The cavern air was thick with iron and rot. Smoke drifted from braziers burning some foul resin, filling the tunnels with a haze that stung the eyes. At the heart of the chamber, a great black tent stood stitched from hides, stitched with crude bone charms that rattled softly in the hot draft.
An orc ducked inside, his broad shoulders brushing the tent frame. He thumped one fist against his chest before kneeling. His tusks gleamed with saliva as he bowed his head.
"Boss Gurg," he rumbled, voice guttural, "the realm break… is complete."
A silence fell. Then the tent shifted, the canvas groaning as something massive rose within. Gurg stepped forward, towering head and shoulders above his kin, scarred chest painted with crude red markings. One tusk was broken in half and sharpened again, the other ringed with iron bands. His yellow eyes burned like coals in a furnace.
He smiled, a cruel curve of cracked lips.
"Show me."
Together, they strode out into the cavern. The air hummed with unnatural vibration, and before them loomed the portal a wound in reality itself. Its surface rippled with crimson and black, veins of light spreading into the cavern walls. The floor around it was cracked, as though the stone itself recoiled from the corruption.
From that wound came the flood.
Goblins first hundreds of them, shrieking, their warped faces twisted with ecstasy as they spilled into the world. Rusted blades, jagged spears, claws and teeth. They shoved each other, scrambling over rocks, eyes glowing with unnatural hunger. Then hobgoblins, larger, bulkier, their flesh plated with crude armor, their strides heavier. They carried axes, maces, even broken shields, their howls shaking the stone.
And then, every so often, the portal shuddered and an ork stepped through with massive frames, weapons forged of bone and steel, tusks gleaming. Their laughter was thunderous, eager for blood.
Gurg raised his axe, the weapon nicked and scarred from countless kills. His voice boomed, echoing off the cavern walls.
"You overbreeding rats— goblins, hobgoblins! Out! Out into the world! Invade every village you see, burn their huts, take their women, eat their children! Drown these lands in your stink!"
The goblins screeched their agreement, stampeding toward the cave mouth. Hobgoblins followed in iron ranks, snarling, beating their shields in rhythm. The cavern floor quaked beneath the horde as they surged toward the surface.
Gurg turned to the orc warriors now assembling, their breaths steaming in the thick air. He grinned wider, tusks dripping.
"And you all my kin. Not through the open mouth, no. The kingdoms will be busy with this flood. We go through the hidden tunnels. We spread across the land. We carve more realm breaks, one by one, until the world itself splits open."
The orcs roared, the sound like boulders grinding. One by one, they marched into side tunnels branching from the cavern, carrying their axes and drums into the dark.
Behind them, the flood of goblins and hobgoblins poured endlessly from the portal, shrieks filling the cave like a storm.
Boss Gurg planted his axe into the stone, leaned on it, and laughed low, cruel, unending.
"Let the rats squeal. Tonight, the land learns fear."
---
The forest edge was no longer still.
Torches guttered as a tide of bodies surged from the cave mouth. Goblins poured into the night in a living river, their shrill voices piercing the trees. Behind them, heavier shapes loomed, hobgoblins, broad and plated in crude armor, their red eyes fixed on the two figures standing against them.
Angela stood in the clearing, seven and a half feet of steel and fire, her greatsword balanced across her shoulders. Golden sparks crackled faintly around her boots, Juggernaut's Rush waiting to ignite. Her crimson hair caught the torchlight, her smile sharp and fearless.
"Finally," she muttered, "something worth killing."
Beside her, Selvara was still, silver eyes cold. The Needlefang Estoc hummed in her hand, its blood-red vein pulsing faintly in rhythm with her breath. Her voice was quiet, calm, a shadow against Angela's fire.
"They come faster than before. The air reeks of a greater storm."
Angela barked a laugh, lowering her sword. "Good. Let's see if they break before I do."
The goblins charged.
Angela roared, her legs glowing with golden lightning as she launched forward. The ground cracked beneath her, shockwaves rippling outward. Her greatsword swung in a brutal arc, six goblins cleaved in half at once, their bodies flung like ragdolls into their kin. She twisted, swung back the other way, and three more were bisected, their shrieks cut short as their entrails sprayed across the dirt.
