Chapter One / Part Two
Lost Souls
The mountainous region of Gralastrar had long been a place of exile for the Orcish people. Once, it had served as a barren refuge for those cast out by their kin. Over the ages, the concept of exile shifted, yet the mountains remained a sanctuary for those seeking solitude. After the Demon War, many Orcs chose to retreat into its unpopulated peaks, yearning for silence and distance from their haunted past.
On one frost-covered mountaintop, an Orc emerged from a small hovel. The pale light of morning reflected off a crystalline layer of frost, casting a cold glow over the rugged landscape. He walked a short distance to the edge of a cliff, where the mountains spread out before him like ancient sentinels.
Kneeling on the frozen ground, Hargrosh pressed his forehead to the earth and began his morning prayers. While many of his people had abandoned their gods, fearing that devotion might inadvertently empower the demonic forces they once served, Hargrosh clung to the old ways.
Before the Demon War, the Orcs had worshipped gods of battle, seeking protection and strength in their favor. Hargrosh believed that their enslavement by the demon lords was not due to the gods themselves, but the corruption of their teachings. The modern world viewed those ancient beliefs as dangerous or naïve, but Hargrosh remained steadfast. The Old Texts taught him how to worship, not whom to worship, and he held to the belief that true gods still granted strength to those who sought it with devotion and discipline.
Yet the battles Hargrosh now fought were not on a battlefield. His fiercest adversaries were his regrets, his near-triumphs and failures haunting him like specters. Victory in this theatre of war would bring no glory, only reconciliation for the haggard Orc.
When his prayers were complete, Hargrosh sat back on his heels, breathing deeply as his gaze swept across the peaks. Eight centuries had passed since Xelidan, the demonic sovereign of Destgrar, had been slain. Though the demon’s death had marked the beginning of the end for their armies, the final battles raged in the west for weeks until the cataclysmic confrontation in which Kalgrath Hasgram drove the last remnants of the demons into the otherworldly realm of Nutalsh, bringing an end to the war. The last demonic portal closed in a fiery implosion, shaking the earth and leaving a blackened scar where it once stood. Kalgrath, mortally wounded and surrounded by the corpses of both his enemies and his kin, stood unyielding as the forces of Nutalsh were sealed away.
Kalgrath Hasgram emerged as the hero of legend, his name etched into history as the savior who sealed the fate of the demon lords. Songs were sung of his bravery, and his fame became the cornerstone of Orcish pride. Yet, it was Golgrim Hellfire’s sacrifice that truly shattered the chains of their enslavement. While Kalgrath’s final act ended the war, it was Golgrim who led the rebellion that made victory possible, giving his life to ignite the spark of freedom. Both Orcs, bound by their unwavering resolve, fell before they could witness the fruits of their labor, their sacrifices ensuring a future they would never see.
Hargrosh rose, brushing the frost from his knees, and turned back toward his dwelling. He paused mid-step, his body tensing as the rhythmic sound of feet reached his ears. Moving to the edge of the cliff, he peered downward.
A group of Orcs moved slowly along the distant ridge, their figures stark against the muted landscape. Hargrosh’s brow furrowed. He had seen lone wanderers in the valleys below, but never groups. Though their number was less than half a dozen, the sight of them unsettled him. Their path would lead them directly to his dwelling.
The sight stirred a familiar ache in his chest—a pang of guilt that had never truly left him. He had survived the war that claimed so many of his kin, including those greater and worthier than himself. Kalgrath, Golgrim, and countless others had perished for the Orcish future, while he lived on, a relic of the past, haunted by the weight of their absence. The faint echoes of their voices still lingered in his mind, whispers of battles fought and lives lost.
Now, as the figures below moved steadily along the ridge, the tightening in his throat returned, a gnawing question resurfacing in his mind: Why them and not me? His hand curled into a fist as he watched their approach, his unease growing with each passing moment. Solitude had been his refuge here, far from the burdens of the world and the memories that refused to fade.
But even here, it seemed, the past had found him.
Hargrosh retreated into his hovel, emerging moments later with a small handaxe. Though its intended use was as a cutting tool, in an Orc’s hands, anything could serve as a weapon. Standing in plain view, Hargrosh gripped the axe loosely and waited.
The travelers continued at a steady pace until one of them—a tall Orc clad in light brown leathers—broke away from the group and approached alone. The stranger’s hands were raised, palms up, signaling peace.
“Who approaches?” Hargrosh called, his voice carrying over the frosty wind.
The words were not meant as a challenge, though they hung in the air with an edge of caution.
The stranger stopped a short distance away, lowering his hands. Hargrosh noted the Orc was unarmed. Two walking sticks lay across his back. Feeling a flicker of embarrassment, Hargrosh tossed his handaxe aside and stepped forward.
“Hargrosh,” the stranger said with a broad smile. “I am honored.”
Hargrosh studied him warily. “And you are?”
“Thalrish. I have searched for you.”
“You have found me,” Hargrosh replied simply.
