Grodak
"What do you mean?" Grodak growled, a hint of a snarl curling beneath the words. He could feel it again—that sickening intuition that Grall was hiding something from him. Something important. Something dangerous.
Grall's voice, however, was maddeningly calm. "I mean that even a young god, like myself, still needs to train."
There it was. The truth Grodak had never been meant to hear.
A god.
His little brother. A god.
How long had Grall carried that secret under his tongue? How long had Grodak been nothing more than a blind, jealous brute stumbling in his shadow?
Rage surged. Before he could think, Grodak's fist cracked against Grall's jaw. It should have snapped his head aside, but Grall didn't even blink. He didn't turn. Didn't flinch. He simply… stared.
And in that stillness Grodak finally saw it—
the brother he once shoved into mud,
the child who once needed his help to restrain a weakened demon—
was gone.
A darker, colder thing now stood in his place.
"Brother," Grall said softly, almost kindly. Too kindly. "Why do you try to hurt me? All I've ever done is help you. Is that truly cause for violence?"
Grodak's anger collapsed into fear. "Gr–Grall… I didn't mean—"
"I know." Grall's voice chilled the room. "But if you can't trust me, then I wish you luck in whatever path you choose."
And with those final, echoing words, Grall vanished. Not teleported—not walked—vanished, like a shadow retreating from a torch.
Grodak stood alone in his forge, bile burning his throat. For the first time since Cassandra broke him years ago, he knew true insignificance.
Grall had made him feel like a child.
Once the shaking left his hands, Grodak fled to the throne room. He collapsed into the cold stone seat and let his fingers wander aimlessly over the worn edges—until something clicked beneath his touch. A hidden mechanism.
The floor behind him slid open with a grinding groan.
"What now…" Grodak muttered, rising and peering into the darkness.
A white hound stood below, strapped into a machine of humming metal and veins of glowing runes. Its eyes were empty. Its chest rose only because the machine forced it to.
"What in the blazes… Tyril?" Grodak breathed.
"It's a cloning machine."
Grodak spun around. Tyril stood in the doorway, pale and exhausted, holding his side as though something inside him was eating him alive.
"A what?"
"A cloning device," Tyril repeated, his words sharp as glass. "Crafted by the Casarns before the Second War. They used it to create artificial souls—fuel for their rituals."
Disgust twisted Grodak's face. "Why is it in my castle?"
Tyril's stare hardened. "Your castle? I don't remember naming a successor. You would be wise to choose your words more carefully."
Fear surged again—cold, choking. Even weakened, Tyril felt like a storm ready to swallow him whole.
"At least Grall knew his place," Tyril added, his voice lowering. "He never questioned my orders."
Grodak swallowed his pride.
Tyril limped toward the hound and ran a trembling hand over its head. The creature shuddered.
"I repurposed the machine," Tyril said. "To create meat during the drought. Sixty years ago. Now… I use it to test warriors."
"Why hounds?" Grodak asked, watching the creature's labored breathing.
"Simple." Tyril met his eyes. "A warrior fights. A coward runs."
---
Jaxale
"I don't think we're in Kansas anymore, Dronde," Jaxale murmured. He didn't know where he'd heard the phrase—maybe in a dream—but it felt right.
Dronde nudged him toward a battered sign.
WELCOME TO WHITEWATER – HOME OF THE RACES.
"What does that even mean?" Jaxale asked.
Dronde had no answer. They just kept walking.
"Maybe there's an adventurer's league," Jaxale said, rubbing the last few coins in his purse. "Before we start eating dirt and pride."
At the city checkpoint, an orc blocked their path.
"Who goes there?" he growled, sounding like he gargled gravel.
"Hi!" Jaxale waved. "I'm Jaxale and this is—"
"Don't care. No one enters without identification." The orc sneered down his crooked nose. "Do you have any?"
"No, but—"
The orc erupted in harsh laughter. "Then get lost. Or I'll run you through."
