Grodak
Grodak walked down the line of orc soldiers, his footsteps heavy with emotion.
This would be his first true battle against humans.
The anticipation gnawed at him.
In the Scar, he always knew how his enemies moved—predictable in their madness, their hunger. But here, in a human kingdom whose strength he did not yet understand, doubt curled in his stomach like a living thing.
Grall stood at the head of the hundred-orc formation, spies gathered behind him like a silent second shadow. He saw the uncertainty on Grodak's face, a mirror of the unease he himself carried.
The spies had fed Grall intel all day:
The kingdom of Ronstadt was not preparing for war.
No army movement. No defensive reinforcement. No sign they had taken the war threat seriously.
Do they think we are so weak, Grall wondered bitterly, that we would simply roll over and die?
Grodak stepped to the very front, turned, and looked at his soldiers.
When he spoke, his voice boomed like a war drum in the crisp morning air.
"We received a threat of war," Grodak announced. "A human kingdom sent us a messenger yesterday morning telling us to either leave or be killed."
A low rumble went through the orcs.
Grodak chuckled—a sharp, amused sound that cut the tension like a blade.
It steadied them. Made them grin in return.
"They even went so far as to call us filthy."
He began to pace, voice rising with every step.
"Well, I say—if you want war, then WAR is what you get!"
A thunderous war cry erupted from the formation.
"And if they want war," Grodak continued, "then we take the fight to THEM. Attack while they are weak and vulnerable! Make them see that we—these 'filthy orcs'—are not animals hiding in holes!"
He turned sharply, planting his feet at the head of the army.
"We are warriors.
We are feared.
WE ARE ORCS!"
He raised his sword high, and the army exploded with stomping feet and roaring voices.
Grall smiled. When Grodak mounted his raptor, Grall leaned in and whispered,
"You should've been the general of the army from the start."
"Shut up, Grall," Grodak muttered, though emotion flickered raw across his features. "Did you send your spies to block the passageways?"
"Yes," Grall said with a hint of annoyance, "they're disguised as bandits. No one will suspect them."
"Good. We leave immediately. We attack at dawn tomorrow."
Grall nodded and fell into step behind him as the army moved into the dim hours. They marched through the early morning and late into the night, stopping only briefly to rest near the outskirts of Willow Woods.
A few hours before sunrise, Grodak led them inside the forest.
As before, the ancient trees parted for him—recognizing him from his journey with Grall to the elven ruins.
When they reached the far edge of the woods, the first pale light of dawn touched the horizon.
Grodak let out a piercing battle cry.
The orcs surged forward, charging the undefended gates. The wooden doors shattered under the force of their advance. Alarms rang across the city as Grodak's warriors poured through the streets, fighting only when forced.
Grall immediately separated from the main force, taking only a handful of spies with him. The plan was simple:
Grodak distracts the kingdom.
Grall finds and captures the king.
The king calls off his men.
Diplomacy follows.
At least… it should have been simple.
Ronstadt's fortification proved far stronger than anticipated. Soldiers flooded every chokepoint. Blockades sprang up faster than Grall's spies could dismantle them. As Grall raced across rooftops, arrows whistling past him, he felt his certainty fracture.
This might actually be impossible.
His mount fell beneath him with a groan—an arrow buried in its throat. Grall didn't stop. He vaulted from rooftop to rooftop, closing in on the next inner wall.
He reached it just in time to see the gates slam shut in his face.
Swearing viciously, Grall grabbed a nearby rope, battled two guards, tied them, knocked them out, and signaled his spies to cover him as he opened the gate for Grodak.
But just as his hand reached the lever, one of his spies gripped his arm and pointed.
A plump man in fine clothes—with a jeweled crown—rode toward them shouting for the soldiers to halt.
Grall stared, then turned toward the chaos below.
"GRODAK!" he yelled. "I THINK THE KING IS HEADING THIS WAY!"
"GOOD!" Grodak roared back, smashing aside a soldier. "OPEN THE GATES!"
Grall yanked the lever. Grodak and the remaining orcs stormed through. Grall dropped down to help pull enemies from orc backs.
"STOP FIGHTING!"
A strained voice echoed down the street.
"I COMMAND YOU—STOP!"
Grodak pulled away from a struggling human, dropped his weapon, and stepped forward.
He walked openly into the clearing as the crowned man brought his horse to a stop.
"I am King Thomas of Ronstadt," the plump man wheezed.
"I am Grodak, king of Whitewater," Grodak answered, voice steady and authoritative.
