The sun was a blistering eye above the endless expanse. Nothing but sand for miles—no ruins, no tracks, no birdsong, no wind. Just silence, and the march of three men bound by oath and fate.

  Xhiamas moved with purpose, his cloak flaring behind him like a second shadow. “You didn’t have to come,” he said, glancing back. “This was my summons.”

  Michael trudged forward with Fortitude slung across his back, sweat streaking down his jaw. “And what? Let you walk into the middle of nowhere alone? We’ve come this far. Separating now would only serve the enemy.”

  Ziyad snorted. “Assuming they haven’t all been buried by now. Are you sure this is where your people are hiding, Isharan? Because all I see is a great sea of nothing and my patience running dry.”

  Xhiamas smirked faintly, his eyes scanning the dunes. “Blame the founding fathers. It’s not exactly hospitality that keeps the High Strings hidden—it’s paranoia, legacy, and an unhealthy amount of sand.”

  Michael chuckled under his breath. “Sounds about right for anything Azanean.”

  The trio walked on. With each step, the sand seemed to grow thicker, heavier—like walking through time itself.

  The horizon shimmered—heat dancing like spirits across the sands. Ziyad squinted, his eyes narrowing. “There,” he muttered. “Someone’s watching us.”

  A lone figure stood at the crest of a far dune, motionless. They were too distant to make out clearly, but unmistakably there—like a mirage that refused to vanish.

  Michael instinctively reached for Fortitude before remembering he’d surrendered it back in Zul’garoth. “That’s not just some wanderer.”

  Then—without warning—sand shifted behind them. A presence. Silent. Sudden.

  Michael spun around, fists raised. Ziyad’s hand had already found the hilt of a dagger he wasn’t supposed to be carrying. But it was Xhiamas who reacted first—by smiling.

  “Hazran,” he said, voice calm. “You’ve gotten slow.”

  The man who stood behind them had the same stillness as the dunes, wrapped in robes that blended with the desert like camouflage worn by the wind. A long scar crossed his left brow, and his eyes glinted with sharp intelligence.

  Hazran offered the barest nod. “You’re right on time.”

  He turned, already walking without explanation. “Follow.”

  They did.

  Moments later, the desert shifted. A mirage—no, a truth hidden in heat. Before them, nestled in the hollow of two sandstone cliffs, shimmered an oasis. Not just water, but tents, palms, towers of windblown stone carved by unseen hands. Life, where there should have been none.

  Ziyad blinked. “By the Stranger’s eyes…”

  Michael exhaled slowly. “That was never there before.”

  Xhiamas smiled faintly. “It was. You just weren’t looking the right way.”

  The oasis loomed before them, like a dream clinging to the edge of reality. Guard posts disguised as rock formations watched in silence as Hazran led them through stone gates bound with runes—wardings to repel the curious and the cruel.

  The air shifted.

  It was colder here. Still. And sacred.

  They passed through rows of tents stitched with the sigils of forgotten tribes, fire pits ringed by archers, and training circles where masked figures practiced silent strikes. Everyone moved with purpose. With discipline. No words were wasted here.

  At the heart of it all stood a structure half-buried in the cliffside. Carved into it were four strings, the symbol of the faction—tension and balance, drawn tight by loyalty. Hazran turned without a word and beckoned them forward.

  The chamber inside was round, the walls lit by oil sconces and patterns of shifting crystal. At the far end, seated beneath a curved arch of stone and silver, were three figures—the High Strings.

  Each of them sat behind a braided table of bone and darkwood, symbolizing their shared judgment.

  The first was an older man—stern-faced, with sharp blue eyes and a salt-and-pepper beard—leaned forward, resting his hands on the hilt of a saber.

  His Primeran accent was unmistakable when he finally spoke.

  “So you’re the Protector,” he said, appraising Michael. “They say your blade never sleeps.”

  Michael stood straighter. “I am.”

  The man gave a slight nod. “You speak with the strength of the West. I once called it home—before violence and old grudges burned away the meaning of borders.”

  His voice was bitter. Burdened. His robes bore both Azanean stitching and the faded crest of an old Primeran House—long dead, perhaps by betrayal.

  Beside him sat a figure that barely fit his seat—an orc, massive, tusked, and armored in volcanic leather lined with fur. A long scar ran from his jaw down to his collarbone. Yet his posture was calm, thoughtful.

  His voice, when it came, was deep and rich.

  “Your arrival has been felt in the winds,” the orc said, speaking to Xhiamas. “I did not think I would meet you again in this life.”

