The journey back to the Onyx Hall was not a march. It was a funeral procession of one.
Warlord Gorak stumbled up the goat path. The Fragment of the Forgotten had left its mark deep in his marrow. His scales, once a gleaming obsidian black, were now a dull, flaky grey. His vision swam with static.
Every step was a battle against gravity.
Thud.
He fell. He didn't catch himself. He hit the dirt face-first, the taste of iron and bile filling his mouth.
Darkness took him.
—
-
.
He didn't know how long he lay there. An hour? A day? He woke to the cold touch of the mountain wind. He was shivering. A Level 45 Warlord, shivering like a newborn hatchling.
"Get up," he growled to himself.
He used the the rusty, looted spear Iron-Scale had thrown him as a crutch, and forced his body to stand.
'Hate,' he realized, 'is a powerful fuel.'
He crested the ridge. The Onyx Hall loomed ahead. The massive gates were closed, barred against a world that had suddenly become terrifying.
