The rain came down in greasy sheets, turning dust to filth and filth to sucking mire. The camp of Chief Ironfang sprawled across a low ridge of broken stone, lit by guttering fires. Orcs huddled in ramshackle huts and tents, faces glum, as they tried to keep out of the incessant rain. The weather matched the mood in the orc encampment.
Into this walked Timinus Blacksoul. He did not belong. That much was clear. Cloaked in red, a cap of curled horns upon his head. His boots unsoiled by the mud, clothes untouched by rain, eyes glinting with a cold and knowing malice, he walked straight through the camp as though the staring orcs were no more than shadows. A few noticed. One tried to bar his way. The orc never finished the gesture. His tusked grin froze as black shadows crawled over his face, entering his mouth, and choking the very life out of him. He toppled, stiff as iron. Word spread quickly.
By the time Timinus reached the central fire, Chief Ironfang was waiting. The warlord was huge, even for an orc. Clad in rusty black armor, his missing left tusk crudely replaced with a metal one. He sat upon a rough wooden throne covered in fur pelts, a crude collection of wooden poles and canvas cloth keeping the rain off. Ironfang gnawed on something that might once have been a goat.“You got guts, humie,” Ironfang growled, tossing the bone aside. “Or you got a zoggin death wish.” Timinus inclined his head slightly. “I have a proposition.”A ripple of laughter passed through the gathered orcs. Slabgut, Ironfang’s lieutenant, stood close by—thick-necked, watchful, one eye milky with an old wound. He spat into the mud.“Humies don’t make propositions,” Slabgut muttered. “They squeal.”Timinus ignored him.“There is a village,” the wizard continued. “Braghafen. Small. Poorly defended. Within it resides a sage—an old man with knowledge I require. You will take your warriors, seize the village, and bring him to me alive.”Ironfang leaned forward, grinning wide. “And why don’t we just smash yer skull and take whatever shiny bit you’re after?”“Because,” said Timinus calmly, “you do not know what you’re looking for.”That earned a pause.“The sage possesses information regarding an artifact,” the wizard went on. ” A relic of considerable power. Dangerous power. Beyond your comprehension.” Ironfang’s grin returned, wider than before. “Power I don’t understand still sounds like power. Maybe I’ll just take it.”“You would die before you touched it.”
That did it. The warlord rose to his full height, towering over the wizard. Around them, the orcs fell silent, sensing blood.“I don’t like yer tone, humie,” Ironfang snarled. “You come into my camp, tell me what I can’t do—”“And yet,” Timinus cut in softly, “you are listening.”For a moment, the only sound was the rain. Then Ironfang laughed—a booming, ugly sound. “Alright. I’ll play. What do we get?”“Gold. Weapons. And the opportunity to serve a purpose greater than pointless raiding.”That last part was a mistake. Ironfang’s laughter died instantly. His eyes narrowed to slits. “Pointless?”Slabgut shifted, sensing the change. The surrounding orcs began to edge closer.“Every raid is a test,” Ironfang growled. “Every fight makes us stronger. That’s purpose.”“Primitive rationalization,” Timinus replied. “You mistake noise for meaning.”The warlord’s hand tightened around his cleaver. “You think you’re better than us.”“I know I am.”The first blow came fast. Ironfang swung his cleaver in a brutal arc meant to split the wizard from shoulder to hip. Timinus did not move—until the last instant. Then the world turned white. A crack like the sky itself breaking open split the air. Lightning, unnatural and searing blue, leapt from Timinus’s outstretched hand and struck Ironfang square in the chest.For a heartbeat, the warlord stood frozen, every muscle locked. Then smoke began to curl from his armor. His jaw opened in a silent roar. He collapsed, dead, before he hit the ground. Silence fell across the camp. Even the rain seemed to hesitate.