"Could I speak to whoever—"
The spear lifted.
But an elf stepped in, grabbed the orc's wrist, and whispered sharply. The orc backed off, grumbling curses.
The elf smiled warmly, but his eyes were calculating.
"You're a warrior, yes?"
"I… suppose so."
"Excellent. The king will want to see you." His gaze flicked to Dronde. "Both of you."
Something about his voice made Jaxale's skin crawl.
But he followed.
What else could he do?
---
Imp
The fifth altar loomed above Imp—the last one. His new golem limbs felt impossibly heavy. His remaining human hand shook. Each tower had demanded blood, bone, memory… and now this final one waited hungrily.
"Are you ready, Master?" Cera asked behind him, her childlike voice echoing unnaturally.
"Yes." His voice cracked.
"Place the augments on the sigils and repeat after me."
He obeyed. He always obeyed. The towers had a way of forcing obedience—through pain or promise.
As he echoed Cera's incantation, power surged into him like molten metal poured into his veins. He convulsed. His vision darkened. His breath stuttered.
And then—stillness.
The power didn't fade. It fused with him.
"We are done, Master," Cera said softly. "You are now Master of the Towers."
Imp wasn't sure whether to stand tall or collapse.
---
Grall
Grall hadn't expected Grodak to refuse—but he offered anyway. No matter the bruises, the insults, the years of being treated like lesser… they were still brothers.
The bruise on his jaw faded as the Shadow World knitted him whole again.
"Wreag," Grall murmured, "I wish to continue training."
Wreag emerged from the darkness, shaking his head. "I cannot teach what you already know."
Grall's heart sank.
He had feared this.
He was alone now. Truly alone.
He sat, closed his eyes, and sank into meditation. Power rippled under his skin, restless, growing, hungry.
What he was becoming… even he wasn't certain.
---
Cassandra
Cassandra found Sakurako and Malik waiting on the edge of the city. Their silhouettes cut against the dying light.
"Sorry I'm late," she said. "Grodak cornered me."
"It matters little," Malik said gently—too gently. A mockery of fatherhood.
"Stop that." Cassandra's voice sliced through the air. Sakurako shrank behind Malik's spectral form. "You weren't a father when you were alive. Don't pretend now."
Malik absorbed her words like blows he believed he deserved.
"When I learned about you, I was not myself," he said. "Had I known—"
"Known what?" Cassandra snapped. "Would you have saved us? Killed the animals who abused me? Protected your precious children instead of chasing power like a drunken fool?"
The memories clawed up her throat, bitter as bile.
Malik lowered his head. "I failed you. Both of you. If I could undo it, I would."
He drew his sword—once feared across nations—and held it out.
"I cannot change the past, daughter. But I can give you this."
Her hands trembled as she reached for it.
---
Grodak II
Grodak sat on the throne again, Tyril's words gnawing at him. Maybe his hatred of Grall had never been hatred at all—just the fear that Grall was everything he wasn't.
An elven guard entered to announce a Dasari visitor.
The man who stepped in was no Dasari.
A Pyroniam—scaled, proud, unmistakable.
"So," Grodak said, amused, "you are a Pyroniam."
"Actually, I'm a Dasari."
Grodak almost laughed. This fool didn't even know what race he belonged to.
After their exchange, Grodak's grin widened. This one would be fun.
He pressed the hidden button. The floor groaned open. Three hounds padded out—eyes glowing, breath cold, hunger palpable.
Jaxale didn't flinch.
"Dronde!" he shouted. "Fur into spikes!"
Lightning erupted in a violent arc. The hounds fell, smoking.
Grodak leaned back, pleased. Perhaps this stranger wasn't a fool after all.
---
Fluffles
Fluffles dismounted in the courtyard, exhausted and starving for real rest. Alero rushed up to him.
"Commander—did you hear?"
"About Lady Xierma crushing another council fool? Yes."
