The air in Sol-Minora was thick with the scent of burning torches and sweat-soaked steel as the remnants of the Silver Axes gathered in their encampment. The great banners of their legion, once proud and many, now hung in tattered glory above them, swaying gently in the evening breeze.
Khaltar stood at the heart of the warriors, his eyes scanning the faces of the men who had fought beside him, bled beside him, and survived the nightmare of Sol-Mayora. Only eighty-three remained from the proud twenty-three thousand five hundred who had first set sail.
A heavy silence settled over the camp, the weight of their fallen brothers pressing upon their shoulders. Then, Khaltar spoke.
"Silver Axes!" His voice rang through the encampment, cutting through the quiet like a blade. "You have fought with honor! You have shed blood, and you have taken it in kind! You have stood against the tide of orcs and crushed them beneath your heels! Because of you, there will be no more war cries in the night! No more villages burned to the ground! No more mothers screaming as their children are torn from their arms! You—have avenged them!"
A roar erupted from the warriors, weapons raised high, fists pounding against armored chests.
Khaltar let the cries of his men ring out before raising his hand. The camp fell silent once more. His next words came softer, but they carried no less weight.
"But our work is not yet done." He paused, letting the words settle in. "Our kin—our women and children—still wait for us in Gehenna. They fled the orcish invasion, seeking refuge beyond the mountains. They have lived in exile, fearing the day the greenskins might come for them as well. But hear me now, my brothers… that day will never come!"
A new fire burned in the warriors' eyes.
"The orcs have been wiped out! Their warbands shattered, their chieftains slain! There is no longer fear—only the road home."
The Silver Axes erupted once more, not with sorrow, nor rage, but with triumph. Weapons clashed against shields, the sound echoing through Sol-Minora like the beat of a war drum. They had won. And now, they would bring their people home.
As the first light of dawn broke over Sol-Minora, the Silver Axes moved like a well-oiled war machine, preparing for the journey ahead.
The air buzzed with activity—warriors securing their gear, blacksmiths hammering the last repairs onto dented armor, and supply officers barking orders as crates of rations, weapons, and medical supplies were carefully loaded onto sturdy iron-wheeled chariots. Each warrior took only what they needed; their march to Gehenna was not for war, but for home.
The warhorses stood restless, their breaths steaming in the morning chill. Massive destriers, bred for battle, stomped their hooves, eager to ride again. Lighter steppe horses, swift and agile, were saddled for the scouts who would ride ahead. The leather straps of their bridles creaked as the stable hands tightened them, ensuring the beasts were well-prepared for the long ride.
Near the center of the encampment, Aruzhan, the great Griffin, loomed beside Khaltar, her dark skins glistening with the morning dew. Her golden eyes watched the preparations with quiet intelligence. Khaltar stood before his old companion, placing a firm hand on his snout. "Watch over this place, Aruzhan. Until we return."
The great beast let out a low screech of understanding before unfurling wings just slightly, as if stretching before settling in to guard their encampment.
Khaltar turned back toward his men. Chariots were lined up in formation, packs secured, weapons fastened to saddles, and warriors mounted, waiting for his command. The clanking of armor and the rhythmic snorts of horses filled the air, blending into the rising heartbeat of their departure.
Khaltar swung himself into the saddle, gripping the reins of his black warhorse. Beside him, Yaraq adjusted his axe belt, and the remaining Silver Axes warriors tightened their grips on their reins.
Then, without hesitation, Khaltar raised his sword, its blade catching the first rays of morning light. "Ride! To Gehenna!"
The ground trembled as eighty-three warriors rode forth, leaving Sandy Shores behind as they galloped toward the lands where their people awaited them.
After twenty-seven relentless hours of riding, the Silver Axes finally arrived at Gehenna, the desolate wasteland beyond the Black Ridges. The sky above was a dull shade of gray, choked with dust carried by the ever-howling winds. The land stretched out before them—a barren expanse of cracked earth and jagged stone, lifeless and unyielding.
Before them stood the ruins of Khal-Turaz, the last remnant of an ancient dwarven kingdom. Massive stone pillars, half-buried in the shifting sands, loomed over the entrance to a vast tunnel system that ran beneath the mountains. The grand doors, once a testament to dwarven craftsmanship, were shattered—reduced to rubble and dust. Yet, despite its ruin, the place still held an eerie presence, as if the ghosts of its past inhabitants lingered in the shadows.
Khaltar was the first to dismount. His boots struck the ground, and he took a slow breath, scanning the terrain with the wary eyes of a seasoned warrior. Behind him, the remaining Silver Axes followed suit, one by one sliding off their mounts, stretching stiff limbs, and loosening their weapons in their scabbards.
They didn't rush forward. Caution was needed. No one had entered these tunnels in months, and though they expected their women and children to be waiting inside, there were too many uncertainties. The world was cruel, and so was fate—who knew what might have crawled into the darkness during their absence?
Khaltar raised a hand, signaling his men to begin preparations. The first priority was securing the area. Scouts were sent forward to check the ruins for any signs of movement. Torches were lit, weapons drawn, and shields strapped tight. The horses were led to a more sheltered area behind the crumbling walls, tied down and given water while a few warriors remained to guard them.
As they stood at the threshold of the great tunnels, the air was thick with anticipation.
As they ventured deeper into the tunnels of Khal-Turaz, the oppressive silence was broken only by the soft echoes of their boots against the stone floor. Torches flickered, casting shadows along the cavernous walls, revealing the breathtaking craftsmanship of the long-lost dwarven kingdom.
