Michael sat crouched beneath the sparse shade of a sun-scorched outcrop, sweat trailing down his brow. His greatsword, Fortitude, rested against his shoulder, wrapped in cloth. He glanced toward the great iron gates of the orcish stronghold—still sealed.
“How long are we expected to wait?” he asked, voice dry with impatience.
Before either of the others could answer, a low groan rumbled from the metal. The gates began to part with a grinding scrape, like stone teeth unclenching. Massive chains retracted with clattering echoes.
Xhiamas stood. “There’s your answer.”
Ziyad had already shifted upright, dusting off his robes. A group of orc warriors strode out with practiced precision. At their center stood a younger warrior with a braided beard and an ornate bone pendant over his chest. He raised a hand—not in greeting, but in command.
“You three,” the orc barked. “You will follow us.”
Michael rose, cautious. “To the Chieftain?”
The orc nodded. “He has granted audience. But only under one condition.”
Michael’s eyes narrowed. “What condition?”
One of the warriors stepped forward and held out his arms.
“Your weapons. They do not pass the gate.”
Michael’s grip tightened around Fortitude instinctively, his jaw tensing. “That’s asking a lot.”
Ziyad stepped in smoothly, his voice even. “Michael. Rest easy.” He turned to the orc, unstrapping the twin daggers at his sides and presenting them without hesitation. “The Shahr Zulm?n hold many customs. Chief among them—no blades are drawn within their walls. Not even by kin.”
Michael hesitated.
“It is not an insult,” Ziyad added. “It is a matter of respect. Even their own warriors disarm before entering Zul’garoth. It is how they avoid bloodshed among the hot-blooded.”
Xhiamas gave Michael a nod. “They follow strength, yes—but they revere discipline even more.”
After a long moment, Michael sighed, then stepped forward and handed Fortitude to the warrior. The orc took it with both hands, raising a brow at the weight.
“Treat her well,” Michael muttered.
“We do not mistreat blades,” the orc replied. “We master them.”
With that, the group turned, and the trio followed in silence.
Beyond the gates, Zul’garoth awaited—stone, iron, flame, and legacy forged into one.
The gates of Zul’garoth closed behind them with a final clang, like a tomb sealing shut. But beyond the iron, the stronghold pulsed with life.
Cliffside dwellings had been carved straight into the canyon walls, like the jaws of the earth had been hollowed out and repurposed into homes, armories, and watchposts. Thick ropes and chain-bridges stretched across gaps between platforms, swaying slightly in the desert wind. Natural stone ramps spiraled upward where wooden stairs would not survive. Towering battlements, reinforced with iron and dragonbone, rose high above, positioned to repel the razorwinds that howled in from the east.
Below, the streets were a winding chaos of dust and trade. Smoke coiled from forge chimneys. The scent of charred meat, oil, and molten iron mingled in the air.
But what caught Michael’s eye was the assortment of races.
Ogres heaved crates onto carts. War trolls, their tusks wrapped in bone rings, barked orders to leather-clad orcs. A pair of goblins bartered loudly in a strange dialect near a spiced meat stall.
Michael blinked. “I thought this was an orcish stronghold.”
“It is,” Xhiamas replied, walking beside him, eyes scanning the heights. “But Zul’garoth is more than a city. It is a banner. One carried by many tribes.”
“Those ogres and trolls?” Michael asked.
“Sworn kin. Each tribe holds its own lands across the dunes, but in times of war or drought, they return here—to the protection of the Shahr Zulm?n.”
“They’re united,” Ziyad added quietly, “because they remember the days when they weren’t. And what that cost them.”
Michael nodded, taking it all in. This wasn’t just a stronghold—it was a civilization born of survival and strength.
Their path led up a wide, ascending ramp toward the highest point in the city. At its peak sat a massive, open-roofed structure—its stone pillars etched with the ancient glyphs of the Shahr Zulm?n, its banners black and crimson, flapping high in the wind.
In front of the structure stood a raised platform carved from solid obsidian. And upon it, seated in a throne of jagged bone and steel, was a figure that made even Michael’s steps slow.
An orc of immense stature, his green skin weathered like old leather. His shoulders were draped in furs from beasts that likely had no names. One tusk was gold-capped, and at his side rested a great battleaxe, the blade etched with orcish scripture.
His eyes, however, burned with the weight of centuries.
Michael felt it in his chest—not fear, but recognition. This was not a brute. This was a king in all but name. A warlord who commanded more than just loyalty.
