The air hung heavy with the weight of Khargul's decree. "Half of you may leave. The others… shall stay. As proof of honor."
No one spoke. Their exhausted bodies trembled, not just from exertion, but from dread. Baeric's fists clenched. He turned to Gorim, his cousin, whose eyes burned with the same realization—they had won the game, but not their lives.
Rahotep swallowed hard, his mind racing. They had no weapons. No power. No say. The orcs did not laugh this time. This was sacred law. And they all knew what staying behind meant.
A glance at the Pillars of Suffering was enough. The remnants of past "honor" were everywhere. Bones still chained, flesh blackened by time. It was a deliberate cruelty—letting them choose.
Soraya clutched Nadra's hand, whispering prayers under her breath. Arianne stared at the dirt, eyes hollow. Zahra gritted her teeth, determination flickering behind her fear. The twins, Rurik and Grumli, exchanged a wordless look. One of them would go. One of them would stay. Who decided? Who dared speak first?
Rahotep felt the weight of command, the unbearable burden of choosing who walked to freedom… and who walked to death. He looked to Khaltar, the elder warrior, whose expression was unreadable. Even he had no answers.
Khargul, standing like a titan carved from war itself, watched in silence. He was in no hurry. Khargul's voice rumbled through the cavern like distant thunder. "Choose wisely."
A cruel smirk tugged at his scarred lips as he watched them grapple with the impossible. The orcs behind him grunted in amusement, eager for blood, their tusked faces twisted in wicked grins. No one spoke. No one moved. Then, it began.
Baeric was the first to step forward, his face hard as stone. "I'll stay." His voice was steady, but his knuckles were white. "Gorim, you go."
His cousin's eyes flashed with fury. "Like hell I will!" Gorim barked. "You're my kin. We stand together."
"One of us has to leave." Baeric's voice was iron, unyielding.
Thordrek exhaled slowly. "I should stay."
Varnic turned sharply toward him. "No."
"You have a chance to make it out of here. Use it."
Varnic shook his head, his voice rising. "We swore an oath! You think I'd abandon you?"
Thordrek's gaze was calm. "You'd be honoring me. Not abandoning me."
Varnic's jaw tightened, but he said nothing more.
The Twins—Rurik and Grumli—exchanged a knowing look. They didn't speak. Instead, they knelt, drew a dagger, and carved a single line into the dirt. "Shortest stick stays."
Rurik and Grumli each took a turn drawing. Rurik held up his broken piece. The shorter one. His face hardened as he nodded once, accepting his fate. Grumli swallowed hard but didn't argue.
Durnhal let out a dry chuckle. "No point in arguing, lads. I'm staying."
Thordrek turned sharply to him. "Durnhal, no—" Thordrek's face twisted with grief, but Durnhal had already made his peace.
Yaraq, the elder warrior, stepped beside Khaltar. "You go," Yaraq said. "Lead them."
Khaltar bristled."No. My place is with my brothers."
Rahotep turned to Khaltar. "If you stay, we lose a leader. You go. The others need you."
Khaltar clenched his jaw, his nostrils flaring—but he knew they were right. With a heavy nod, he stepped away.
Yaraq placed a hand on Rahotep's shoulder. "You still have fire in you, boy. You go, too."
Rahotep gritted his teeth. "You're a warrior, Yaraq. We need you."
Yaraq's lips curled into a weary smile. "Not this time."
Rahotep's chest felt tight, but he knew there was no changing Yaraq's mind.
Soraya, the mother of two, was the first to speak. "I can't leave my children."
No one objected. Even the orcs did not laugh.
Zahra turned to Nadra. "You go."
Nadra's eyes flared with defiance. "No."
"Listen to me, girl. You're still young. You have a future." Zahra placed a firm hand on her shoulder. "Mine is already lost."
Nadra's lips pressed into a thin line, her body trembling. But she stepped back, nodding.
Arianne shook her head. "I should stay. I have no one left."
Reza grabbed her wrist. "You don't get to choose death."
Arianne laughed bitterly. "And you do?"
Reza's expression hardened. "My child is still out there. If I die here, I die knowing I fought for something."
Arianne looked away. She didn't have an answer to that. She stepped back, joining the ones who would leave.
The chosen ones stepped forward, standing before the warlord. Khargul's smirk widened. "A noble choice." His voice was like grinding stone. "Now, the rest of you—leave before I change my mind."
