The sun in Varrak'Zul was not golden — it was a brutal eye, rimmed in crimson smoke, glaring down upon a land carved by war. Across the Black Mesa, where the sky met the cracked earth in jagged silence, a sound had begun to rise — not of birds or wind, but of drums.
War drums.
Orcs did not sing. They marched.
They did not pray. They bled.
And now, they prepared to do both.
Kael Valari had never set foot in the realm of orcs until now. As his boots crunched over the rust-red soil, he kept one hand on the Sword of Emberfall, which now flickered faintly with every heartbeat. The second relic had awakened it. The flame was no longer just fire. It was memory, and Kael could feel the land recoiling from the blade.
Beside him strode Thrain Stonefist, sweat gleaming on his brow. Dwarves and orcs had rarely stood as allies. More often, they'd stood on either side of a battlefield.
Trailing behind them, cloaked and hooded, was Elyria, her face hidden by a desert veil. The death of her mother, Queen Seralyth, had hollowed something inside her. She spoke less now, but her eyes burned brighter — like starlight turned sharp.
In the distance, banners rose above the dust. Each bore the sigil of Warlord Gruum Kaath: a roaring maw, fanged and aflame. His was the greatest orc horde in centuries — fractured tribes beaten into unity by blood and battle.
And Kael needed their help.
The Warlord's Shadow
Gruum Kaath was waiting atop a cliff of stone and bone, surrounded by his Fangs of Zul — war-priests, spellcasters, berserkers. His armor was forged from dragon-scale, blackened by ash, and upon his back was strapped a massive greataxe named Hearthowl, a weapon soaked in so much blood it whispered at night.
When Kael and his companions approached, the orc lord stepped forward.
"You are fire," he growled.
Kael bowed slightly. "You are steel."
Gruum bared his teeth. "If I thought you came to command me, human, I'd crush your bones and feed them to my wolves."
"I didn't come to command," Kael said calmly. "I came to warn."
Gruum grunted. "So did the wind. It carried the stench of rot and old magic. Varethul's dead men walk the dunes at night. They do not bleed when we cut them down. They do not burn."
Kael's jaw tightened. "He's after the third relic. I think it's here. Beneath your land."
The orc's eyes narrowed. "And why would I let you take it?"
Thrain stepped forward. "Because if he gets it first, there'll be nothing left to rule."
Gruum looked from Thrain to Kael, then to Elyria.
"You walk with elf, dwarf, and flame," he said. "Your blood offends the earth."
"And yet I live," Kael said.
Gruum's mouth curved — not a smile, but something like it.
"Then let us see what your blood is worth."
The Pit of Trials
No one walked into Varrak'Zul's confidence. Not even prophecy. Not without proving their right.
That night, Kael stood in the Trial Pit of Skarn, a circle of jagged rock surrounded by chanting orcs, their faces painted in war-markings and glowing runes.
Across from him stood Urok the Bonebreaker, Gruum's champion — seven feet tall, scars across his arms like carved prayers, eyes painted black.
"You bleed," Gruum announced to the watching horde, "you fight, you earn."
Elyria gritted her teeth from the edge. "He's wounded. Exhausted."
Thrain muttered, "He'll be dead if that brute lands a hit."
Kael rolled his shoulders.
Then drew Emberfall.
The orcs went silent.
Urok snarled and charged.
Fire and Fury
The fight was brutal.
Urok swung a double-headed axe like it weighed nothing. Kael ducked, rolled, sliced. Emberfall danced in the dim torchlight, casting flickers of orange onto stone and sweat.
The crowd roared.
Urok slammed Kael to the ground. The air left Kael's lungs. Blood filled his mouth.
Above, the champion raised his axe for a killing blow—
—and Emberfall exploded in flame.
Kael's hand moved on instinct. The blade sliced across Urok's chest in a flare of white heat.
The orc screamed.
Then fell.
Dead.
The pit went silent.