The architecture was unlike anything they had seen before—grand pillars with intricate carvings, their surfaces etched with strange symbols that seemed to pulse faintly in the torchlight. Precious stones—sapphires, rubies, and emeralds—were embedded into the walls, not merely for decoration but woven seamlessly into the stone, as if they had grown there naturally. Gold and silver inlaid filigree ran along the archways, forming elegant patterns that shimmered with an ancient brilliance.
The deeper they descended, the more their awe grew. Even the air felt different—heavy with the weight of history, the lingering presence of a civilization that had once thrived here.
Yet, for all its beauty, there was no sign of life. No laughter of children. No voices of women. No welcoming embrace of their kin. Only silence.
They pressed forward, determined to find their people, but soon, they came upon a crossroads deep within the mountain.
Three tunnels diverged before them, each leading into utter darkness. A choice had to be made.
Khaltar stepped forward, his keen eyes scanning the paths before them. The leftmost tunnel sloped downward, wide enough for carts to have once passed through. The middle path was narrow, but a faint draft suggested an opening or chamber deeper inside. The rightmost passage was the darkest, its entrance flanked by broken statues, their once-proud forms shattered into rubble.
With only eighty-three men remaining, they could not afford hesitation. "We split into three groups," Khaltar announced, his voice firm. "We move with caution, and if you find anything—anything at all—you signal at once."
The warriors nodded, tightening their grips on their weapons. The Silver Axes divided—three groups of twenty-seven men each—One group took the left tunnel, their torches disappearing into the downward slope.
Another ventured into the middle passage, moving single-file through the narrow space. And the last, led by Khaltar himself, entered the darkened rightmost path, stepping over the broken remains of dwarven statues.
Whatever lay ahead in these ancient halls, they would face it. The silence grew heavier the deeper they ventured. No wind. No whispers. No echoes of their own footsteps. Only the weight of the earth pressing in around them, suffocating in its stillness. Then—the screeching began.
A shrill, unnatural wail erupted from the darkness, coming from nowhere and everywhere all at once. The tunnels trembled, loose gravel shifting beneath their boots. And then—they came.
From the jagged crevices of the cavern walls, clawed fingers emerged—gnarled, brittle, yet impossibly strong. They raked through the air, catching flesh, tearing armor, dragging men into unseen pits. Ghouls.
Not just any cursed dead—dwarven ghouls, remnants of Khal-Turaz's fallen defenders, twisted by necromancy, their bodies now nothing more than shriveled husks wrapped in corroded armor. Their eyes burned with soulless hunger, their jaws unhinged, revealing rows of broken, jagged teeth.
The Silver Axes fought back, their battle cries ringing through the tunnels. Axes split skulls. Swords severed limbs. Spears impaled writhing bodies. But for every ghoul that fell, three more crawled from the abyss.
It was a massacre. Men vanished into the dark, their screams cut short. Blood splattered against ancient dwarven walls, dripping from the engraved gemstones that once shone with pride.
Khaltar's heart pounded. He had fought orcs, goblins, even The Fallen—but this was different. This was hopeless. He ran. He didn't want to. He wanted to stay, to fight, to save his warriors. But there was no saving them.
As he sprinted through the collapsing tunnel, shadows clawing at his back, he heard the final screams of his men—one by one, they fell. Then—he saw the light.
The tunnel's exit loomed ahead, and with a final desperate leap, Khaltar burst into the open air, skidding to a halt on the barren wasteland outside. He turned—and unleashed everything.
His fists clenched, veins pulsed with raw mana. With a deafening roar, he swung forward, his mana-charged fist exploding into the tunnel entrance.
The impact sent a blinding shockwave through the cavern. The very mountain shook, stone crumbling, and in an instant—hundreds of ghouls were obliterated, their cursed bodies reduced to ashes, their screeches silenced forever.
The dust settled. The battle was over. But only five remained. Five. Out of eighty-three. Khaltar's breath was ragged as he looked around. Six warriors stood with him, their eyes hollow, their bodies covered in dirt and blood.
As the dust settled and the echoes of death faded into the barren silence, Khaltar's chest heaved with each breath. His fists still crackled faintly with residual mana, but the battle had drained him—body and soul.
The five remaining Silver Axes stood in the rubble, their faces hollow, eyes reflecting the countless dead they had left behind. No one spoke. The air itself seemed too heavy, as if the mountain mourned its own secrets. Then—Khaltar saw it.
Beyond the shattered rocks and the corpses of ghouls, hidden beneath the jagged overhang of the cliffs, an entrance.
A narrow cave mouth—dark, silent, untouched. Its edges were carved with faint dwarven runes, their meaning long forgotten. The opening seemed to breathe with the cold wind, drawing them forward.
Khaltar's heart pounded harder. This had to be the refuge. Without a word, he stepped toward it, the surviving warriors following behind—broken men chasing the last flicker of hope.
The cave swallowed them whole, the shadows thick and suffocating. Their torches flickered along the carved walls, illuminating ancient murals—scenes of dwarves in triumph and in death.
The deeper they walked, the colder the air became. Then they saw it—faint glimmers of firelight dancing further within, reflecting off distant walls.
Khaltar's breath caught in his throat. He turned to the others, his voice low but steady. "They're here."
Step by step, they advanced, every echo making their hearts pound. If the women and children were inside, there was still hope. But if something else had found them first... Only the gods would know what waited in the dark.