Each swing restored her breath, stamina surging back as Juggernaut's Rush fed on her kills. She laughed aloud, her voice carrying above the slaughter.
"More! Come on, vermin!"
They did.
Behind her, Selvara moved. One heartbeat she was still, the next she blurred past three goblins. Each staggered mid-step as perfect holes bloomed in their torsos, their hearts erased. They collapsed without sound. Selvara never slowed. Momentum Shift carried her in a zigzag, each stride exploding with stored energy, her estoc thrusting faster than eyes could follow.
A hobgoblin swung a mace she sidestepped, the blade lunging forward. Crimson distortion split the air, then snapped shut, leaving a gaping wound in his chest. He dropped with a choking gurgle. Another raised a shield she slipped past, Unerring Lunge ignoring the defense, the point of her blade emerging from the back of his skull.
Lightning Veins flared across her body, her veins glowing blue. Every fifth strike spat sparks into her enemies, stunning them long enough for her to finish the kill. The forest reeked of ozone and blood.
Angela and Selvara fought like storm and shadow. Angela's greatsword smashed bodies apart in wide sweeps, goblin limbs spinning into the night. Selvara pierced through plated hobgoblins as if their armor were paper, her precision leaving grotesque, symmetrical holes. The clearing became a carpet of corpses, slick with gore, the air hot with screams.
And still they came.
Angela planted her boot on a goblin's chest, crushing it flat as she swung again, carving three more in half. Her breath was steady, her grin sharp, but her eyes flicked to Selvara. "There's no end!"
Selvara's estoc drove through another throat. She withdrew, silver eyes narrowing. "If we stand still, we will drown."
Angela growled, splitting another hobgoblin in two. "So what, we run?"
Selvara's voice was cold, precise. "We fall back. Slowly. Or we die here."
Angela snarled, frustrated then killed three more with a brutal sweep. She spat, red hair plastered to her cheek with sweat. "Fine. But listen, Silver Gale. You head back first. Tell the village. Warn them."
Selvara blinked, blade dripping. "And you?"
Angela grinned through the blood. "I'll hold them for ten minutes. After that, I'll follow. Faster than these rats can chase. If an orc shows its ugly tusks, I'll retreat. But until then…" She swung again, Juggernaut's Rush crackling as three goblins exploded in gore. "Until then, I'm not moving an inch."
Selvara stared at her proud, reckless, burning. She inclined her head. "…Then I will trust you. Ten minutes."
Angela smirked, blood running down her chin. "Go. Run fast, little shadow. Bring back help. If I'm not back, then you better drag me out of their guts."
Selvara said nothing more. She blurred, a silver streak vanishing into the trees, leaving only corpses in her wake.
Angela planted her greatsword in the dirt, panting once. The horde screamed and surged toward her. She raised her blade again, laughter echoing as she charged to meet them head-on.
"Come on then! Let's dance till I'm drowning in your blood!"
The forest shook with her fury.
---
Far from the cave, drums thundered in the night.
An army moved across the plain, eight thousand strong, torches stretching like rivers of fire. Armor clattered, boots pounded, banners snapped in the wind. At the front rode Viscount Dell, silver armor gleaming, velvet cloak trailing. His face was sharp, handsome, but his eyes were cold with entitlement.
He looked upon the wooden palisade of the village with disdain. His voice rose, practiced, arrogant.
"Eight thousand men march at my word, and yet this village still stands unbent. Hmph. Tonight, Thornfield learns its place."
The villagers watched from the walls, their faces pale. At the gate, Chief Thornfield stood waiting, gray hair bound back, staff clutched tight. He was weary, but unbowed.
The Viscount reined in his horse before him, sneering down from the saddle.
"Chief Thornfield," he said, voice dripping with condescension, "let us talk."
Behind him, the army's torches burned brighter, casting long shadows over the village. The sound of their march did not stop, a rolling thunder that promised the weight of the world pressing in.
The night held its breath.