Timinus lowered his hand slowly, as though the act had cost him nothing at all. His gaze swept over the stunned orcs.“Is there another who would negotiate?” he asked.No one moved. Slabgut stared at Ironfang’s corpse, then at the wizard. His good eye flickered with something dangerously close to thought. Around him, the tribe shifted—leaderless, uncertain.Timinus’s gaze settled on him.“You,” the wizard said. “You have enough sense to hesitate. That is rare.”Slabgut bared his tusks. “You killed the boss.”“Yes.”A long pause.Then Slabgut shrugged.“Boss got killed,” he said. “Means he weren’t strong enough.”A murmur of agreement rippled through the orcs.Timinus allowed himself a thin smile.“You will lead them now,” he said. “You will be my general.”Slabgut tilted his head. “And if I say no?” The air grew colder. Faint sparks danced between the wizard’s fingers.“Then you will join your former chief,” Timinus replied. Another pause. Longer this time. Slabgut looked around at the watching orcs. He could see it in their faces—the expectation, the hunger for direction, the simple, brutal logic of their kind. Strength ruled. The wizard had proven his. Slabgut grunted.“Fine,” he said. “We smash yer village. We grab yer old git. But if there’s a fight—”“There will be,” said Timinus. Slabgut grinned, wide and ugly. “Good.” The wizard turned, already losing interest in the conversation.“Ready your warriors,” he said. “We have much to prepare”Behind him, the orcs began to stir—grabbing weapons, shouting, shoving one another back into motion. The tribe had a new master, whether they understood it or not. Slabgut lingered a moment longer by Ironfang’s body. He nudged the corpse with his boot.“Should’ve zoggin ducked,” he muttered. Then he turned and bellowed orders into the night.
Far away, beyond the rain and mud, the village of Braghafen slept easily—unaware that something terrible was already reaching for it.
The cave stank of wizard’s incense, wet stone, and smoke. Timinus Blacksoul stood at its mouth, his red robe immaculate despite the filth of his surroundings. Outside, under a bruised sky, the Orcs labored. Crude voices barked and snarled as they hauled timber, lashed sinew, and hammered bone pegs into place. The trebuchet—his design—rose like a skeletal titan against the horizon. He allowed himself a thin smile.
“Savages,” he murmured, though there was a note of pride beneath the contempt. “Yet so easily guided.”
Behind him, deeper in the cave, something pulsed.
Timinus turned. Resting upon a jagged stone altar lay the Daemonicum. It was no mere box; it devoured the light around it. Black beyond black, its surface seemed carved from a substance that refused the world’s laws. Runes crawled across it—never still, never fully readable. Looking too long made the mind itch.
He approached slowly, as though greeting an old friend. Or a patient master. His fingers hovered, then settled upon its surface.
Cold. Not the cold of winter, but of absence. Of the void. The whispers came, as they always did, and with them, memories.
Timinus’s thoughts drifted back to a childhood on the farm, to his twin brother Adhumla, and then to his father—and the fateful night he had killed him to take the Daemonicum as his own. Memory brought back the smell of his father’s burning study, the sight of the blood-covered body, and the confused look on his wounded brother's face. Years of trials and tests had followed as he tried to unlock the artifact's true power, all to no avail. In truth, as he mulled over those memories, he realized he had been rash in his eagerness to gain power. Killing his father had been a mistake; by doing so, he had killed the one person who could have shown him how to open the Daemonicum.
Timinus shook his head slowly.
The cave returned. The Orcs still labored. The trebuchet creaked as its frame took shape. Timinus withdrew his hand from the Daemonicum.
“Soon,” he whispered. “At last, I have found another who knows your secrets. An old sage, a one-time companion of my father. My army will capture him, and I will make him tell me your secrets. He will tell me how to open you.”
Outside, an Orc bellowed in crude excitement as a massive beam locked into place. War was coming to the little village of Braghafen, and with it, the key. Timinus glanced toward the cave entrance, as if expecting someone.
“Brother,” he said softly, almost thoughtfully. “If you still live… I wonder which of us will reach the truth first.”
The Daemonicum pulsed once, like a heavy heartbeat.