Ziyad leaned in. “That… is Chieftain Khor'gul. Slayer of the Ten-Helmed Wyrm. Bearer of the Broken Tide. Last descendant of the Old Roar.”
Xhiamas added, “And now, he waits.”
The trio halted just a few paces before the obsidian platform. For a brief moment, none of them spoke.
Michael swallowed hard. Despite everything he had seen—the Seven, the Nameless, the blood-drenched horrors of war—there was something primal about the presence of the orc chieftain that stirred an ancient instinct: respect, born not of politics, but of power.
Ziyad stood still, his expression unreadable beneath the shadow of his hood. Xhiamas, however, showed a flicker of discomfort, his stance tightening as though caught in a memory long buried.
Michael exhaled slowly. This is no warlord. This is someone who’s seen empires fall and rise again.
Then the orc spoke, voice like rolling thunder across stone.
“Ziyad of the Dhilāl al-Qadar.” His tone carried neither scorn nor warmth—only recognition. “I have heard whispers that your shadow still walks. I thought you long vanished into the sands.”
Ziyad bowed his head slightly. “Even shadows have roots, Chieftain. And sometimes they return to the fire.”
Khor’gul nodded once, then turned his gaze to Xhiamas, his gold-capped tusk glinting in the sun.
“Isharan.”
The name landed like a blade in the sand.
Xhiamas didn’t flinch, but Michael could feel the tension in him rise.
“It has been many years,” Khor’gul continued, “since your boots walked these cliffs. I recall you left without a farewell. And now you return—older, quieter, but still bearing the same look in your eyes.”
“I come not as who I was,” Xhiamas replied, his voice even, “but as one bound to a cause greater than old grudges.”
The chieftain let the words settle before shifting his attention to Michael.
“And you,” Khor’gul rumbled, leaning forward slightly. “A foreigner. Primeran, if I judge by the eyes and posture. One who walks among shadowfolk and exiles as if they were brothers.”
Michael straightened, unsure if it was a challenge or curiosity.
“Tell me, warrior—why have you come to Azane? Why do you stand in the lands of the Shahr Zulm?n?”
The canyon wind fell silent. Even the distant forge-hammers seemed to still.
Michael met the chieftain’s gaze without flinching.
“We’ve come,” he said carefully, “to ask for your aid. Not just for us—but for all of Primera.”
Michael stepped forward, hands empty, his posture calm and composed. The folds of his cloak brushed the stone beneath him, the hilt of Fortitude conspicuously absent from his back—a constant companion left behind in respect of the law of the orcs.
He gave a slight bow of his head, then straightened.
“I am Michael the Protector, Captain of the Seven and loyal sword of Primera,” he began. His voice carried clearly across the war-throne’s dais. “I speak on behalf of the acting regent, Sir Byronard, and of all those still fighting to keep our realm from collapse.”
Khor’gul listened silently. The only sound was the whistle of wind carving through the upper ridges.
Michael continued, his tone steady and fervent.
“Our homeland is under siege—not by armies of men or beast, but by a force without name. The Nameless, we’ve begun calling them. Shadows that feed on memory, devour legacy, and rise from the bones of forgotten dead.”
The orc’s expression was unreadable.
“We’ve uncovered a truth—one tied to ancient prophecies and older gods. A boy—Godric—is at the center of it. He freed one of your own, Ka’laar, from the chains of Izh’Kharad. He defeated him in the pits and broke the cycle of struggle by freeing prisoners.”
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At that, several of the war council glanced at one another. Khor’gul narrowed his eyes slightly.
“He has walked through fire,” Michael pressed. “Faced down demons—real and myth alike. He is being called the Uhrihim, though he wears the title with reluctance. We do not fully understand what he is. But we know this: where he goes, so too does the storm.”
Still, the orc chieftain remained unmoved.
“Legends,” he finally muttered. “The world is full of fools who speak in riddles and expect kings to bend the knee. And yet you bring no proof. No boy. No shadow.”
Michael nodded once, as if expecting the response. “Then perhaps this will interest you: the Qadarin have pledged themselves. Lord Hazrakan has agreed to lend his strength to the cause of unifying Azane and aiding Primera.”
At that, a shift rippled through the crowd. Khor’gul leaned slightly back in his seat, eyes sharpening.
“The Qadarin?” he said, slowly. “That arrogant vulture has finally opened his wings for someone else’s war?”