  Ziyad glanced at his brother. Xhiamas offered nothing.

  “The beasts stand ready,” the orc said. “But they will not move on whispers. They need proof.”

  Michael looked him in the eye. “Then we’ll give it to them.”

  The orc grunted in approval.

  The final figure sat in perfect stillness. An Azanean elder, his robes layered in black and deep violet, their hems marked with ancient sigils long forgotten to most. His skin was bronzed and lined by age, and his silver-white hair flowed behind him like a cloak of dusk. Intricate tattoos traced the curve of his neck and cheekbones—marks of rank, power, and oaths.

  Unlike the others, he did not inspect them. His eyes, sharp and quiet as still water, had already seen what they needed to.

  But then he moved—only slightly—and spoke, his voice rich with weight, yet smooth like desert wind gliding over stone.

  “You were called by the High Strings, Isharan. Step forward.”

  Xhiamas blinked at the use of his true name, but he didn’t hesitate. He stepped into the center of the room.

  “By whose judgment?” he asked evenly.

  The Azanean gave the faintest tilt of his head.

  “By the will of the Strings. And the whispers from the Black Oasis.”

  Ziyad looked at Michael, confused, but Michael kept his gaze forward, alert.

  The elder continued.

  “You have walked the long road. You stand before us with those from beyond our sands. Explain your actions, and why fate has tugged so tightly upon your thread.”

  Xhiamas stood tall before the High Strings, the folds of his desert cloak catching faint gusts within the chamber. For a moment, the air felt still, heavy with unspoken judgment.

  The Primeran, seated to the left, leaned forward. “You ordered Tariq to move. To intervene in a foreign war.”

  The orc’s brow furrowed, but he said nothing.

  The Azanean High String finally asked, “Was it your command?”

  Xhiamas nodded without pause. “It was. I sent word before our ship ever reached Azane’s shores. Tariq and the Wandering Arrows under his lead followed my directive. If punishment must be dealt, let it fall on me—not on them.”

  Ziyad’s jaw tensed. Michael’s hand gripped his belt, but they said nothing—letting him stand for himself.

  The Azanean elder narrowed his eyes. “You presume much, Isharan. The Taa’nir al-Sahm—the Order of the Wandering Arrow—was sworn to neutrality. To act without command of any court, crown, or creed. That law is older than our strongest arrows and carved into the marrow of our founders.”

  The Primeran nodded in agreement, steepling his fingers. “To side with Primera is to break balance. You risked everything.”

  “I didn’t side with Primera,” Xhiamas said quietly. “I sided with survival.”

  The room grew colder.

  The orc grunted. “Explain.”

  Xhiamas turned to each of them in turn, his voice unwavering. “I have seen the shadows rise in the north. I have read the signs the gods once taught us to heed. Primera isn’t just fighting a rebellion—it is fighting a force that walks beneath the laws of men and gods alike. The same force that razed our forgotten temples, silenced the Deep Names, and has now returned, cloaked in circles of sin.”

  Michael stepped forward at that, his voice calm but clear. “We have reason to believe that the Nine Circles of Hell are manifesting into our world. One of them has already fallen. Another is imprisoned.”

  The Primeran narrowed his eyes. “Hell? That is a Primeran superstition.”

  “And yet,” Xhiamas replied, “they are no longer superstition. The Stranger’s hand moves again. And so does the enemy’s. I did not break neutrality. I fulfilled it.”

  The Azanean elder’s voice was low and unreadable. “And how is that so?”

  “Neutrality,” Xhiamas said, “is the preservation of balance. If the world falls into ruin, there is no balance to return to.”

  A long silence followed.

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  The High Strings looked at one another, quiet as statues. Then the orc muttered, “And yet the cost…”

  Xhiamas bowed his head. “If punishment is due, I accept it. But I will not apologize for ensuring that our arrows did not stay buried while the world burned.”

  After a time, the Azanean finally spoke again.

  “The Taa’nir al-Sahm will remain neutral. As it was written. As the gods intended.”

  Michael’s shoulders eased a fraction.

  “But,” the elder continued, “we will watch. Closely.”

  Then the Primeran asked, “And if your instincts were wrong?”

  Xhiamas smiled, faint and tired. “Then I will take that burden into the sands with me.”

  As the quiet returned to the chamber, the tension still lingering like the aftershock of an unsheathed blade, Xhiamas stepped forward once more. His eyes—clear and resolute—met those of the three who had once molded him.

  “I only ask one thing,” he said calmly. “That you remember your own teachings.”

