Grall
Grall sat behind his new desk in the highest room of Whitewater's newest spy tower, the stone still smelling of mortar and fresh timber. Documents were spread across the polished surface—formation charts, intelligence reports, covert deployment plans. His hand moved quickly across each page, reorganizing soldiers and spies into configurations that would strengthen their borders.
Then one report made him stop.
He frowned. "Fluffles," he called, not looking up.
A soft padding of feet approached, but there was no cheerful purr this time. "Yes, my lord?"
Grall held the page up between two fingers. "Who wrote this?"
"That would be me, my lord," Fluffles said, but his voice was thin—uneasy.
"And you're certain it's correct?" Grall read the report again, slower this time. Something in it had made Fluffles lose his usual confidence.
"Yes, my lord."
A long pause. Grall set the paper down and exhaled. "…Good work, my friend. Your next mission is yours to choose—so long as it benefits you."
Fluffles blinked in surprise, then bowed low. Grall didn't need to ask where the cat would go. He would chase after his vampiric wife and those strange companions of his, perhaps save another village or slip through time again. Grall only cared that Fluffles always found his way back alive.
When Fluffles finally left, Grall waited until the footsteps faded from the stairwell.
"I know you can hear me, Tyril," he said. His voice echoed faintly in the hollow tower. "I need your help."
A flash of pale blue light tore through the air. Tyril materialized mid-yawn, stretching as if waking from a long nap.
"Grall," the king murmured as he surveyed the room, "I see you and Grodak squeezed every brick you could into Whitewater."
"Cut the crap." Grall rose from the desk. "How are you alive? I saw you die on that battlefield."
Tyril's expression softened. "I've died many times," he said quietly, as if discussing the weather. "Death is… inconvenient. Temporary."
Grall's hand drifted toward Oathkeeper's hilt. "Are you a necromancer?"
"No." Tyril folded his arms, amused. "I am a wraith. One whose soul was torn free and stitched back in."
Grall blinked once. "…Alright." He let go of his sword. "I trust you. You wouldn't lie about something like that."
Tyril was opening his mouth to respond when the tower door slammed open.
"My lord!" an orc guard shouted. "A dragon—on the outskirts! The forest is burning!"
Grall's mind sharpened instantly. "Evacuate the nearby region. Assemble ten thousand soldiers—ready to march in ten minutes. And summon Adrian immediately."
"My lord… he's not in the castle."
Grall's gaze tightened. The orc's expression told him everything. "No."
Tyril was already adjusting the sword on his back. "We don't have time to waste. Adrian needs us."
A king personally rushing to aid a subject—Grall felt a flicker of awe. "Right." He strapped Oathkeeper to his belt. "Let's go."
Tyril placed a hand on his shoulder.
The world split into white.
---
The Dragon
They appeared in a wasteland of fire.
Charred trees collapsed into ash. Brimstone hung in the air. And towering in the clearing was a blue dragon, claws tearing desperately at a half-burnt log.
Grall didn't hesitate. Ten shadow soldiers rose from the scorched earth at his command, swarming the dragon's legs as he and Tyril leapt onto its back.
The beast bucked violently. Grall sprinted across its neck, shadows matching his movements in perfect synchronization. He vaulted high, Oathkeeper flashing—
—and drove the blade deep into the dragon's eye.
The roar shook the world. Hot blood erupted over his hands, searing his skin. The dragon thrashed wildly, trying to scrape him off.
"Hold!" Grall barked, forcing his shadow to stab the other eye.
The dragon reared back, blind now, and slammed its head into the ground with bone-shattering force. Grall shoved himself deeper into the ruined socket to avoid being crushed. When the monster lifted again, he tore Oathkeeper free and hurled himself onto its back beside Tyril.
Chunks of scales already littered the ground where Tyril had carved furiously.
Grall stepped back, sprinted, and slammed Oathkeeper downward on the exposed flesh. The blade barely pierced.
"If we strike in the same place—fast—we can sever the neck!" Grall shouted through the flames.
Tyril nodded once and blurred into motion.
His blade flashed like lightning—strike after strike—faster than Grall could track.
Grall leapt again, Oathkeeper and shadow descending in tandem. This time the blade sank deeper, tearing through tendon and bone. The dragon's scream was agonized, furious.
Blood poured over Grall in hissing waves.