"Yes," Thomas said, catching his breath. "I heard what happened to Tyril. A pity. He was a just man. Saved my life once or twice."
Grodak removed the parchment from his armor and handed it over.
"We came because of this. The messenger never left your kingdom. We assumed he was yours."
As Thomas read, anger twisted his features.
"I did not send this," he said coldly. "But if the man is here, I will find him. And he will pay for his crimes."
"Good," Grodak replied calmly. "I wish to propose an alliance—if it suits you."
Relief washed over Thomas.
"Yes… yes, of course. Come to the castle. We can settle matters there."
Grodak nodded and followed.
Grall started after them.
"Grall," Grodak said quietly, not looking back, "take the soldiers home."
The tone left no room for argument.
Grall obeyed.
---
One Day Later – The Camp
Grodak rode into camp just as Grall's troops set up for the night. Without warning, he stormed up to Grall, grabbed him by the collar, and hauled him into the air.
"You were WRONG!" Grodak bellowed, face burning red. "Once AGAIN your mistakes killed innocent people! You didn't even bother confirming your information!"
"The information wasn't wrong!" Grall gasped, clutching Grodak's wrist. "I sent three spies. All reported the same thing."
Grodak threw him down.
That only fueled his fury.
"Oh, so just another mistake?" he shouted. "Just like the Mursan tribe?"
Grall rose slowly, coughing, burned eyes glaring.
"What I did to the Mursan tribe," he said hoarsely, "I did because the elders ordered it. And YOU were the one who gave the kill command that day. Don't put all the blame on me."
Grodak saw red.
Before Grall could move, Grodak seized him and slammed his head into the campfire.
Grall screamed as flames seared his skin. He struggled free, stumbling away, but Grodak dragged him back and smashed his head into the fire again. And again.
He threw Grall aside like nothing.
"Get out," Grodak snarled, grabbing a heated poker from the flames. "Do NOT let me see you again. You are hereby banished from Whitewater."
Grall lay still for a long moment, smoke rising from his burned cheek.
Then he laughed—broken, bitter laughter.
"Again?" he wheezed. "You're banishing me again? And this time… it's because of YOUR mistake."
Grodak raised the poker to strike—
—but a black shadow appeared, sword at Grodak's throat.
Oathkeeper's twin.
Grall stood, burned face half hidden in moving darkness.
"I'll leave, Grodak," he said quietly. "But this time… I'm cutting the ties that bind us."
Grodak's mouth opened—
—but Grall was already gone.
And Grodak stood alone with only his rage… and the sudden hollow ache of loneliness.
---
Grall – The Tower
Grall stood in his tower holding the black orb.
He had suspected its owner might be behind the forged war threat. But now, with certainty carved into his bones, he knew:
The God of Death
—the last remaining God—
was responsible.
He hid the orb away and took one last look around the tower that had been his home, his workplace, his sanctuary.
Soft padding approached.
"Fluffles," Grall said without turning, "take good care of Grodak for me."
Then the shadows rose up to swallow him whole.
In the darkness beyond worlds, surrounded by ancient orc chiefs, Grall stepped forward.
"Wreag," he said evenly, "I want you to train me."
---
Imp – The Library
Imp walked into his library—his sanctuary of collected treasures from towers across realms. Dorothy, his first robotic creation and closest companion, whirred beside him.
He skimmed the shelves, but an itch nagged at him.
Something was missing.
"Dorothy," Imp said slowly, "check the catalog. Is anything missing?"
"Of course, sugar," Dorothy hummed. She scanned through the digital ledger, then froze. "Uh oh…"
Imp stiffened.
"What?"
Dorothy reluctantly opened a metal flap, revealing a small screen displaying the missing item.
Imp's eyes widened—then narrowed with fury.
"Dorothy," he said, voice trembling, "I'm going to Whitewater."
He vanished in a burst of arcane power before she could speak another word.
Grodak
Grodak stood in the center of the tower Grall once called home. The place felt hollow now—like a ribcage stripped of its heart. His own echo was the only sound answering him.
He dragged a hand over his face. Too hasty… I was too damn hasty.
But the decision was made. Whitewater had a king, and that king had spoken.
A ripple of light split the air beside him, and Imp appeared—breathless, frantic, and very much not in the mood for pleasantries.
"Grodak," Imp said sharply, "where is Grall?"
Grodak's answer was a low growl. "I am not his keeper. Why would I know?"
Imp stepped back. Grodak had been angry before—furious enough to cow chieftains, warriors, entire mobs. But this? This was different. This anger was hollow, wounded. It was the kind of rage a man carried only when he'd torn out a piece of himself.