  The Primeran High String tilted his head, curious. The orc remained still, his tusks bared slightly in thought. The Azanean gave a faint nod, saying nothing.

  Xhiamas continued, his voice edged with quiet fire.

  “Were we not trained to guard the world’s balance not just through silence, but action? Was it not you who taught me that the Taa’nir al-Sahm must sometimes sew chaos… if it meant preserving the greater order?”

  He let the words settle—heavy and deliberate.

  “That we were not mere watchers in the dark, but agents of equilibrium… arrows loosed where no others dared draw a bow?”

  The chamber held its breath.

  Then—unexpectedly—the Primeran let out a low chuckle. The Azanean closed his eyes in thought. The orc gave a single grunt that might’ve been approval.

  “You remember our teachings well,” said the Azanean at last. “Too well, perhaps.”

  The Primeran sighed. “It seems we’ve shaped a wolf and sent him walking among sheep.”

  The orc nodded slowly. “And he bit only when the winds shifted. Just as he was meant to.”

  Xhiamas bowed his head.

  The Azanean raised a hand. “You may go, Isharan. No punishment shall befall you—today. But remember this…”

  He leaned forward, voice gaining weight.

  “The Arrows may loose themselves once… but the next time you draw without sanction, even the gods may not grant you shelter.”

  A beat passed.

  “I understand,” Xhiamas replied simply.

  “Then go,” the orc said, “and carry the silence with you.”

  The sun was beginning to fall behind the dunes, casting long shadows over the sacred oasis as the trio made their way out of the hidden chamber. The heat had mellowed, but the weight of their conversation lingered like embers beneath ash.

  Michael exhaled, the breath slow and heavy. “They nearly turned on you,” he muttered, “but in the end… they smiled.”

  “They always do,” Xhiamas replied, his tone dry. “The High Strings speak in warnings. But approval comes in riddles.” He glanced at the horizon. “Still… I wonder how long that patience will last.”

  Ziyad clicked his tongue. “Long enough, I hope. You may have secured us some time, but not many people get a second pardon from them.”

  Xhiamas smirked faintly. “Good thing I’m not just anyone.”

  They shared a quiet moment—warriors who had endured too much to be naive, but still clung to the hope that their efforts would matter. The wind stirred the sand around them in spirals, as if whispering warnings none of them could decipher.

  Then a young courier sprinted toward them, panting, his clothes marked by the neutral crest of the Taa’nir al-Sahm.

  He dropped to one knee and handed Ziyad a scroll. “From the scouts in the western ridge.”

  Ziyad’s eyes narrowed as he read. He muttered a curse under his breath.

  “Shivarak,” he said grimly. “A whole colony of them. Spotted cresting the obsidian flats heading south.”

  Michael’s brows furrowed. “South…?”

  Ziyad clenched the scroll. “That path leads straight to Zul’garoth.”

  A beat of silence passed. The implications were instant and damning.

  “If the orcs fall before we finish what we started—” Michael began.

  “—Then so does our hope for unity,” Xhiamas finished, already adjusting the straps on his gear.

  Michael’s jaw tightened as he turned toward the direction they had come.

  “Then we return. Immediately.”

  Ziyad gave a sharp nod. “There’s no time to waste. We ride at dusk.”

  The trio set off into the dying sun, the golden light behind them fading as the desert once again began to stir.

  The desert stretched endlessly before them, cracked and cruel beneath a roiling sky of dust. The sun, half-choked by the haze, cast a crimson pall across the shifting dunes. Michael rode in silence, one hand tight around his saddle, the other resting at his hip—his greatsword absent from his back.

  He cursed under his breath.

  “Damn it. I should’ve brought Fortitude.”

  Ziyad, beside him, glanced over. “Hoping to cleave sandstorms in half, were you?”

  “Anything’s better than charging into hell with my fists,” Michael replied.

  Without a word, Ziyad pulled a curved dagger from his belt—jet-black steel etched with faint runes, its hilt bound in shadow-colored leather—and handed it to him.

  Michael took it, weighing the blade in his palm.

  “This is fine work,” he muttered. “Primeran steel?”

  “Azanite,” Ziyad corrected. “Shadowforged. It’s fed on darker things than men.”

  Michael offered a thin smile. “Comforting.”

  Then—movement on the horizon.

  A cloud of dust, unnatural in its frenzy, rising from the gorge ahead. The three slowed, peering down from the ridge. What they saw stole the breath from their lungs.

  The Shivarak were here.