It peeled the flesh from his bones.
He screamed as the Shadow World forced flesh back onto him—searing, stitching, burning—over and over. His vision swam.
But he didn't stop.
He carved the final inch. The dragon's neck gave way.
Grall hit the ground hard. Oathkeeper stabbed into his shoulder, knocking the air from his lungs. Through blurred vision he saw Tyril make a second cut—almost severing the head entirely.
The dragon fell.
Grall couldn't move.
"Tyril—" he started, but the king was already grabbing him—
Flash.
---
The Shadow World
Grall landed beside a dying orc rather than beneath a dragon's corpse. Pain flooded him. Tyril ripped Oathkeeper from his shoulder and Grall screamed, the agony of the entire battle catching him at once.
Then everything went black.
When he opened his eyes, he stood in the Shadow World.
A massive orc warrior—taller, broader, more scarred than any elder Grall had ever seen—glared at him with contempt.
"I've been watching you, Grall chieftain," the orc growled. "And I do not like what I see."
The voice was deep enough to shake the void itself.
"You are strong—yet weak. Courageous—yet a coward. You claim to fight for others, yet you fight only for yourself. You are unworthy to stand here… yet here you stand."
Grall rose, surprised to find most wounds healed. "If I could give up this 'gift' you elders forced on me, I would've done it long ago."
The orc's eyes narrowed. "Ah yes. The king who wishes to abandon his throne."
He grabbed Grall by the shirt and threw him across the dark expanse like a child's toy.
"Do you truly crave death so deeply you would doom the world?" the orc boomed.
Grall crashed to the ground, breath stolen. His mind churned—doom the world? Grodak was chosen chief, not him.
Rage flared.
He charged the behemoth, lifted him, and slammed him into the void-floor.
"I won't be your puppet anymore!" Grall roared, fists falling like hammers.
The giant orc tanked every blow.
"I am better than you. All of you! You ordered me to attack Mursan! You urged no mercy! You forced me to stain my hands with innocent blood!"
The orc stood, unshaken. "Correct. We ordered war. We ordered victory. But you chose cowardice—poison, arrows from the dark, unleashed monsters." He grabbed Grall and slammed him down. "We do not fight like that."
Grall's fury trembled into something like shame. "I did it to prevent needless death. You demanded their execution—I made it fast."
The orc punched him, each word punctuated by a blow.
"And now—so will your enemies. What stops them from using your methods on you?"
One final punch cracked Grall's jaw and sent teeth scattering.
Grall lay broken.
For the first time, he understood.
"I see," he whispered. "In trying to protect my tribe… I endangered them."
The massive orc nodded. "Now you understand. One orc's weakness stains every orc."
"Who are you?" Grall asked, barely standing.
The warrior stepped closer, voice echoing like thunder.
"I am Wreag. Once Talengar's chosen. The one who inherited his godhood."
Grall stared in awe. "Wreag… son of none. Vanquisher of Malick."
"Savior of none," Wreag corrected with disgust. "I killed Malick because he irritated me."
Grall swallowed hard.
"And why," he whispered, "did you never take this power back from me?"
Wreag hesitated—the first sign of uncertainty. "Because Grodak is… overqualified."
Grall blinked. "Overqualified?"
"Talengar's blessing alone will let him walk between worlds. If he also held your power, he would tear the veil apart without meaning to."
The void dimmed.
"The dead would walk. Fire would fall. The old cycle would return," Grall murmured, quoting scripture of the end.
Wreag nodded grimly.
The pull of the material world grabbed Grall's soul.
"You have my blessing now," Wreag said as the void twisted. "Come and go as you see fit… chieftain of none."
---
Return
Grall gasped as reality snapped back. He stood beside the dragon's corpse, only a step from where he'd vanished. Tyril looked up sharply.
"I thought you were gone for good," he said with a shaky laugh—until he saw Grall's face. "What happened?"
"Nothing," Grall muttered. "Where's Adrian?"
Tyril pointed to the charred log where orcs huddled.
Grall shoved through them and froze at the sight: Adrian, burnt and shaking, clutching a single unbroken blue egg.
The world stilled.
He understood immediately.
He stole the egg. The mother attacked.
Even so, Grall would have saved him regardless. Adrian was their representative on the council—and their friend.
"Get him to a healer. Now," Grall commanded.
Silence.