"No—King Grodak is back."
Fluffles froze.
Grodak returning meant something more important:
Grall might have returned too.
"Tell me," Fluffles demanded, hunger and desperation twisting his voice. "Is Grall here? Have you seen him?"
Alero recoiled, terrified; Fluffles sounded like a starved predator.
"Commander… I don't know anyone named Grall."
Fluffles exhaled slowly. Of course no one knew the name. He had made sure of it.
"Take me to Lady Xierma," he said. "We have… much to discuss."
---
Imp II
"Master," Dorothy whispered, "is this wise? The Dasari and Pyroniams despise one another."
"I know," Imp said, exhausted. "But I am both. I will not build for one and forsake the other."
Dorothy hesitated, gears whining with emotion. "Perhaps two towns—"
"No. Two towns will create two armies. One town may yet create peace."
Dorothy bit back her protest and returned to her work.
A crash sounded behind her. Stromp had dropped his tools—again.
"S–sorry… master…" Stromp slurred before a violent electric buzz convulsed him.
"Stromp!" Dorothy rushed to him.
Imp rubbed his temples. "This is going to be a long day."
But before he could assist, a roar echoed from outside. He turned to see a gray dragon streak across the sky.
And for a moment—just a moment—the world felt less doomed.
Grall
Thousands of years slipped like ash between Grall's fingers in the Shadow World—years that the material plane barely felt as a single day. Time there was a hungry thing, gnawing at him, whispering that he already knew everything worth knowing, and that anything still unknown would demand a price he wasn't willing to pay.
Eventually, even the shadows grew restless, whispering for him to look.
So he did.
His perception tore upward through the planes, cold and sharp.
Imp sat alone in one of his towers, candles guttering around him. He studied a volume bound in leather that looked far too… fresh. The tower's sigils pulsed faintly, as if listening to the words on the page.
Adrian bounded through town with forced cheerfulness, chasing women as though chasing distraction, and failing at both.
Grodak roared in the council chamber again—his voice echoing off stone walls like the bellow of something caged.
And Cassandra…
Grall froze.
Cassandra and Sakurako stood in a forest where the sunlight itself seemed dimmer. The surrounding air felt tight, stretched, as though warning him he was seeing something he shouldn't.
A prickle of dread ran along his spine.
Then the world above Cassandra split open.
A figure in black dropped like a shadow given form. The blade was already buried in Cassandra's back before her body even understood it had been struck.
Sakurako's scream tore through the planes like shattering crystal.
Grall ripped open a portal with such force that space buckled. He stepped through into choking air, just in time to hear the follow-through of a second blade slicing toward Sakurako.
He threw himself between her and death. Steel burned through his back, hot and merciless.
Grall whirled, grasping at the attacker, but the moment his fingers closed—he realized the body was slack.
The creature was already dead.
It collapsed forward, a dagger embedded deep between its shoulder blades, blackened blood oozing around the hilt.
A rustle.
A thump.
A young human woman dropped from the branches, landing rough enough to bruise bone. She didn't care. She clawed her way to Cassandra's body, hands trembling violently.
"Leader—" Her voice cracked. "Leader… please. Please wake up…"
Cassandra did not move. Her eyes were half-lidded, glassy, staring at nothing.
The woman's scream was not grief—it was pure anguish, a sound born of devotion twisted into horror. She tore at her clothing until fabric ripped away, revealing the brand carved deep into her chest:
The Altean mark.
A symbol whispered about by the living and feared by the damned.
Guardians of the helpless. Executioners of the cruel.
Loyal only to their chosen leader.
And their leader now lay dead at her knees.
Grall felt something uncomfortably close to guilt. He should have been in time. He had always been faster, always ahead. But the moment he looked across the planes to Cassandra, time had warped, folded into itself—
The Shadow World and the material plane had matched pace.
That should not have been possible.
His head throbbing, his limbs weak, Grall realized something had gone profoundly wrong.