  Massive insectoid beasts, clad in plated chitin and dripping with acid and blood, tore through the gorge in brutal force. And yet—holding the line, refusing to break—

  The Orcs.

  At the vanguard was Khor’gul himself, a mountain of muscle and might, his war cries shaking the gorge as he swung a battleaxe the size of a man. Each blow sent Shivarak flying or split them down the middle.

  Amid the chaos, Ka’laar could be seen wrestling one of the monsters to the ground. Chains wrapped tight around his forearms gleamed as he held its head down by sheer force, bellowing as others stabbed it to death. His body was a mess of cuts and blood—but his stance remained unyielding.

  Ziyad’s eyes widened. “They’re being overrun.”

  Michael tightened his grip on the dagger, jaw clenched. “Then we even the odds.”

  Xhiamas nodded, foresight already alight behind his eyes. “Strike fast. Go for the joints.”

  The three launched forward like a blade drawn from the earth.

  Michael hit first, sliding down the slope and straight into the fray. With Ziyad’s dagger in hand, he ducked beneath a clawed strike and drove the blade into a Shivarak’s underbelly. It screamed, shrieking until Ka’laar crushed its skull beneath a boot.

  Ziyad emerged from the shadows nearby, carving through legs and tendons with precision. Xhiamas moved through the battlefield like wind, calling warnings before danger could manifest, keeping them one step ahead.

  Ka’laar turned, blinking at the sight of Michael. Then he grinned wide, blood splattering from his tusks.

  “You should’ve brought the big sword!”

  Michael parried a strike with the dagger, teeth gritted. “Don’t remind me!”

  “Then you’ll have to make do!” the orc laughed, cleaving through a Shivarak beside him.

  They fought as one—man, shadowwalker, prophet, and beast. The Shivarak fell back slowly, overwhelmed by the brutal counteroffensive.

  And at the center of it all, Khor’gul stood like a war-god reborn, his axe drenched, his roars thunderous.

  The Shivarak screeched one final time and turned tail, burrowing back into the sand in a frenzy of retreat.

  Silence descended, broken only by ragged breath and the settling of dust.

  Michael, drenched in sweat and blood, lowered the dagger.

  They’d held the line. But barely.

  Dust hung in the air like ash after a fire, painting the sky in dull orange and crimson streaks. The field was littered with Shivarak corpses—limbs twitching, ichor steaming as it bled into the sand.

  Michael knelt, panting, Ziyad's dagger still clutched tight in his hand. Ka’laar stood nearby, leaning on a shattered war-hammer, and Xhiamas silently wiped blood from the corner of his mouth.

  Then came the thundering steps.

  Khor’gul, wreathed in the carnage of battle, strode toward them. His armor was dented, bloodied, but his presence remained unshaken—like the unyielding edge of an old, scarred blade.

  "You fight well," he said gruffly, eyeing each of them. “For humans.”

  Michael gave a tired smirk. “We try.”

  Khor’gul’s tone turned grave. “This was only a taste. What you faced here... was a fragment.”

  Ziyad narrowed his eyes. “There’s more?”

  “A tide,” the chieftain growled. “What you killed were scouts. I ordered my other warbands to fall back and summon reinforcements, but...”

  He trailed off.

  In the distance—the sands shook.

  A low tremor rumbled beneath their boots.

  And then, like a curse made manifest, they saw it—a massive swarm of Shivarak tearing across the dunes. Hundreds—thousands—their shrieks clawing at the air. One among them rose taller than the rest, its spiked carapace glinting under the light, mandibles thick and serrated like twin cleavers. Its head bore a ridge of bone—like a crown of hunger.

  Michael’s heart skipped a beat. “That’s... new.”

  Xhiamas took a sharp breath. “That one is no scout.”

  Khor’gul growled, gripping his axe. “That is a Hivelord.”

  The orcs shouted as they prepared their defenses. War-drummers pounded warning beats. Arrows were knocked. Blades raised.

  Michael took a step forward, his mind racing.

  We won’t hold them like this. Not without something drastic.

  Then—an idea sparked.

  He turned to Khor’gul. “Chieftain, this ground… beneath us. Does it hold metal?”

  The orc looked puzzled, then nodded. “Yes. Beneath the sand lies shard obsidian, jagged as razors—and Vharaskin, a deep-earth metal prized by our smiths. Strong. Unbreakable.”

  Michael’s eyes lit up. “That’ll do.”

  He stepped forward, the wind whipping at his coat.

  “Everyone,” he shouted, voice loud and clear, “get back. Now.”