The freed ones hesitated, glancing at their doomed companions. None dared to speak. Then, they turned and walked away. The sound of chains clinking behind them was the last thing they heard before the cavern swallowed their friends whole.
A hush fell over the cavern, the flickering torchlight casting long, grotesque shadows on the skull-covered walls. The scent of blood and burning herbs hung thick in the air as the Ashblood shaman stepped forward, his gnarled staff tapping against the stone.
"You have honored the pact," he rasped, his deep-set eyes gleaming beneath his cracked bone mask. "And the Ashblood keep their word. Take the Red Steel... as much as your hands can carry."
A ripple of murmurs passed through the remaining warriors. Was this a trick? A final cruelty before the slaughter?
Khargul remained silent, his massive arms crossed over his scarred chest. He only watched. Then the shaman lifted his staff. A great iron gate groaned open, revealing a chamber beyond. Azerite.
The cavern was filled with it— jagged slabs of red steel protruding from the ground like molten fangs. Stalactites of the precious ore glowed with an eerie crimson sheen, veins of raw power pulsing beneath their surfaces. It was a graveyard of fire, a treasure hoard forged in the bones of the world.
For a long moment, no one moved. Then Rahotep took the first step forward. They moved like men possessed, their hands trembling as they seized what they could.
Varnic and Khaltar grabbed massive chunks, straining under the weight. Their arms screamed, their backs ached, but they did not stop.
Gorim and Grumli worked together, using broken shields as makeshift sleds, piling slabs of Azerite onto them, dragging them inch by inch.
Nadra and Arianne took smaller chunks, their fingers raw and bleeding from the jagged edges.
Hadeefa, older and weaker, still refused to leave empty-handed. She took a single piece, holding it close to her chest like an ember of defiance.
And Rahotep—Rahotep knelt, pressing his forehead against one of the Azerite boulders. "We did not come for nothing," he whispered. "This... this is our blood price."
Behind them, the ones who would stay watched in silence. Baeric stood tall, arms crossed over his chest. He did not reach for the Azerite. He had made his choice. His fight was over.
Thordrek let out a low chuckle. "Take enough for us too, will you?"
Durnhal grinned. "Aye. Make sure it sings when you forge it."
Yaraq only nodded. His duty was done. When they had gathered as much as they could carry, they turned—one last time—to their doomed kin. No words. No goodbyes.
Only a silent promise, carved in blood and steel. Then they left, their arms heavy, their hearts heavier. Behind them, the Ashbloods roared their savage chants, the sound haunting, victorious, and final.
The moment the victors vanished beyond the dunes, swallowed by the endless wasteland, the Ashblood Orcs turned to those who remained.
A terrible silence settled over the cavern, thick as smoke, heavier than the weight of the Azerite now carried away. Then, a single, guttural command rumbled from Khargul's throat. The orcs moved.
They came for Baeric first. Two orcs—massive, thick-muscled, stinking of sweat and blood—seized him by the arms, dragging him toward one of the blackened stone pillars. Ropes woven from sinew and iron chains dangled like vines from its scorched surface. Baeric did not struggle. He only breathed hard, his jaw clenched, his eyes burning.
The orcs laughed. "Strong one," one of them grunted in their guttural tongue. "We shall see how long strength lasts."
They wrenched his arms behind his back, forced him to his knees, and bound his wrists together, pulling the ropes taut. Too tight. His shoulders screamed, his skin split where the bindings dug deep. Then came the blades. Not to kill. But to carve.
They cut slowly, precisely, etching crude symbols into his chest. His skin peeled in strips, blood welling in dark rivulets, the orcs murmuring reverent words with every slice. Baeric did not scream. He would not give them that.
Rurik was next. Unlike Baeric, he fought. A fist crashed into his gut before he could even take a full step. He doubled over, coughing blood, and a second blow sent him sprawling into the dust. They trussed him like an animal.
Wrists bound behind him, ankles shackled, a rope looped around his throat, dragging him forward. Rurik spat at the feet of the shaman overseeing the ritual. The shaman smiled. A brand was taken from the fire.
Red-hot, shaped like a fanged maw. Without hesitation, they pressed it to his back. A sound tore from Rurik's throat—a sound of pain, rage, defiance. The orcs laughed. The brand sizzled, flesh blackening, the stench filling the air.
Thordrek never begged. But when they bound him to the pillar and pulled the hooks from the iron chest—his fingers curled into fists, his jaw clenched tight. The hooks were cruel things, barbed like fish spears, their edges jagged.
