Morwyn Hollow
"My Lord, a message has arrived from Kael'Moruun," Cazrek announced as he stepped in, holding a tiny rolled parchment in his hand.
Morwyn Hollow.
The coward kingdom of the southwest.
That was the name the world gave them-not out of hatred, but out of pity. A name carved by years of humiliation and helplessness. Once, it had tried to be more, but it never stood a chance. The kingdom had always been poor, powerless, and miserable. A place forgotten in the grand tales of kings and glory. Nothing about Morwyn Hollow was proud or boastful.
Now, it was barely a kingdom at all.
Three buildings remained, just three. The first, a crumbling storage that held what little supplies they still had. The second, shelter for what was left of their army-4,000 soldiers packed within failing walls. And the third, the former king's seat-once a place of rule, now just a room of stone and shadow.
Varnok Thalkir had ruled over Morwyn Hollow for six long years before he gave up his crown. Not out of honor, but for survival. When the shadows rose, he handed over his kingship to them and became something lesser-a Lord in name only. No more council. No more followers. Just him and the soldiers who hadn't abandoned the ruins yet.
Varnok took the parchment from Cazrek and unfurled it slowly. The letters glowed like flames, deep red, burning with the heat of blood. The message was short. One word.
"Dunwick."
"I believe our next quest is Dunwick," Varnok said coldly, tossing the parchment into the flame beside him. It curled and withered into ash instantly.
He stepped over to the map on the stone table, picked up a small silver sword piece, and pinned it straight through Dunwick's name.
"My Lord, Dunwick has long been one of our closest and only Allies," Cazrek said, eyes fixed on the map. "They never looked down on us. They supported our people when no one else did. What will they make of this war? What message does it send?"
Varnok didn't blink. "They won't be alive to make anything of it."
He reached for a tiny wooden stallion and placed it along the border of Skornvale and Dunwick.
"But what if we fail?" Cazrek asked.
"Fail?" Varnok chuckled darkly. "If it were years ago, you'd be right to ask. But since the Ascension of our king, how many battles have we fought?"
"Four," Cazrek replied.
"And how many have we lost?"
"None."
Varnok smiled and pushed a tiny knight piece off Dunwick with his finger. It clattered against the stone.
"There's your answer."
"I understand now, my Lord," Cazrek said. His voice lowered, bitterness building. "For years, we were the dirt beneath their feet. Any kingdom could walk in, steal what they wanted, and leave. We were helpless. Humiliated."
"Exactly," Varnok said. "But not anymore."
He stepped toward the wall where his sword rested on its old wooden stand, one of the few relics left untouched. He reached for it, but Cazrek's voice stopped him.
"Killing our enemies, I understand... that's justice, that's vengeance. But killing our friends?"
Varnok turned slowly. "It's not an easy choice, Cazrek. I know that."
"You made it rather easily."
"As a matter of fact, I did," Varnok replied, locking eyes with him. "Because I've learned something... something every kingdom in this broken realm will soon learn."
He paused.
"None of it matters if you're dead. Not honor. Not friendship. Not loyalty. None of it."
He tightened his grip around the hilt of the sword.
"What's the use of having friends or enemies if you're buried six feet in the ground? To have them write songs about us? Sing tales of our foolish nobility while we rot?"
He scoffed.
"I'd rather roll in my grave than hear a song like that."
Cazrek stared at his Lord-once a king, now a man shaped by shadows-and said nothing.
They both chuckled after a moment. But the fire beside them hissed louder than before.
Varnok picked up his sword, sheathed it, and tied it around his girth before turning to Cazrek.
"Ardenvale. Grimhold. Gryndhall. Drosmire. Ashreth." He paused, each name heavy with memory. "These kingdoms no longer exist. And do you know why?" His voice dropped to a low hush. "Because these things killed them."
"Not a single person left alive. These were kingdoms that once made us cower, forced us to hide behind our crumbling walls. But they couldn't even put up a fight. What chance do you think we had?"
He paused momentarily, letting the words settle.
"You see, Cazrek... it is wise not to start a war you know you'll lose."
"I understand you, my Lord," Cazrek replied calmly. "Nothing has ever delighted me more than putting a sword through the heart of our enemies. I was only thinking... if they're asking us to kill our friends now, what will they ask of us tomorrow? Who knows, maybe one day, they'll ask us to kill ourselves."
He kept his face still, expression unreadable. But deep inside, the thoughts haunted him daily. They had become the very monsters they once feared. And now, even that wasn't enough, they were being told to slaughter the only people who had shown them kindness. Friends.
Cazrek had survived wars. He had buried comrades. But this? This he wouldn't survive. Not the betrayal. Not the guilt. Not the eyes of the people he would cut down-eyes that once looked up to him with trust.