“They believe the threat is real,” Michael replied. “And if the Shahr Zulm?n stand beside them, the rest of the clans may listen. With all of Azane united—dwarves, elves, and men will follow. You would stand not as an outlier… but as a pillar of the world’s salvation.”
A long pause followed. The wind howled faintly through the high cliffs. At last, the chieftain rose—his presence like a mountain of iron and will.
“You speak with conviction, Michael of Primera,” he rumbled. “But conviction does not make prophecy truth.”
He turned his gaze briefly to Ka’laar, then back to Michael.
“You are guests. Honored, for your courage. But no blade is carried past these walls, and no war is declared from a throne of stories. If your Uhrihim lives—let him stand here, before me. Let me see the truth in his shadow.”
He stepped down from the dais, stopping just a few feet from Michael.
“Until then… eat, rest, and watch the sun rise. It has burned brighter men than you.”
They were led to a quiet alcove within the stronghold—an elevated sandstone outcrop just behind the inner ramparts, where the wind softened and the sun painted the cliffs in copper hues. The din of Zul’garoth's daily life—traders, warriors, roaring forges—was distant now, leaving only the low hum of the wind and the scent of scorched rock.
Ziyad sat on a jutting boulder, arms crossed loosely over his chest, his expression unreadable.
“Well,” he murmured, “they didn’t draw steel or throw us to the beasts. That’s more than I can say for our first visit to the Qadarin.” His smirk was dry. “By Azane’s standards, I’d call that a diplomatic success.”
Xhiamas chuckled faintly, resting a hand on his knee. “A step is still a step. The mountain is climbed one stone at a time.”
Michael, seated with his back against a pillar of sun-bleached stone, didn’t laugh. He stared toward the distance, brow furrowed with quiet tension.
“I just keep wondering how things are back in Primera,” he said, almost to himself. “How Jophiel described it, it seems everything is going to hell. Byronard’s doing all he can, but with the Nameless and these... monsters.... moving in silence…” He trailed off, jaw tightening. “I hate not knowing. Every day we’re gone, they suffer.”
Ziyad was about to respond, but Xhiamas raised a finger slightly and stood up, brushing the dust from his robes.
“Perhaps,” he said, “there is something I can do about that.”
Michael and Ziyad looked up in unison, confused.
“What do you mean?” Ziyad asked, sitting straighter.
Xhiamas didn’t explain. Instead, he offered them both a calm, cryptic smile.
“Come,” he said simply. “I will show you.”
Ziyad blinked. “That’s not ominous at all.”
Michael exchanged a glance with him, then stood.
With a quiet shrug, Ziyad followed. “If he’s leading us into a snake pit, remind me to stab him later.”
Xhiamas chuckled again and motioned them forward.
“There are truths hidden in wind and silence. You just have to know where to listen.”
They descended deeper into the stronghold, toward a place few outside the Shahr Zulm?n had ever been allowed to see.
They descended into the lower tiers of Zul’garoth, toward a forgotten chamber carved into the bones of the mountain itself. The tunnels grew narrower, quieter, and the flickering lanterns gave off a faint blue glow—enchanted flame, unbothered by wind or time.
Xhiamas led them with purpose. Only when they reached a hidden alcove—marked by a carved insignia resembling a bow drawn to a half-moon—did he finally stop.
“This,” he said, gesturing to the mark, “belongs to a faction many know as the Wandering Arrows. But that is only their name to outsiders.”
He turned to the others, his expression finally serious.
“In Azanean tongue, they are called the Taa’nir al-Sahm, the Silent Draw. They are not a kingdom, nor are they a formal army. But they are a presence felt in every major city, every stronghold—from the sandstone towers of Izh’Kharad to the salt winds of Vareth’s Teeth.”
Ziyad blinked. “You mean to tell me every stronghold honors their neutrality?”
Xhiamas nodded. “Messengers bearing their crest are allowed to pass unmolested. It is a quiet truce born from centuries of silent service. They do not take sides… unless summoned.”
Ziyad chuckled and leaned against the stone wall. “So this is what you’re really doing. Not asking for aid—calling on your people.”
Michael’s eyes widened slightly. “You’re going to send word through them?”
Xhiamas inclined his head. “They’ll know how to reach us. And they’ll return with anything your Capital wishes to say—Byronard, Raphael, anyone. You’ll have your answer within a week, perhaps less.”
Michael exhaled, the tension in his shoulders softening. “Thank you,” he said earnestly. “Still… I can’t help but worry. Primera—”
“Will hold,” Xhiamas interrupted gently. “You must have faith, Captain.”