The orcs didn't move.
Grall seized one by the throat and lifted him effortlessly. "You think because I'm not Grodak you don't obey?" He hurled the orc aside. "Fine. I'll do it myself. But next time I see you—you'd best remember who killed this dragon."
He lifted Adrian carefully and carried him toward Whitewater, Tyril following.
"Why treat your men like that?" Tyril asked once the orcs were out of earshot.
"They don't listen to kindness," Grall said. "If I'm soft, they'll walk over me. Respect comes after fear—once they understand I won't break."
Tyril nodded slowly. In the distance, orcish voices already chanted Grall's name.
---
Two Days Later
The new wall cast a long shadow over Whitewater as Grall inspected the stonework. Footsteps approached behind him—light, almost playful.
Adrian, fully healed, white hair gleaming and red eyes bright, strolled up whistling an unfamiliar tune.
Grall remembered the elven healer, her magic flowing like water as she saved him. And he remembered Tyril's question:
"Do you wish to become a wraith?"
Adrian had answered without hesitation.
And now, here he was—reborn.
Adrian leaned casually against the stone walkway when Grall approached.
"Adrian," Grall greeted, clapping him on the shoulder in a brotherly manner. "How are you, my friend?"
"Hey, bro," Adrian replied in that careless, charming tone of his. "Thanks to king bro, I'm better than ever."
Grall couldn't help the chuckle that escaped him. Adrian's nickname for Tyril always got him. "Good. I'm almost done inspecting the wall—"
His words trailed away.
A lone rider approached through the dusted morning light, armored head to toe, visor down, posture rigid. The man carried no visible weapon—strange for anyone approaching an orc fortress.
"Messenger," Grall muttered.
He and Adrian stepped out to meet him.
The rider's voice boomed from behind the helm. "Are you the leader of this filthy kingdom?"
Adrian tensed. Grall raised a hand to quiet him.
"I am," Grall answered evenly. "And who might you be?"
The man didn't respond. He simply held out a tightly rolled parchment. Once Grall took it, the messenger turned his horse and rode off without another word.
Grall made a small gesture. Three spies melted from the shadows, following the rider at a distance.
He unrolled the message.
'We ask that your filthy orcs leave the kingdom of Whitewater so that the true owners of the land may take control over it. Failure to comply will mean your destruction.'
Grall's jaw tightened.
He passed the parchment to Adrian. "Looks like we're about to go to war," he said quietly. "Question is—with whom?"
---
Grodak
The Fog Beyond Time
Grodak stood alone in thick, shifting fog, the archway at his back. A chill wind threaded through the mist.
He examined the small orb in his palm—Tyril's blessing bound into a horn. Of all things.
A soft voice drifted through the haze.
"Who goes there?"
Grodak stiffened. He turned but saw nothing.
"Don't move," the voice warned. "Or I'll shoot."
"I mean no harm," Grodak said, raising his empty hands. "My name is Grodak, and—"
"Grodak?"
Her voice broke with disbelief.
"Prove it. Turn around."
He did.
The sight stole his breath.
Fiery red hair spilling past pointed ears. Pale skin glowing faintly in the fog. Eyes like warm embers widening in shock.
"Xierma…" he whispered.
She lowered her bow and ran to him, throwing herself into his arms.
"Grodak!" Her voice trembled with joy. "It's really you!"
He held her, stunned. "I don't… understand."
"What's there to understand, silly?" She squeezed him tighter. "I grew up. All children do."
"No." Grodak pulled back. "Xierma… if I'm in my own time… you should be dead."
Her smile faltered. "What?"
"The first time I met you, you were a ghost lingering in the ruins of the elven kingdom," Grodak said, heart racing. "But here… you're alive."
Xierma shook her head. "No. The first time we met, I was a child. And my mother… she's the one trapped in our old kingdom." Her voice cracked, and she turned away to hide her tears.
Grodak's stomach dropped.
I changed something. I changed the timeline.
He fumbled for the stone Imp had given him and shouted, "Imp!"
A moment of silence—then a weary sigh.
"What is it?"
"I think I altered the timeline."
Imp hesitated. Then: "It's possible. I found a stone archway in my tower. It connects this time to another. If you found one and went through, the consequences could be… catastrophic."
"What kind?"
"World-ending," Imp said bluntly. "One wrong step, you might erase someone important… or prevent a birth that was meant to happen."
