallen have risen, the sky has darkened, and soon, the orcish warships may set sail. But our wives and children are safe—they march toward Gehenna. That means, we fight without fear!"
The men grunted in agreement, some clutching their weapons tighter, others murmuring silent prayers.
A younger warrior stepped forward, his face still bearing scars from the last battle. "Commander, all of them already left. They should be reaching Gehenna by four days."
Khaltar let out a slow breath of relief. Gehenna was a stronghold, buried deep within the Obsidian Cliffs, fortified by sheer stone and unbreakable walls. No fleet could reach it without breaking their ships against its jagged shores. The women and children would be safe.
"Then we have only one duty," Khaltar declared, "to hold the coast until our last breath!"
A resounding roar erupted from the gathered warriors. But then came the hard part—the plan.
Khaltar turned to Jhon and the other warriors, his mind already racing. Thinking few options.
The orcish fleet, if it existed, would struggle in deep waters. They were not expert sailors, meaning they would most likely hug the coastline. The Shallow Passages were the only safe entry point along the coast for any large fleet. If the warships entered these waters, they would be forced to slow down.
Solution: The Silver Axes would collapse sections of the coastal cliffs using blackpowder charges, creating artificial reefs to block the most critical passages.
Any ship that attempted to navigate through would be forced into narrow lanes, perfect for ambushes.
Using the abandoned wreckage of older ships, the warriors would construct floating fire rafts, laced with tar and blackpowder barrels. These would be set adrift on the tides, ignited just as the orcish fleet attempted to pass through. Additionally, large clay amphorae filled with oil would be buried along the shore. Archers would light them once the ships got close, turning the coastline into a burning hell.
If any warship made it through the blockade, a final trap awaited. Hidden beneath the waters of the narrowest strait, massive chains were anchored to the seabed.
Once an orcish ship entered, winches on both sides of the cliffs would yank the chains upwards, causing the ships to collide with an unseen barrier, snapping hulls in half.
If any orcs made it past the burning waters, the final battle would be on land. Khaltar ordered his men to dig trenches, reinforced with sharpened wooden stakes, forcing the orcs into a bottleneck where they would be rained upon by arrows and javelins. The final defense line would be a ring of spearmen and swordsmen, prepared to cut down whatever reached the shore.
As Khaltar finished laying out his strategy, the warriors nodded in grim.
Jhon, standing at his side, exhaled. "It's a death trap," he muttered.
"If we die," Khaltar finally said, "we die knowing we gave our families the time they needed to escape."
The men raised their weapons into the air, letting out a war cry that echoed across the dunes. The warriors' war cry echoed across the dunes, rattling the sky with their defiant roar. But just as the sound reached its peak, it faltered. Died. A suffocating silence swept over the gathered men as their eyes fixated on a figure approaching through the sandstorm.
At first, they thought it was a vagrant, a corpse that had risen from the battlefield to mock them. The man lurched forward, his spine twisted like a tree struck by lightning. His left leg dragged uselessly, barely attached at the knee, while his right foot was raw and swollen, as though he had walked across jagged stone for decades. His arms hung unevenly, the left one atrophied and skeletal, while the right was twisted with thick, pulsing veins, bulging unnaturally.
His face was a grotesque ruin—his left eye socket was empty, the flesh around it mottled with old burns, while his remaining eye glowed a sickly yellow, cloudy with age yet burning with something inhuman. His lips were cracked, caked in dried blood, revealing rotting teeth sharpened to points.
His robes were once white, but now stitched together from filth and decay, hanging in tattered, worm-eaten layers. The scent of rot, sweat, and something far worse clung to him, a stench so thick that the closest warriors instinctively stepped back, gagging.
"You are all dead men," he rasped, his voice a whisper and a scream at once."Unless you listen."
Khaltar's hand instinctively tightened around his sword. He had seen many horrors in war, but this thing before him was something else entirely. "Who in seven hells are you?" Khaltar demanded.
The man grinned, his cracked lips peeling apart, revealing blackened gums. "The Prophet," he said. "And I am here to save you."
A ripple of unease spread through the warriors. Some muttered curses, others whispered prayers. "And how would a wretch like you save us?" Jhon scoffed.
The Prophet's grin widened, his decayed teeth flashing in the torchlight. "You cannot stop the Fallen," he rasped. "They do not bleed. They do not fear. They do not die."
The warriors shifted uneasily. They knew this already. "But there are those who can," the Prophet continued. "The Guardians."
Silence. Even Khaltar's breath hitched. The Guardians. Ancient beings of legend. Monsters of the wind, their power stretching across time itself. No one knew what they looked like—only that they were vast, unknowable forces, whispered of in prophecy.
They were said to shape storms with a thought, to break mountains with a sigh, to vanish entire armies with a whisper. And yet, they had not been seen in thousands of years.
"You speak of myths," Khaltar growled.
The Prophet's single eye gleamed. "Myths?" he chuckled. "Then why does the wind howl, Khaltar? Why does the sky darken, and the sands shift like restless bones?"
Khaltar hesitated. The wind had been... unnatural tonight.
The Prophet leaned closer, his breath like rotting meat. "Release the Guardians," he whispered. "And they will cleanse the Fallen."
Khaltar narrowed his eyes. "And how, Prophet, do we 'release' something that has not been seen in an age?"
The Prophet's grin did not falter. "You take my hand, and you agree to my advice," he said simply. "I will lead you to them. But you must trust me."
The warriors looked at one another. A choice stood before them: To trust a wretch who stank of death and madness. Or to fight the Fallen alone, knowing they would not win.
Khaltar exhaled slowly, his gaze never leaving the Prophet's. Khaltar finally reached out his hand. "Lead us to them."
The Prophet's grin widened. Then, Prophet walked without hesitation, his twisted body moving through the dunes as if he had tread this path a thousand times before. The wind howled around them, carrying whispers of the dead, yet he never looked back.
Khaltar and Jhon followed in uneasy silence. Behind them, the Silver Axes remained, watching their leaders vanish into the black horizon.
Before they left, Khaltar had given them only one command: "Stay in position. Follow the plan. No matter what."
But as Jhon walked beside him, his boots sinking into the cold sand, unease gnawed at his gut. "How long have we known each other, Khaltar?" Jhon asked suddenly.
Khaltar didn't turn. His gaze was locked ahead, his breath steady. "Long enough," he replied.
Jhon frowned. That was typical Khaltar—always giving answers that barely answered anything.
But there was something else on his mind. Something far worse. His voice dropped lower. "Do you know the Prophet?"
Khaltar was quiet for a moment. The only sound between them was the shifting sands beneath their feet. Then, finally, he spoke. "No."
Jhon raised an eyebrow. "You sound sure."
Khaltar exhaled through his nose. "Because he knows us better than we know ourselves."
Jhon stiffened. He didn't know why, but those words sent a chill through his spine.
Khaltar continued walking, his voice low, steady. "Even if I knew him, Jhon, it wouldn't change the fact that you still can't sleep at night. That you wake up hearing the screams of your dead friends. That no matter how much blood we spill, their faces never leave you."
Jhon froze mid-step. His mouth felt dry. His chest tightened. Because Khaltar was damn fucking right.