He stepped closer to the wall and traced the bow sigil with his fingers, speaking softly in his tongue. A gust of air stirred from the runes.
Then he turned back to Michael, his voice lower.
“Before we left Vandralis, I sent a sealed order to my second-in-command—Tariq. A man I trust as I do my own shadow. I instructed him to activate every Arrow still hidden across Primera. Silent agents, watchers, soldiers, and guides.”
Ziyad’s smile faded. “That’s bold. Even for you.”
“Risky,” Michael muttered. “What if your people face retaliation? What if the clans—”
“They won’t,” Xhiamas said, a calm edge to his voice. “They swore themselves to no banner long ago. And even if the world collapses, the Taa’nir al-Sahm will still be watching. Still waiting.”
Ziyad folded his arms. “You’ll be questioned for this.”
“I know,” Xhiamas said after a long pause. “But I don’t regret it.”
Michael stepped forward. “How many did you send to Primera?”
Xhiamas finally turned, his gaze steady.
“Over fifty thousand.”
The cave fell quiet.
Michael stared. “…You had fifty thousand hidden in Primera? Since when?”
“They’ve always been there,” Xhiamas replied. “Merchants. Stonemasons. Horse breeders. Librarians. Ghosts walking among the living.”
Ziyad gave a low whistle. “That’s not counting the ones who ransacked Rosetown, is it?”
“Of course not,” Xhiamas said with a grin. “They were another cell entirely.”
Michael leaned against the cave wall, rubbing his jaw in awe. “You’ve been holding back a kingdom in the shadows.”
“Not a kingdom,” Xhiamas corrected. “Just a whisper strong enough to guide the storm.”
The quiet hum of the desert wind was broken by the soft clap of boots on sandstone. From the dark mouth of the corridor emerged a hooded figure, face obscured, clad in travel-worn robes patterned subtly with the sigil of the drawn bow beneath a half-moon.
Michael raised his hands by instinct—until the figure bowed low and extended a sealed parchment, the wax crest unmistakable: a direwolf rampant against a black field, the ducal signet of Sir Byronard, Captain of the Royal Guard and Regent of Primera.
Ziyad’s eyes widened. “That seal—”
Michael took it gently, thumbing the heavy wax. “It’s from Byronard.”
He broke the seal and quickly unfolded the letter, scanning its contents. His brows furrowed as his expression shifted from urgency to restrained relief.
“This… this is his handwriting,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone. “But how—how did it reach us this quickly?”
Xhiamas stepped beside him, arms folded as his gaze drifted toward the messenger, who now stood quietly with lowered eyes.
“Perhaps Byronard received your letter and acted the moment he read it,” Xhiamas said, voice calm. “Once his reply crossed into Azanean soil, the Taa’nir al-Sahm would have mobilized.”
Michael turned to him. “You mean someone was already tracking us? Carrying the letter—across the desert?”
“Not one person,” Xhiamas replied. “Many hands. Many shadows. The moment the parchment was recognized, it was passed through cities, canyons, and caravans. One Arrow hands it off to the next. Silent, invisible, and relentless.”
Michael blinked at the messenger. “Was there always someone following us?”
The figure did not speak, only inclined his head slightly.
Xhiamas gave a faint shrug. “Maybe. Maybe not. Even I don’t know the full intricacies of the Arrow’s web.”
Ziyad added with a smirk, “Only the three High Strings—his superiors—truly understand its full workings.”
Michael looked down at the letter again, the edges already touched by a dozen hands, and yet pristine.
He exhaled slowly. “They’ve turned loyalty into an art form.”
Xhiamas grinned. “And now, Captain, Primera speaks.”
Michael unfolded the letter fully, the familiar scrawl of Byronard's hand both comforting and heavy. He cleared his throat and read aloud, his voice sharp against the wind:
To Captain Michael, Protector of Primera,
By the time this reaches you, I pray the Divines have kept you and your company safe.
News here has shifted like a storm. The tide turned when Flint—yes, the very mercenary that entered our halls—was crowned King. A bloodline once hidden, now made whole. My nephew, born of House Ilyn, rightful heir through my brother, Septimus, sibling of Alaric.
His coronation was swift. He has taken the mantle with a quiet strength, though I worry what it might cost him in the end.