Still, Imp pressed on. "He took something from my tower. Something important. I need it back before it falls into the wrong hands."
Grodak let out a deep, exhausted sigh and seated himself heavily, waving for a maid.
"Imp… sit. I will tell you what happened. But only once."
Imp obeyed—quiet for once—while tea was set before them.
And Grodak began to talk.
---
Grall
Grall lay sprawled on the Shadow World's cold obsidian floor, his breath ragged. The darkness around him pulsed like a living thing, whispering promises of power into his ears.
In the material world, perhaps a single day had passed.
Here? Centuries had already devoured themselves.
Wreag stood over him—massive, unyielding, the echo of the strongest orc who ever lived. The orcs of the Shadow World gathered around like silent judges.
"Is that all you've got, boy?" Wreag barked. "You have trained for ages, and yet you crawl. Do you wish to rot on the battlefield while Grodak takes all the glory?"
Grall glared up at him, hatred and determination swirling behind his black-shadowed eyes. He pushed himself up into position. His body screamed—bruised, broken, and no longer healed by the world around him. Wreag had cut him off from that mercy.
"I'm not giving up," Grall rasped. "I will never quit."
Wreag's grin was vicious. "Good. Then get up."
And the onslaught began anew.
Hours later, Grall lay gasping, clutching the black orb as if it were the last warm thing in existence. His thoughts drifted—inevitably—back to how he had obtained it.
---
Flashback — Milindar's Lair
It had been shortly after Grodak left to seek the ancient archway. Grall's spies had discovered Milindar's hideout at last. Rather than disturb Grodak's quest of self-discovery, Grall contacted Imp.
"Imp," Grall spoke into the stone, "I need your help infiltrating Milindar's hideout."
A flash, and Imp appeared in the tower, suspicion written all over his metal and magic-crafted features.
"And why exactly do you wish to infiltrate it?"
Grall stared at him. Was he serious?
"To kill Milindar and prevent a war."
"But why kill him?" Imp pressed.
"To prevent a war," Grall repeated, irritation growing.
The interrogation continued—sharp, relentless, like Imp was probing for a deeper truth Grall didn't care to hide.
"He destroyed Whitewater," Grall snapped. "Allied with necromancers. Killed Tyril."
Imp folded his arms. "All true. But what if he wasn't acting of his own free will? What if he was being controlled?"
"Then removing him removes a puppet," Grall countered. "The world is safer either way."
Imp sighed, then offered an infuriatingly gentle smile.
"Very well. I will go with you. While you sneak in, I will speak with him."
"To talk to the enemy?" Grall balked.
"Or to a man misled," Imp said quietly.
Grall would never understand people like Imp. And he didn't need to. He only needed Imp to look satisfied enough to help.
"…Fine," Grall said. "Talk to him. But if he's a threat, I kill him."
Imp tapped his staff, forming a magic circle beneath them.
And in the next moment, the two stood beneath storm-black skies before a monstrous tower surrounded by dying plants—a villain's lair if ever one existed.
Imp vanished immediately.
Grall's smile stretched wide.
Perfect.
He slipped inside, planting a void bomb against the support pillar. No ordinary explosive—this one opened a hole straight into the void, consuming everything for two miles.
There would be no escape.
"What are you doing?" Imp's voice cut through the shadows.
Grall turned, annoyed. "Removing a threat before he becomes worse."
Imp looked at the humming bomb, then at Grall. His face hardened in a way few ever witnessed.
"I saw this coming," Imp said softly. "So I warned Milindar to leave."
"What?! You WHAT?" Grall exploded. "You warned the enemy—you TRAITOR!"
"Correction," Imp said calmly as he slammed his staff to the ground, teleporting them away, "I warned him of your plans."
They reappeared in Imp's tower. The void bomb detonated far away with a muted, distant ripple neither of them heard.
Grall lunged—but froze mid-step as Imp's spell gripped him.
Just before he vanished back to Whitewater, Grall's eyes locked onto a black orb on Imp's desk—undeniably a God Orb.
His heart lurched.
The God of Death.
Moments later he was back in his tower.
"Fluffles!" he called.
Padded footsteps descended from above.
"There is a black orb in Imp's tower. A God Orb. Take the spies already there—bring it to me."
Fluffles purred once. Then silence.
---
Back to the Present — The Shadow World
Wreag's bellow shattered his thoughts.
"Are you done resting, whelp? Get up. Training is not finished."
Grall pulled himself upright, every bone aching, every bruise burning.
But his eyes were alive with cold fire.
He stepped forward.
"Again."