Sakurako remained on the forest floor, arms wrapped around Cassandra's body. She shook violently but would not let go—not even when the Altean woman slowly backed away into the darkness beneath the trees, her hollow stare never leaving them.
Grall stood guard as minutes, or hours, slipped away.
Then, a faint glow at the edge of his vision caught him. An archway of stone, nearly swallowed by vines and the dim, oppressive forest gloom. Recognition clawed its way up his mind.
Grodak's voice echoed from memory—
A doorway into the past… somewhere… anywhere…
Grall swallowed, the choice already forming.
"Sakurako," he said quietly, "I think I know how to fix this. But you need to come with me."
She lifted her head slowly, eyes rimmed red, face slack with shock. She pulled out Cassandra's notepad—her fingers smeared with Cassandra's blood—and scrawled:
Fix what?
Grall didn't answer. He doubted she could stomach it right now.
"Just follow me."
He felt the Altean's unseen stare burning into his back as they approached the arch.
Grall muttered the phrase. The world responded.
A red liquid—thick and almost pulsing—crept up from the stone floor, filling the archway like blood rising to drown a window.
Sakurako stared at it with wide, haunted eyes.
Grall forced a smile that felt wrong on his lips.
"Ready to enter the past?"
Before she could resist, he shoved her through and dove after.
---
They landed in soft grass that smelled too alive, too real. The trees here were young things—innocent, unaware of the rot their future held.
Yes. This was the past.
Sakurako lay stunned, streaks of dirt marking where she'd skidded. Grall knelt beside her and helped her up, brushing off leaves.
"I wouldn't have done it that way," he muttered, "but the human back there wouldn't have let you leave. Not alive."
Her expression was blank—shock cooling into something hollow.
"We need to know where we are," Grall said, "and when."
The village appeared as they crested a hill. Smaller. Quieter. Its people carrying themselves with the fragile naïveté of those untouched by future horrors.
And there—playing with a worn wooden toy—was the boy Grall had only ever met as a corpse.
Malik.
Alive. Innocent.
Different.
Grall approached like one approaching a skittish animal.
"Hello," he said softly.
Malik startled, clutching the toy to his chest.
"H-hello?"
"My name is Grall. What's yours?"
"…Malik."
His amber eyes were already far too perceptive for a child.
"A fine name," Grall said, his tone gentle enough to mask the tremor beneath it.
"Th-thank you…" Malik swallowed. "What… what are you?"
"An orc," Grall murmured. "From the Scar. Far from here."
The boy's fear wavered, replaced by fascination. "A desert? Really?"
"Oh yes. In fact—" Grall glanced back at Sakurako, "—we came here looking for you. To give you something. Something you'll need to give to a girl named Cassandra."
Malik flinched. "I don't know her."
"You will," Grall said, "and it will matter."
He turned to Sakurako. "I need something important. To you both."
She hesitated, then slowly removed a warm stone—Cassandra's gift, pulsing faintly like a dying heartbeat. She wrote:
It alerts her when I'm in danger.
Perfect.
Grall pressed the stone into Malik's small hands.
"Give this to her when you meet her. And tell her—listen carefully—
'Love is ever fleeting, but never dying.'"
Malik repeated it, voice trembling.
But before Grall could breathe—
The world folded.
Colors bled. Shapes warped. Malik's face stretched and collapsed into darkness.
A forest snapped into place around them.
Sakurako looked stricken, wounded by hope and loss colliding in her chest.
"She's alive now," Grall murmured. "Time is unpredictable. Cruel. But it listens… sometimes."
She nodded shakily.
They turned to leave—
And the world dimmed.
A shadow fell across them like a shroud.
Hovering above the treeline, a dark figure watched them.
Her silhouette was wrong—too still, too solid.
Her amber eyes burned like smoldering coals, unblinking, ancient.
And Grall felt, for the first time in an age, something like fear.