Grodak's blood ran cold. His tribe. His people.
"Imp—send me to Whitewater. Now."
"No!" Xierma clung to his armor. "Grodak, please—you just got here! It's been over twelve hundred years. And now you're leaving?"
Grodak's heart twisted painfully.
"I have to protect my people, Xierma. They trusted me. If even one dies because I hesitated…"
He lowered his gaze, ashamed.
Ashamed to choose duty over the woman he loved.
Xierma's lips trembled. She stepped away.
"Just go."
Grodak watched her disappear into the fog, guilt crushing him.
"The teleportation is ready," Imp said awkwardly—he had clearly heard everything.
"Do it," Grodak whispered. "Send me to Whitewater."
---
Grall
The Council's Cowardice
Grall slammed the council chamber door hard enough to rattle its hinges.
Three hours.
Three hours arguing with cowards who would rather flee than fight.
He leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. Adrian stormed out behind him, hurling curses over his shoulder.
"You fucking cowards!" Adrian roared. "Run if you want—but don't think I won't hunt you down!"
"Adrian," Grall said softly, "there's nothing more we can do. They see you as an outsider, and me as an embarrassment. Only Grodak can change their minds."
"Change whose minds?" said a deep voice behind them.
Grall and Adrian turned.
Grodak stood in the hallway, armor dim with residual magic from the teleport. His expression was unreadable.
Grall quickly explained the situation. Grodak listened in silence.
"That explains the looks on our people's faces," Grodak muttered, staring out a window. "So… we receive a declaration of war from someone we can't identify, and the council wants us to run."
"Pretty much, orc bro," Adrian said. Grall could see the mischief forming already.
Then Grodak smiled.
Not a cheerful smile.
A wicked, predatory one.
"Let me speak with them," he said, popping his neck. "I could use the stress relief."
Grall and Adrian stepped back from the door.
Inside, the council was mid-argument.
Grodak closed the door behind him.
"Hello, boys," he said. "What exactly are you hiding from?"
A crash followed. Then a scream.
Adrian winced. "Should we help?"
Grall shook his head. "He'll be fine."
"I meant the council," Adrian said uneasily as another loud crash shook the door. "No one deserves angry Grodak."
Grall thought about it. Then shrugged.
"Would you rather face an angry Grodak?"
Adrian shivered. "Fair point."
"Good," Grall said. "Come on. We have reports to sort."
---
Grodak
War Decisions
Later, Grodak entered Grall's spy tower—and found it empty. No furniture. No clutter. Just cold stone.
"What happened in here?" Grodak asked.
Grall, reading a report near the window, didn't look up. A strange black orb sat beside him.
"You have a history of destroying my furniture every time you visit," Grall said simply. "It gets expensive."
Grodak snorted. "Fair enough."
"So," Grall said, setting the orb and parchment aside, "did you persuade the council?"
Grodak grinned. "Yes."
"So… you beat them until they agreed."
"Isn't that what I said?"
Grall sighed. "Figures." He handed Grodak the parchment. "We traced the message. It came from Ronstadt."
Grodak studied it. "How many troops do we need?"
"That depends on how we attack," Grall said. "If we strike by surprise, half our army may suffice."
"And if we don't?"
"Our entire army. And even then, we'd only dent their forces."
Grodak folded his arms. "So we strike by surprise. We move out tomorrow."
"That's the problem." Grall rubbed his temples. "They're allied with a kingdom along the direct route. We'd be spotted before we reached halfway."
Grodak's expression hardened.
"Is there another way?"
"One," Grall said reluctantly. "Through Willow Woods."
Grodak stiffened. He remembered the place vividly.
The twisting paths.
The living shadows.
Talengar's orb burning bright.
"But the orb's power is gone," Grall reminded quietly. "Without it, we can't make it through—let alone lead an army."
Grodak smirked.
"What if I told you," he said, "I retrieved Talengar's God orb… before it was used?"
Grall stopped pacing and rubbed his temple again. "I'd ask how—but it would be a waste of breath." He faced the window, taking a long breath. "You got his blessing?"
Grodak nodded.
"Good." Grall turned for the door. "We'll need every advantage we can get."
Grodak watched him leave. Then turned back to the window.
The black orb Grall had placed there was gone.
And something about that troubled him.