The Capital holds—for now. But these... monsters... they grow bolder. We’ve confirmed they are not led by mortals alone. They serve entities who call themselves the Nine Circles. We’ve battled one thus far in the Crownlands. The last engagement, outside the Capital City, ended with Lilith of the Second Circle captured and locked underneath the prisons of Wolfsbane Keep. Gabriel led the charge. Her actions… saved hundreds.
We have heard no word from the North—no ravens, no scouts. The dwarves remain silent, as well as Uriel, Wyatt, Cassian and your fellow Royal Guards. Either they prepare… or they have already fallen.
Whatever your mission in Azane, I hope it bears fruit. For if we fail to unite the world, this fire will consume more than just Primera.
Michael let the paper fall slightly, his eyes distant as the words echoed in his mind.
He whispered, more to himself than anyone, “All my life… I believed in the Divine. I never once thought hell itself was real.”
A silence settled around them like ash.
Ziyad’s voice broke it, quiet but firm. “This changes everything.”
Xhiamas nodded. “We’re not fighting a rebellion. Or an uprising. We’re fighting the dead.”
Ziyad crossed his arms, gaze locked on the distant horizon. “The Nine Circles of Hell, made manifest… But why now?”
He looked between them. “And for what reason?”
Michael folded the letter and tucked it into his coat. “That’s what we’re going to find out. Whatever their reason is—we’ll make sure Primera isn’t left alone to face it.”
The next day, the trio stood once more beneath the stone-laden dais of Zul’garoth. The sun hung high and unrelenting, but the shadow cast by the great stronghold offered some measure of solemnity to the moment.
The orc chieftain—Khor’gul of the Shahr Zulm?n—watched them in silence, flanked by two war-trolls bearing ceremonial axes. The air was thick with tension, and the gathered onlookers quieted as Michael stepped forward.
He drew the sealed letter from his belt and bowed slightly. “We bring news from Primera. From Sir Byronard himself. The war is no longer a matter of politics or rebellion—it is a war against the dead.”
Khor’gul raised a thick brow, his knuckles tightening around the haft of his massive axe.
Michael spoke with the weight of truth in his voice. “The enemy we face is not mortal. They call themselves the Nine Circles. Hell itself has opened—and we’ve fought them. One of their number—Lilith of Lust—has been captured. But others still roam. They command the Nameless.”
He paused, then continued.
“Our people cannot stand alone. The dwarves, the elves, the clans of men… they're holding off the enemy with all their strength.”
Khor’gul stood slowly, his shadow rising with him. His gaze drifted to Ziyad, then Xhiamas, before locking onto Michael. “You speak of hell as if it were myth revealed. But we—we—have always known of its presence.”
He motioned upward toward the open sky, then toward the carved image of a veiled figure etched above the throne. “The Stranger. Death. The Great Veil. These are no legends to the Shahr Zulm?n. They are truths, etched into our bloodline.”
The war trolls behind him slammed the butts of their axes against the stone, a slow and solemn rhythm.
“But prophecy…” Khor’gul continued, “Prophecy is dangerous. You speak of this Uhrihim, this herald of salvation.”
He stepped forward, each footfall heavy.
“You claim he fights your war. That he bested the chains of Izh’Kharad. That he seeks unity for a world long fractured. Then let him come. Let him stand before me. Let him prove it.”
He pointed to the trio with his axe.
“If hell is real… then so must be the prophecy. And I will not bend the banners of Zul’garoth to a myth.”
The three stood in silence.
Then Michael bowed his head. “He will come. And he will prove it.”
Khor’gul gave a slow nod, his voice deep and final. “Then let us pray your champion is more than words.”
As the trio stepped down from the throne’s presence, the weight of Khor’gul’s words still lingered in the air. Michael exhaled, feeling both a burden and a strange anticipation begin to rise. Ziyad remained silent, his expression unreadable. Xhiamas looked skyward, the wind tugging at his cloak.
Just as they turned to leave the dais, a familiar figure emerged from the side—the same messenger from earlier, robed in travel-worn garments and bearing the subtle insignia of the Wandering Arrows embroidered in gold thread across his shoulder.
He walked calmly, his face veiled but his presence unmistakable.
The orc guards shifted but did not stop him. Khor’gul watched him approach and raised a hand. “Speak.”
The messenger bowed his head deeply and raised his voice just enough for them to hear.
“Xhiamas… the High Strings have summoned you.”
The desert wind picked up around them as silence fell again—deeper than before. Even Ziyad’s gaze sharpened at the news.
Xhiamas didn’t move. He merely closed his eyes and exhaled slowly.