They pierced his back, one after another, sliding beneath muscle and sinew. Then came the chains. Orcs pulled. And Thordrek rose. Suspended. His own flesh was the only thing keeping him aloft. A great drum sounded. The orcs cheered.
Durnhal cursed them all. Cursed the orcs. Cursed the gods. Cursed his own fate. They held him down, pried his mouth open, and poured a thick, black liquid down his throat. It burned. It boiled.
Durnhal gagged, choked, writhed, but they did not let him go. It was a poison. A slow one. Not meant to kill. Only to break.
Zahra shook. Not with fear. With rage. She spat at the shaman. The orcs grinned. Two of them seized her by the arms, dragging her forward. She kicked, struggled, bit down on a hand hard enough to draw blood.
It did not matter. They tied her down. Then the knives came. Not to carve. Not to kill. But to flay. Thin strips of skin peeled from her arms, her back, her thighs. The pain was blinding, consuming, endless. Zahra bit her lip until it bled. She would not scream.
Soraya whispered a name. The name of her children.
Reza knew she would die. But not quickly. The orcs knelt before her, whispering prayers in their dark tongue. Then, one by one, they carved into their own flesh, letting their blood drip onto her head. A mockery of a blessing.
Then they brought the chains. They did not bind her hands or feet. They wrapped them around her throat. Then they tightened. Khargul stepped forward. He gazed upon his offerings.
His trophies. His sacrifices. Then, he raised his arms, and the orcs roared. The Pillars of Suffering had been fed. And the gods were watching.
As the final cries of the captives faded into the cavern's heavy air, a new sound emerged. A low, grinding groan. Like stone cracking beneath unfathomable weight.
Like something waking after an eternity of slumber. The central pillar—the tallest, blackened monolith that loomed over all others—shuddered. Crimson veins of molten light split through its surface, like a thing not carved from rock, but birthed from living flesh. The fissures pulsed, widened, deepened.
Then—it broke. Not shattered. Not collapsed. It… opened. A wound in the world, a shifting void of screaming shadow. From within, something moved. Something massive. Something ancient.
First came the hands. If they could be called hands. Six limbs, gnarled and elongated, jointed in unnatural ways. Each tipped with serrated talons, blacker than the abyss, slick with something that dripped and sizzled upon the stone below.
Then came the head. Or heads. A writhing mass of skull-like visages, shifting and overlapping, as though it could not decide what form to take. Some bore hollow, endless sockets. Others had eyes—too many, too bright, too knowing.
Then, the mouth. A great, gaping maw lined with spiraling fangs, spiraling deeper, deeper, deeper—into a darkness that was not just shadow, but hunger itself.
The orcs dropped to their knees. Even Khargul. Their warlord—their titan—bowed his head in reverence. For before them stood Khur'xan the Insatiable. God of Consumption. God of Endless Flesh. God of the Ashblood's Price.
The captives could not scream. Their throats had no sound left to give. But their eyes—Their eyes told the story of true horror. Khur'xan moved slowly. Not because it needed to. But because it wanted to.
It reached down, talons curling, lifting Baeric from his bindings as if he weighed nothing. Then, the jaws parted. Baeric vanished in one sickening snap. Bone crunched. Blood sprayed.
And Khur'xan sighed. Not in rage. Not in satisfaction. But in perpetual hunger. The next came swiftly. Rurik.
One claw impaled him through the chest, lifting him high, high—until Khur'xan's writhing jaws descended upon him, tearing him in halves.
The others struggled. They kicked, they thrashed, they pleaded—not to the orcs, but to any gods that might still listen. None did. One by one. They were devoured. Their blood ran like a river at the god's feet.
Until only Reza remained. The god paused. Its abyssal eyes turned toward her. A gaze that did not see her. But saw through her. Saw all she was. Saw all she could have been. And deemed it worthy not only for hunger. The talons closed.
Reza screamed. The sound echoed through the cavern. It did not stop. Not even after she was gone. Not even after Khur'xan turned, its grotesque form slipping back into the portal of cracked, shifting reality. Not even after the pillar sealed behind it, as if it had never been open at all.
The only proof left… Was blood. So much blood. The Ashblood orcs remained kneeling. Silent. Reverent. Until Khargul stood, turning to his warriors. His lips curled. A grin. "The gods are pleased."