“May we speak inside?” Thalrish asked, his smile unwavering.
After a moment of hesitation, Hargrosh relented, gesturing toward his dwelling.
The hovel was modest, open to the mountain air. Inside, it was sparse but orderly, with enough room for two Orcs to sit across from one another. Thalrish noted a few well-worn stone tools and a few pieces of pottery.
“I fear I will make a poor host,” Hargrosh said as they sat.
“I am grateful for your tolerance, Hargrosh. I am an intruder here.”
“You intrude upon nothing.”
Thalrish inclined his head respectfully. “I will be blunt, brother. I have come to request your service.”
“As I suspected,” Hargrosh said, his tone neutral. “You are a chieftain, then? A king?”
“I serve as Highlord of the Orcish nation of Hasgram. My actions are bound by laws and councils. I am an ambassador and a promoter of peace across Destgrar.”
Hargrosh raised a brow, impressed. “If that is true, then I am honored to meet you.”
“I am a servant, Hargrosh. The people of Hasgram are my masters. I own nothing but myself. In truth, I live much like you do here,” Thalrish replied, gesturing to the simple surroundings.
Hargrosh hesitated, then asked, “In what capacity would I serve?”
“You were a great leader during the rebellion, second only to Golgrim Hellfire. I seek your counsel on national security and military matters,” Thalrish said.
“Is such advice still needed?” Hargrosh asked, frowning.
“Not as it once was, but concerns for Hasgram’s safety, its citizens, and its allies remain,” Thalrish admitted. “But there is more you can tell me.”
Hargrosh’s eyes narrowed.
“I know you were one of the few Orcs at Al’thurak when Golgrim… when he gave his life.”
“Do they still fear to tell that tale?” Hargrosh’s voice was thick with resentment.
“It is a hard tale to tell,” Thalrish admitted.
Hargrosh’s gaze did not waver. After a long silence, he began, his voice low and steady.
800 Years Ago
Hargrosh stooped and picked up the discarded axe lying on the chamber floor. It had been wrenched from his grasp during his desperate struggle with a demonic foe, forcing him to rely on his short blade, now darkened with black demon blood up to the pommel.
Turning the axe over in his hands, Hargrosh examined it with a heavy gaze. In ancient Orcish lore, the axe symbolized the warrior's soul—a tool of both destruction and honor. He wondered if this victory over the demon overlord had finally reclaimed their stolen souls or if the weight of their servitude lingered still, invisible but unbroken.
The Damned Chamber surrounded him in oppressive silence. Once a proud hall, it now bore the scars of a brutal confrontation. Its walls were smeared with gore, weapons scattered among the lifeless forms of Orcs and demons alike. At its center lay the mutilated corpse of Xelidan, Lord of Destgrar, the demon lord who had enslaved them. His grotesque, twisted body seemed more heap than being, yet even in death, his presence cast a shadow over the room.
Hargrosh turned his gaze to Golgrim Hellfire, standing near the demon’s remains. The general’s hammer hung loosely at his side, its once-polished surface streaked with the filth of war. Golgrim’s face, spattered with blood and grime, bore an expression Hargrosh had never seen before—a hollow emptiness that made his stomach twist.
“It is done, brother?” Golgrim’s voice was barely more than a whisper.
Hargrosh hesitated, the words catching in his throat. “Yes… sir,” he said finally, though the uncertainty in his voice betrayed him.
Golgrim’s eyes dropped back to Xelidan’s corpse. “Then why?” he murmured, the question directed at no one in particular.
Hargrosh had no answer. Before he could attempt one, the sound of footsteps drew their attention. A lone Orc entered the chamber, a messenger’s satchel slung across his shoulder. Hargrosh cast a wary glance at the newcomer before placing a steadying hand on Golgrim’s shoulder.
“We needn’t stay here and dwell upon a dead demon. Kalgrath still fights—”
He broke off as the messenger bowed and addressed them. “General, I bring word from Lady Merintha. She awaits outside the stronghold’s walls and insists no one disturb the demon lord’s body until she arrives.”
Golgrim nodded slowly. Hargrosh, frowning, pressed, “The battle is over. Let her tie up any loose ends here.”
Golgrim’s tone was final. “I would hear her counsel before we leave.”
Hargrosh bit back his frustration and bowed his head, though unease churned in his chest. His muscles tensed, his breathing quickened—the unmistakable fight-or-flight rush of battle surged through him. Yet the battle was over. Orcish physiology was designed to suppress such responses almost immediately after combat ceased. Why, then, did he feel this lingering sense of dread? It gnawed at him, as though his body knew something his mind could not yet comprehend.
When Lady Merintha Dark-Storm entered the chamber, her presence was commanding. Her silver mantle gleamed against the deep black of her flowing cloak, and an obsidian circlet adorned her brow—a mark of her former station as an advisor to the demon lords. Many seers had served their masters faithfully into the war’s darkest days, but Merintha had turned against them, aiding Golgrim in the rebellion.
