Deep within his cavernous stronghold, where the air reeked of sulphur and stagnant blood, Timinus Blacksoul stared into a bronze basin. The dark red liquid swirling within rippled with chaotic images of the battlefield’s end. Through the magical scrying bowl, he watched the tattered remnants of his Orc horde retreat, leaving behind many dead.
His grip tightened on the bowl, his ram-skull headdress casting long, demonic shadows against the rocky walls. His plan had been flawless. The village should have burned, and the old sage should have been his. Among the dust and smoke of battle, a familiar and hated figure appeared in the reflection—his twin brother, Adhumla, a beacon of light driving back the shadows.
“Curse you!” Timinus roared, his voice echoing like thunder through the cavern.
With a backhanded swipe of his arm, he flipped the heavy bronze bowl. Unholy blood splashed across the stone floor, extinguishing the visions. Rage twisted his features into a mask of pure malice.
“Interfering fool,” Timinus hissed into the darkness, his red robes billowing as he paced. “You have crossed me for the last time, brother. I swear by the Dark Gods, I will finish you once and for all.”
Adhumla Brightsoul walked the muddy streets, his mind heavy with the cost of victory. In the days that followed, the skies over Braghafen remained a dull, ash-choked grey. His thoughts inevitably drifted back to the bloody battlefield, where the fighting had been fierce and he himself had barely survived an encounter with a massive Orc warrior.
Outside the village, amidst a pile of bloody Orc corpses, he had found Victoria Seacrete. The human ranger had single-handedly slaughtered the crew of the Orcs’ stone-throwing war machine before being overwhelmed herself. He found her lying in the mud, close to death. Adhumla had knelt beside her, channelling the desperate, exhausting energy of magic to knit torn flesh and seal the deep gash in her leg. She would live, but the wound was severe and poisoned by Orc filth; it would take a long time to heal.
Looking upon her pale but determined face as she rested in the makeshift infirmary, Adhumla felt a profound stir of admiration. She was a woman of fierce, unbroken bravery.
Yet survival was only half the story.
Adhumla’s investigation into why his brother had struck this particular village yielded a terrifying truth. Timinus’s Orcs had not been raiding for mere plunder; they had been hunting for a single resident: Silas the Sage. To Adhumla’s shock, Silas turned out to be an old adventuring companion of the twins' father. The old man possessed dangerous, forbidden knowledge regarding the Daemonicum—a powerful Chaos artefact of apocalyptic capability.
Even more worrying, Silas was not the only surviving member of that old adventuring company. Adhumla knew with absolute certainty that Silas and the others could never be allowed to fall into his brother’s hands. He would guard the Sage with his life if necessary.
Around him, Braghafen was slowly trying to pull itself from the dirt. Captain Gunther, drawing upon every ounce of his old mercenary grit, worked tirelessly to reorganise the shattered militia. Beside him stood Jorgun Hammerson, leader of the Stonehammer Clan. Though the Dwarfs had only been present for the battle through sheer bad luck, having arrived in Braghafen to trade, they had nonetheless lent their legendary strength to the village’s recovery. Their chainmail clinked as they helped Gunther rebuild the shattered wooden palisades.
The physical damage was severe. The Mayor’s Tower stood as a hollow, burnt-out ruin dominating the skyline, though miraculously most of the village buildings, while battered and scarred, remained standing. The emotional wounds ran far deeper.
The villagers gathered in sombre silence to bury their dead; none was mourned more heavily than Mayor Grunchild. In the wake of the tragedy, an emergency election was held. Because of the late mayor’s immense popularity and ultimate self-sacrifice in defence of the village, no one dared stand against his son.
Kurt Grunchild, barely twenty years old, was elected the new Mayor of Braghafen.
Watching the young man stand beside his father’s grave, Adhumla felt a pang of concern. Kurt possessed no leadership experience whatsoever. Worse still, he was consumed by a desperate and blinding desire for revenge against those responsible for his father’s death. He was not the leader Braghafen needed in this dark hour, and he would require guidance if he were to steer the village back from the precipice.
After a few days, the Dwarfs departed. Jorgun Hammerson and the Stonehammer Clan could no longer tarry. With an Orc army loose in the region, Jorgun was desperate to return to his mountain stronghold, bury his fallen kin in the halls of their ancestors, and prepare his people for the storm he knew was coming.
Before departing, he forged an alliance of friendship with Braghafen’s new mayor and promised to send Dwarfen stonemasons the following spring to help rebuild the Mayor’s Tower.
Adhumla watched them leave, his cloak billowing in the cold wind. Braghafen’s future hung by a fragile thread. Its defences were weak, its leadership untested, and dark forces were already moving against it.
He knew in his heart that this bloody battle was not the end. It was merely the opening gambit of a far greater nightmare.
Back in the depths of the dark stronghold, the heavy, thudding footsteps of General Slabgut echoed nervously through the cavern. The massive Orc, armoured in crude iron plates, walked with his single eye darting anxiously through the shadows. His prominent tusks scraped against his lower lip.
He had killed the village mayor in single combat—a feat that should have earned him glory. Yet he had failed to capture the Sage. He knew the volatile nature of the wizard who had elevated him to chief after murdering his predecessor. Slabgut was terrified.
“You failed me, Slabgut,” Timinus’s voice cut through the gloom like a sharpened blade.
“Master… I killed da boss man! I broke dere gate!” Slabgut grunted, trying to sound fierce, though his voice betrayed his fear.
Timinus did not bother arguing. He simply raised a hand, his fingers twisting into a cruel, jagged gesture. A crackle of sickly purple energy shot from his fingertips and slammed into the massive Orc.
Slabgut collapsed instantly.
The sheer, unadulterated agony of dark magic tore through his nervous system. The hulking brute shrieked—a high-pitched and pathetic sound that filled the cavern as his muscles seized and his vision swam in white-hot pain. Timinus watched with a slow, sadistic grin spreading across his face. He relished the feeling of absolute dominance, the joy of reducing a creature far stronger than himself to a whimpering heap with nothing more than a thought.
The magic subsided, and the pain receded to a dull throb.
Panting heavily, fury briefly overcame fear. Slabgut pushed himself upright and, with a guttural roar, swung a massive arm at the wizard.
Timinus’s grin widened. “Insolent worm.”
With a flick of his wrist, a second wave of pain magic struck Slabgut—twice as intense as the first.
The Orc dropped like a stone, crashing onto all fours. He convulsed violently, vomiting onto the cave floor, completely overwhelmed by agony and unable to lift his head.
Timinus stepped forward, the hem of his red robes brushing against the Orc’s trembling shoulder. Leaning close, he spoke in a cold whisper beside Slabgut’s ear.
“I am letting you off lightly, you pathetic pile of filth. The only reason your head is not currently decorating a spike outside is because you are still useful to me.”
The wizard stepped back and straightened his ram-skull headdress, his eyes gleaming with dark anticipation. He allowed the spell to fade as the massive Orc lay curled in a foetal position, still shaking as he slowly regained control of his body.
“Get up, Slabgut. Clean yourself up. We have much to prepare for.”
Timinus turned away, gazing into the darkness beyond the torchlight.
“We are expecting visitors soon…” he said quietly, “and we must ensure we give them a proper welcome.”
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