Night had crawled across the dunes like a living thing by the time Grall found himself staring at the back of the brother he barely recognized.
Grodak's silhouette cut an imposing shape in the moonlight—broad shoulders, steady steps, a posture born from responsibility rather than pride. Grall followed several paces behind, his boots sinking into the shifting sand, his thoughts sinking deeper still.
He couldn't stop hearing the whisper Grodak had let slip before their departure from Whitewater. A whisper not meant for Grall's ears.
"We're going to the Scar… and we'll unite the tribes and take back Whitewater. For Tyril."
The name echoed like a blade striking bone.
Grall's jaw tightened.
Unite the tribes?
If such a thing were easy—if it were even possible—he would have done it long ago. Back when he still held power. Back when his title still meant something. Back before the elders tore everything from him and cast him into the Shadow World's maw.
He shook the thought off.
They had marched the entire night because Grodak insisted they reach the Scar before the troops he'd summoned arrived. Yet the dark horizon was already stained with firelight—and voices.
Grodak exhaled. "It seems they reached us first."
A knot twisted in Grall's gut. He had been hoping—desperately—not to face the tribes so soon. He already knew how they would greet him: with suspicion, with rage, with old grudges sharpened like knives.
Not that he feared their blades.
He feared what would come after.
Grodak stepped forward. "Come, little brother. Let's go greet them. They'll escort us the rest of the way."
Grall snorted. "Your troops, not mine."
He didn't bother lowering his voice. These orcs had made their opinions of him clear long before his exile. Whatever Grodak believed, loyalty to the bloodline was not a guarantee of safety.
But Grall followed anyway, hand resting on Oathkeeper's hilt, gaze piercing the darkness ahead.
A voice boomed from the camp.
"Who goes there?!"
The accent hit Grall like a ghost.
A Scar-born voice. Harsh. Cold. Familiar.
For a fleeting moment, warmth stirred in his chest—echoes of childhood, of running through cavern halls, of laughter and competition. But the warmth died just as quickly. The Scar had not been home for a long time.
"Lower your weapons," Grodak commanded. His voice carried strength that Grall had never heard from him before. "It is I, Grodak. And Grall is with me."
Whispers crackled through the camp like sparks.
"Show yourselves!" someone barked.
Grodak stepped into the firelight. Grall followed, ignoring the sharp intake of breath from the warriors around them.
One massive orc approached, battle-scarred and towering. He struck a fist to his chest.
"Forgive us, chieftain. We did not expect you so soon."
But when his gaze flicked to Grall, everything changed. Disgust, disdain, a flicker of hatred.
Grodak noticed immediately.
"You may not like him," Grodak growled, "but you will not lay a hand on my brother. If any of you disobey me, I will tie you to the dunes and let the desert beasts peel you apart."
Silence.
Stunned, uneasy silence.
Grall stared at Grodak, not sure when his brother had learned to speak like that, to command like that. Grodak, who once preferred forges to battlefields. Grodak, who once feared stepping into the political arena.
But this? This was a man stepping into a role he never wanted—but wasn't backing away from.
The warrior bowed stiffly. "Yes, chieftain."
The camp returned to motion, though the glares didn't cease. Grodak motioned for Grall to follow him to a quieter edge of the encampment.
"Do not let yourself be alone with them," Grodak murmured. "They won't dare strike you while I'm here."
Grall almost laughed. "I don't fear being harmed. I fear what comes after. If they kill me…"
He exhaled shakily.
"I'll wake back in the Shadow World."
Grodak stopped walking. "But only the elders can pull you there."
"That was before I was cast out."
Grall clenched his fist. "Now? Death won't take me unless the current chieftain dies first."
Grodak stiffened. "So if someone kills you…"
"I return to the Shadow World," Grall finished for him. "Over and over. Until they decide I have suffered enough."
Grodak's face crumpled with something between horror and guilt.
"That's… good then," he said weakly.
Grall's teeth bared in a snarl.
Good?
Nothing about the Shadow World was good. Nothing about endless solitude, endless waiting, endless silence—
He sat under the stars alone that night, letting their cold light wash over him.
---
Memories of Whitewater
The next hours passed in a haze of preparation. At some point, Grodak joined Grall with a reluctant weight in his steps.
"You deserve to know everything," Grodak said. "What happened after you were taken."
Grall listened quietly. No interruptions. No mockery. Just quiet, careful attention as Grodak described the fall of Whitewater, the necromancers, the chaos, the loss of Tyril—
"Wait," Grall said suddenly. "A Casarn killed him?"
Grodak nodded.
"That's impossible. The Casarn died out centuries—"
"The elders lied," Grodak said, voice cracking. "Or they were wrong."
Grall closed his eyes.
If one Casarn still walked the world…
Tomorrow would be darker than any of them deserved.
---
The Scouts That Never Returned
Dawn had just touched the dunes when the camp stirred awake. The orcs moved in disciplined swarms, faster than Grall expected from warriors who had marched all night.
Grall found Grodak tightening straps on his mount.
"You need anything?" Grall asked.
"I sent scouts ahead an hour ago," Grodak said. "But…"
"They haven't returned."
Grodak nodded grimly.
Grall turned toward the trail. "I'll find them."
He didn't wait for permission. Didn't need it. Some duties were older than titles.
But Grodak seized his arm.
"No. I need you ready to call the elders."