She let her gaze pass over the demon’s slain body, a brief glimmer of triumph in her eyes before they darkened and rested upon Golgrim, “General.” came her muted greeting.
“My lady,” Golgrim hailed her, a hint of relief in his voice.
“General, I bring dire news,” Merintha said, her eyes flicking briefly to Xelidan’s mangled corpse. “We must speak.”
Golgrim looked to Hargrosh, who withdrew to give them privacy. He moved about the chamber, tending to the wounded and unscathed alike. Yet both groups seemed equally ill at ease, their agitation mirrored in his own. The air hung heavy with the remnants of demonic magic, seeping into the minds of the victors and refusing to release them.
“Hargrosh!” Golgrim’s sharp call cut through his thoughts.
He returned swiftly to find Golgrim grim-faced and Merintha contemplative.
“Tell him what you told me,” Golgrim instructed.
Merintha turned to Hargrosh. “The demons’ magic is not entirely broken. While many of us have resisted its pull, some Orcs remain enslaved, and even those who fought against the demons suffer from mental unrest. I believe the source of this magic lies not in the demon lords themselves but in a device—the Soul-Stone in Xelidan’s possession.” Her eyes fixed on the jagged, pulsating stone embedded in the demon’s skull.
Hargrosh followed her gaze, his lips curling into a sneer. “Then we tear it out and shatter it.”
Golgrim shook his head. “It’s not that simple. We don’t understand enough about the demons’ technology. For all we know, the same magic that binds us may also be sustaining us.”
Hargrosh’s fists clenched. “Then how will we be free?”
“Through sacrifice,” Merintha whispered, her voice like a blade cutting through the stillness.
Hargrosh recoiled as the weight of her words pressed down on him. “Sacrifice? Sacrifice what?”
Merintha’s gaze seemed distant, as if she were seeing something beyond the chamber’s walls. “Someone must take Xelidan’s place. Someone who loves our people enough to wield this magic without turning it against us.”
Hargrosh’s heart sank as realization dawned. His voice rose, shaking with anger. “No! This cannot be the way!”
Golgrim stepped forward, his face stern but calm. “This is what I bled for, Hargrosh. Our freedom lies here.” He jabbed a finger at the jagged stone.
Hargrosh stumbled back, his mind spinning. Memories of battles fought and visions of a future free of demons filled his thoughts, all of them tied to Golgrim’s presence. The idea of a world without him was unthinkable.
Golgrim stepped closer and embraced him. “You think you need me, but you don’t. This is a comfort born in war, brother. They will have no need of me anymore, and neither will you.”
As Golgrim stepped back, Hargrosh heard the words his friend had often spoken: “I will not be your king or your hero. I am a standard, to be folded away when the war is done.”
Golgrim knelt beside Xelidan’s corpse and reached for the Soul-Stone. His fingers brushed its jagged edges as he pulled it free. Holding it in his hand, he sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping. A rueful smile crossed his lips as he raised the stone and drove it into his own forehead.
The chamber erupted in light, and when it faded, Golgrim Hellfire was no more.
It had grown somber within Hargrosh's small dwelling. Thalrish sat quietly, his gaze fixed on the older Orc, though it was clear his mind was elsewhere, piecing together the story in vivid detail.
“They say he went mad,” Thalrish remarked softly, breaking the silence.
Hargrosh met the Highlord's gaze, his expression shadowed, and nodded. “Lady Merintha Dark-Storm was prepared. She subdued him through psychic means before the Soul-Stone’s influence could consume him entirely. Afterward, we took him below the stronghold and sealed him within the Crypt of Gloom, a labyrinthine dungeon-prison. Merintha believed it would hold him until… until he could return to us.”
Thalrish said nothing, waiting as Hargrosh’s words lingered heavily in the air. Hargrosh’s lips pressed into a thin line, signaling that the tale was finished, “I think she knew, even then, that he would never leave that accursed stronghold.”
“It’s a wonder he survived the ordeal at all,” Thalrish murmured.
“Survived,” Hargrosh echoed, the word hollow in his mouth. “The Guild of Seers called him a catalyst… the key to the whole event. But I don’t know. I truly don’t.”
“The Guild still sends me reports on his status,” Thalrish offered quietly. “He remains in a volatile state.”
Hargrosh nodded slowly, his gaze distant. “His fate was different, you know,” he said after a pause. “Different from the other heroes of his time. His sacrifice was made once, but it is re-made every single day.”
“You’re right,” Thalrish replied, his voice thick with emotion. “We are preserved because of his courage. We live because he cannot.” He leaned forward slightly, his words deliberate. “If an Orc can accomplish so much locked away in a prison, I can only wonder what one might achieve away from this mountain.”
Hargrosh broke eye contact with the Highlord and let his gaze wander around his humble abode, as if seeing it for the first time. The small room seemed to shrink under the weight of Thalrish’s words. After a long moment, he exhaled deeply through his nostrils, a faint, weary smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
He nodded, his decision made. “I will go with you,” he said simply.
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