Then, from Gruum's throat, came a deep, rumbling laugh.
"Fireborn bleeds. Fireborn earns."
Kael stood, gasping, his blade dripping.
"Then let's burn the rot."
The Shattered Temple
Under the warlord's guidance, Kael and his companions were taken to the Ruins of Zul'Karakh, an ancient temple buried beneath the salt sands. The orcs believed it was cursed — long forgotten after a war between flame sorcerers and bone shamans.
The relic's pull was strongest here.
Kael could feel it in his teeth.
Gruum stood beside a great stone gate, decorated with the carvings of dragons and suns, now blackened.
"We sealed it after the dead began to whisper."
Kael stepped forward. "Then it's time we hear what they're saying."
Together, they pushed open the gate.
Darkness poured out like breath.
The Descent
Inside, the air was heavy — thick with magic and decay. The walls were etched with elvish script and orcish bloodlines, crumbling beneath centuries of silence. The deeper they went, the more twisted the architecture became — as if the stone had been shaped by screaming.
Elyria ran her hand along the wall. "This temple was elven once."
Gruum growled. "Orcs took it when your kind fled. Bled it into something useful."
Kael stopped.
In the chamber ahead, a pedestal rose from the floor — and above it, floating in a cage of twisted bone, was a shard of molten obsidian.
The third relic.
But before they could approach—
The walls screamed.
The Hollow's Curse
From the shadows poured dozens of deathbound, their eyes like burning coals, armor clattering like chains dragged across stone.
At their center strode a woman of bone, wrapped in a veil of smoke. Her mouth was stitched shut, her limbs far too long.
Kael's breath caught.
"A death-seer."
Thrain swore. "Undead witch. Their kind sees fate through blood."
Elyria drew her blade. "She's already seen ours."
The death-seer raised a hand.
And the dead charged.
The Battle for the Relic
Steel met bone.
Emberfall flared, carving a path through the enemy. Thrain fought like a battering ram, his warcry shaking the walls. Elyria moved with deadly grace, her blade glowing silver.
Gruum joined the fray with Hearthowl, cleaving through undead in sprays of frost and black blood.
Kael reached the relic's cage—
—but the death-seer blocked him.
She moved like a broken marionette, every limb unnatural, her eyes bleeding frost.
She screamed — not with her mouth, but through the walls.
Kael struck.
She dodged.
Then—
She touched his chest.
And he saw fire.
Visions of the End
The sword fell from Kael's grip.
In his mind, he saw a throne of ash, the world burning. Elyria dead. Thrain torn in half. Gruum impaled on a spear of ice.
He saw himself standing over Varethul's body—
—and taking the crown.
You become him, the seer whispered into his soul. You always were.
Kael gritted his teeth.
"No."
The vision cracked.
Flame surged.
And Kael roared, driving Emberfall through the seer's chest.
She screamed once more.
Then burned.
The Third Relic Claimed
As the undead collapsed, Kael stumbled forward and reached into the cage of bone. The Relic of Stone and Flame sank into Emberfall with a hiss of steam and light.
The blade pulsed — once, twice — then turned deep crimson.
The runes shifted.
And Kael heard a new voice in his mind.
Not prophecy.
Not fate.
But choice.
Oaths Forged in Blood
Outside the temple, as the sun fell beyond the bone ridges of Varrak'Zul, Gruum knelt before Kael.
"Three relics you've taken," the warlord said. "And not once did you kneel."
Kael looked down at him.
"I don't want thrones."
Gruum grinned. "Then you might just deserve one."
The warhost roared their allegiance.
And the orcs of the south marched beneath fire once more.
The Hollow King Waits
Far in the frozen dark, Varethul opened a book bound in Kael's own skin.
He read the lines aloud:
"When fire walks with stone,And steel forgets its name,The gate shall break.And the world shall drown."
He closed the book.
"Three pieces," he whispered.
"Time for the Fourth."