Grall gave him a flat stare. "I don't need hours to summon them anymore."
"Grall—"
He smirked for the first time in days.
"I only need one word, brother. If you're late, I'll die of boredom."
And he left before Grodak could argue.
---
The Dead Scouts
He found them a mile out.
Bodies—what remained of them—strewn across the sand. Flesh charred black. Limbs twisted. Eyes melted.
The smell of rot hit him like a hammer. Even covering his mouth, Grall gagged.
"Spirits…" he whispered.
Then he heard it.
A horse's scream.
Piercing. Desperate. Otherworldly.
Grall looked up—
And froze.
A skeletal rider towered over the corpses, cloak ragged and whispering with unnatural wind. Its mount was pale as bone, steam spilling from the seams between its ribs.
The scythe it held glowed faintly with death magic.
Grall's mind screamed at him to run.
Instead, he drew Oathkeeper.
"If today's the day," he growled, "then let it be a warrior's death."
He charged.
---
The battle was a storm.
The rider moved with inhuman precision. Its scythe cut arcs of death through the air, forcing Grall to twist, parry, dodge. His own shadow detached from his feet, lunging at the creature with a feral snarl.
But with a single shriek, the rider blasted Grall off his feet.
He hit the sand hard. Blood filled his mouth.
He staggered up again, ignoring the pain, ignoring the trembling of his muscles.
He aimed for the rider's arms. A strike. A glancing blow. Not enough.
His shadow blocked a scythe slash meant for his neck—then dissolved under the impact.
Pain blossomed across Grall's stomach as the scythe clipped him. He stumbled, gasping.
But he did not retreat.
"May the elders take you!" he roared, summoning four shadow spirits at once.
The creatures leapt before they even finished forming.
The rider shrieked, flinging them aside with raw force.
"Fine," Grall spat, raising Oathkeeper again. "Just you and me."
His vision blurred. His arms trembled. But he stepped forward—
A blade whistled past him.
It struck the rider's skull with a sickening crack.
Grodak thundered into view atop his mount, rage blazing like a furnace.
He raised his hand. The thrown blade ripped itself free from the creature's skull and flew back into his palm.
The air thickened.
Something ancient stirred.
"Today," Grodak whispered, "death bows to me."
He hurled the blade.
With a scream that split the air, the skeletal rider disintegrated into ash.
Grall stared in disbelief…
Then darkness swallowed him.
---
Return to the Shadow World
He did not fall this time.
He arrived—suddenly, harshly—into the Silent Realm.
Cold.
Still.
Wrong.
He wasn't alone.
"I see that you too are trapped here."
Grall spun. "Who's there?!"
An orc stepped from the fog wearing ancient chieftain armor—etched with symbols lost to history.
"I am Durgrak," the stranger said. "Second chieftain. The Sword of the Gods. The one who was banished."
Grall felt the ground tilt beneath him.
"The forgotten second…"
Durgrak nodded. "Walk with me, child."
They walked through shifting landscapes—shadows, broken stone, echoes of a world that never fully existed.
Durgrak spoke of betrayal, divine commands refused, a choice that cast him out. The story mirrored Grall's own fate with eerie precision.
They came to a chamber carved of shifting darkness. Inside stood a pedestal.
"Your sisters," Durgrak said softly, "died here. As I did. As you nearly did."
Grall stepped forward. The pedestal reshaped itself to his face.
Nothing happened.
He began to pull away.
The prongs struck.
White-hot agony. A scream ripped from his throat as his eyes were torn out. Time fractured—seconds became lifetimes of pain. Something cold, ancient, and alien pressed into the empty sockets.
When it ended, Grall no longer saw darkness.
He saw everything.
---
Returning to the Mortal World
Hands grabbed him. Someone lifted him.
"Grall!" Grodak's voice cracked with relief and horror. "Brother—what happened to you?"
Bandages covered Grall's eyes, but he didn't need them. The world unfolded around him in outlines, emotions, truth.
"I'm fine," he lied.
"How did you come back?" Grall asked.
Grodak swallowed. "I… don't know. One moment I was walking toward you, and the next—almost as if something accepted me. Like I'm truly chieftain now."
The words sank into Grall like stones.
"Good," Grall murmured. "You'll need it."
Grodak hesitated. "Tell me what the elders did to you."
"They took my eyes," Grall said calmly. "A man named Jarada gave me sight in return."
Grodak stared.
"I hope you see the world better now."
Grall let out a long suffering sigh.
"I lost my eyes, not my ears."
Grodak laughed—just a breath, but it eased the tension.
"I'm glad you're with me," Grodak said softly. "I want you by my side. Every step."
Grall didn't answer.
But he didn't step away.
---
The Scar
As they neared the Scar, Grall slowed his mount.
"You go ahead," he said. "I'll come when it's safer. For your sake."
Grodak frowned. "Must you always be right?"
"Yes."
Grodak gave one last look before riding into the valley where the troops waited.
Grall stayed back, listening as Grodak addressed the warriors.
His voice thundered across the dunes.
"Today," Grodak roared, "we go to war—not against humans, or elves, or Dasari—but against the factions too stubborn to unite! We take nothing from our people. We give them what they need: food, water, safety. We forge a single tribe!"
The Scar exploded into cheers.
Grall smiled beneath his bandages.
Whatever Grodak was planning—
whatever future he was forging—
Grall would discover it soon.
But for now…
He was home.