The village of Braghafen clung stubbornly to the ragged edge of civilization, where the last banners of the Empire gave way to the lawless expanse of the Border Princes. Timbered houses leaned into the wind, fields stretched thin across rocky soil, and every man, woman, and child knew how to grip a blade when needed.Victoria Seacrette knew it better than most. She stumbled through the village gate at dusk, boots caked in mud, cloak torn by brambles, breath coming hard. The watchman barely had time to shout before Victoria pushed past him, heading straight for the council hall. Inside, Mayor Grunchild sat hunched over a rough-hewn table, talking in low tones with Captain Gunter of the Braghafen militia. Both men turned as Thomas burst in.“Orcs,” Victoria said, not bothering with ceremony. “A warband. Big one.”Silence fell like a hammer.“How big?” Gunter asked, already rising to his feet.“Hundreds. Maybe more. A few days’ march, no less.” Victoria swallowed, then added, “They’re not just some wandering band. They’re building something.”Grunchild frowned. “Building?”“A war machine. Big as a barn. Looks like a trebuchet.” That drew a curse from Gunter. “Since when do orcs build siege engines?”“That’s not the worst of it,” Victoria said quietly. “They’re organised. Scouts posted. Patrols moving in formation. Someone’s leading them.” The mayor leaned back slowly, his face pale but composed. “Then we leave.” Gunter snapped toward him. “Leave?”“We take what we can carry and head into the hills,” Grunchild said firmly. “Hide until they pass or lose interest. We cannot withstand a siege engine, Captain. Not with farmers and hunters.”“And if they don’t pass?” Gunter shot back. “If they burn Braghafen to the ground anyway? You’d have us cower while they smash our homes?”“I would have us live,” the mayor replied, steel creeping into his voice. “A dead man defends nothing.”“And a man who runs defends even less.”Their voices rose, tension coiling tight as a drawn bowstring.“Enough,” Victoria muttered, though neither listened.Then the air changed. A chill swept through the room, though no wind stirred. The lantern flames flickered, stretching unnaturally, and a faint shimmer gathered in the corner—like starlight caught in water. From that shimmer, a man stepped forward. He was tall, pale, and clad in robes of deep blue that seemed to ripple like the night sky itself. Tiny points of light glimmered across the fabric, shifting as though alive. His eyes were calm, but ancient in their depth. Gunter’s hand went to his sword. “Name yourself.”The stranger inclined his head. “Adhumla Brightsoul.”Grunchild blinked. “A wizard?” “A practitioner of the magic arts , yes,” Adhumla said. His voice was smooth, measured. “And a friend, if you will have me.”Gunter didn’t lower his hand. “Convenient timing.”“I go where I am needed,” Adhumla replied. “And you will need more than steel and courage to face what comes.” Victoria stepped forward. “You know about the orcs?”A faint shadow crossed the wizard’s face. “I know enough.” Grunchild studied him carefully. Fear warred with hope in his expression, but in the end necessity won. “If you truly mean to help us, then you are welcome in Braghafen.” Gunter exhaled sharply but gave a curt nod. “We’ll need every advantage we can get.” “Then prepare your people,” Adhumla said. “Fortify what you can. Gather your militia. When the greenskins come, they must find not prey—but resistance.”The mayor straightened. “Very well. We stand.”Gunter allowed himself a grim smile. “Good. I was getting tired of arguing.”Orders began at once—bells ringing, villagers gathering, tools turning into weapons. Fear spread quickly, but so did resolve. As the village stirred into motion, Adhumla stepped quietly outside, away from the noise, into the dimming light of evening. He stood alone beneath the first emerging stars, his gaze fixed on the distant hills.“Timinus…” he murmured. The name tasted bitter in his mouth. His twin brother. His opposite. Where Adhumla’s magic shimmered with clarity and purpose, Timinus Blacksoul reveled in shadow and ruin. If the scout Victoria spoke true—and Adhumla had no doubt she did—then this was no mere orc raid. Greenskins did not build machines of war with discipline and foresight. Not without guidance. Not without manipulation.“Why here?” Adhumla whispered. “Why Braghafen?”No answer came, only the cold hush of the frontier. But he knew one thing with certainty: whatever his brother sought, it mattered. Timinus never acted without reason—and never without cruelty. Adhumla’s jaw tightened.“Then I will deny you,” he said softly. “Whatever your purpose… it ends here.”Behind him, Braghafen prepared for war. Ahead, somewhere in the darkening wilds, an army gathered and between them stood a single village—and two brothers bound for collision.
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