  Confused glances flickered his way.

  Ziyad blinked. “Michael—what are you—?”

  “Back,” Michael growled. “Trust me.”

  He closed his eyes.

  And pulled.

  The sand churned violently around him, spiraling into the air as if a storm had begun to howl from within the ground. Static burst along his arms, his fingertips glowing with crimson-blue arcs of magnetic mana.

  The others watched in awe—this was the Captain of the Seven.

  Beneath their feet, the ground began to tremble—then fracture.

  And with a great roar of mana—

  Spikes of obsidian burst from the sand like black spears, jagged and gleaming, piercing Shivarak from beneath, splitting their ranks.

  Then followed the Vharaskin—metallic pillars spiraling upward like twisting blades, snapping shut like traps, capturing swarms in tight prisons.

  The ground became a forest of death, precision, and power.

  Shivarak shrieked. The hivelord reared back, struck and wounded, ichor spraying in arcs.

  Michael stood at the eye of the storm, eyes glowing like molten iron, the dagger at his belt forgotten.

  Khor’gul exhaled hard, his expression unreadable.

  “Now that,” he muttered, “is a power worthy of an orc’s respect.”

  Ka’laar whooped beside him. “Didn’t I say he should’ve brought the big sword?”

  Ziyad stood in stunned silence, before muttering, “And to think he was worried about a missing blade.”

  Xhiamas smiled faintly, prophetic calm returning to his voice. “The forge is hot, and the iron strikes true.”

  The horde was broken—but far from defeated.

  Yet for the first time since the battle began, hope returned to the sand.

  The air reeked of sulfur and blood, Shivarak corpses scattered like broken armor across the ravaged dunes. The ground still thrummed with residual energy from Michael’s display—metal spikes and obsidian spears standing like obsidian teeth in a battlefield’s maw.

  But the silence was short-lived.

  A shrill screech pierced the horizon, followed by the battering thunder of claws and legs. The Shivarak regrouped and began to surge again, a second, larger wave of maddened beasts scrambling over the bodies of their fallen kin.

  Khor’gul growled. “They do not relent.”

  Michael raised Ziyad’s dagger once more, mana gathering.

  “I’ve got one more trick left—”

  Then—

  HROOOOOOAAAAAAHHH.

  A warhorn’s cry boomed across the cliffs, deep, guttural, and foreign—a sound not heard in Orcish lands for decades. The note echoed with command, regal and blood-stirring.

  The orcs around them froze mid-motion.

  Xhiamas’s eyes narrowed. “That horn...”

  Ziyad finished grimly, “Dhilāl.”

  From the canyons beyond, a flood of shadows spilled forth—warriors in black and crimson, gliding across stone and sand like silent retribution. Their blades gleamed like starlight, and banners etched with silver crescent-markings rippled in the wind. Thousands, tens of thousands, poured into the basin—an army of ghosts made flesh.

  The Shivarak shrieked—not in rage, but in fear—and began to scatter, retreating into the sands they had claimed as hunting grounds.

  The orcs backed away cautiously, forming ranks.

  Michael, breath caught, muttered, “What in the Divine’s name...?”

  Before anyone could move—

  They couldn't.

  Michael’s limbs locked. His body froze mid-breath, like stone carved from flesh.

  Khor’gul stiffened. Xhiamas winced. Only Ziyad was gone—vanished without warning, escaping the moment tension gripped the air.

  Then they saw it.

  Their shadows twitched, elongated unnaturally—and from them, figures began to rise.

  Not quite men, not quite smoke—the Dhilāl’s elite shadowwalkers, garbed in ethereal veils, emerged from the darkness underfoot. They moved with precision, grasping the limbs of the frozen warriors as if reality itself had bent under their control.

  “Shadowbinders,” Khor’gul hissed. “I’ve only heard stories.”

  Michael gritted his teeth. His fingers flexed, but no mana came. His own shadow curled like a living serpent, holding him fast.

  Then—a voice echoed through the battlefield, cutting like a blade through cloth.

  “You’ve gotten slow.”

  Michael’s eyes widened. The voice... it was familiar.

  He looked down—and his own shadow began to ripple.

  From it, a figure rose, dust swirling in his wake. Dark-cloaked, twin-bladed, bearing an aura far more commanding than the last time they had seen him.

  Godric.

  Older. Sharper. Shadows danced behind his eyes, and yet his presence was undeniably solid, almost divine.

  The last of the Shivarak fled into the dunes behind them. But none gave chase.

  All eyes were on the man who had returned from myth.