"You're overthinking this, Cazrek," Varnok said, now leaning on the map table, deep in thought. "We don't have a choice. It's them or us. No one stands a chance against these things. You know it."
"If we fail to carry this out, they'll come for us next. Then they'll go after Dunwick anyway. And we'd have died for nothing."
He exhaled slowly.
"Let's keep what they've given us. Our lives. And this wretched place."
"Fine. Let's go on to Dunwick," Cazrek said. They both grinned.
"After Dunwick... one more kingdom," Cazrek added, his voice lighter, easing the tension. "And we'll be competing with the master for number of kills."
"I hope they eventually end up winning," Varnok muttered.
"What's it going to be called? Monster Championship?" Cazrek said with a chuckle. Varnok joined in the laughter.
"We're not monsters, Cazrek," Varnok said after a pause-reluctantly, almost like he was trying to convince himself.
"Oh, but we are," Cazrek replied, his smile fading. "I just don't know which one of us is the bigger monster. Me or you?" he asked rhetorically, his smile fading away from his face.
"We are all monsters, just different kind of monsters," he added quietly, then turned and sank into the nearby chair.
"And what kind are you?" Varnok asked.
Cazrek grew quiet. The guilt weighed on him all over again. He lowered his head.
"The kind who killed mothers and their children... who watched them beg me to spare their lives." His voice trembled slightly. "Their eyes....gods, their eyes, they told stories of betrayal. Pain. From a man they once adored. A man they sang songs about."
He paused.
"The kind who plunged his sword through innocent children. I still hear them scream when I close my eyes. I hear them now. I see their faces. Their tears. I still hear their voices begging for mercy... begging for a quicker death. I can still feel their blood on my skin."
Tears shimmered in his eyes.
"That moment... I lost whatever humanity I had left. I became a monster that day."
Varnok stared at him quietly, then asked in a solemn tone, "And what kind of monster do you think I am?"
"I don't know, my Lord," Cazrek replied, voice subdued. "But when you close your eyes at night-alone in your room-when you're not a Lord, not a leader... just a man... and you look in the mirror... what kind of monster do you see? What voices do you hear?"
Silence.
The question lingered in the air, heavy and cold.
"We did it to survive," Varnok said finally.
"I killed hundreds to save one life. My life."
"And thanks to that, you're still breathing. That's what Dunwick is all about. Saving ourselves, one more time."
"I hope death finds me in Dunwick," Cazrek muttered.
Varnok pushed away from the table.
"Have everything prepared. We march in a fortnight. Send some of the scouts ahead to Dunwick."
"Yes, my Lord," Cazrek said, rising slowly to his feet as Varnok left the room.
************************************
The Next Day
Evening descended upon Morwyn Hollow like a mourning veil. The air buzzed with frantic movement-soldiers darting across the ruined grounds, clutching spears, dragging crates of armor, sharpening blades. The broken kingdom stirred with unusual purpose. Among them strode Varnok and Cazrek, cutting through the tide of urgency, heading for the crumbling stronghold that once served as a palace.
Then, suddenly-stillness.
The clanging ceased. Footsteps halted mid-stride. A heavy silence fell, unnatural and complete. It was as though time itself had forgotten how to move.
And then came the mist.
Dark. Crawling. Alive. It rolled over the camp like spilled ink, swallowing light, suffocating breath. The soldiers knew. Cazrek knew. Varnok knew.
Kael'Moruun was here.
Without needing command, every man fell to his knees. Heads bowed. Faces pressed to earth. No one dared raise their eyes. Not even the wind stirred.
The mist thickened, and through it moved a shape-hooded, robed in shadow, gliding like it belonged to death itself. As it passed, the mist parted before it like a sea before a god.
It stopped beside Varnok and Cazrek.
"Rise," the figure said. The voice was like steel scraped against bone-cold, sharp, and final.
They rose slowly. The mist melted away.
"Lord," Varnok spoke, his voice low and brittle, "we received your message. Preparations are underway. We march in three days."
The figure turned toward him, then spoke, voice ringing like an old curse:
"Thalira. Find her. Kill her."
It turned to Cazrek next. Though the air was warm, a chill coiled around his heart.
"You question our master's will?"
"N-no, Lord... I would never," Cazrek stammered.
"The Masters," the figure rasped, "they hear all. They see all. For your loyal service, the Master grants you your request."
Cazrek blinked. "What... request?"
"Your wish to die at Dunwick."
The words struck like a spear to the chest. He was stunned, unable to respond.
Then came the sentence.
"Burn him."
The world tilted. No one moved. No one breathed. Yet no voice rose to protest. Not one.
All eyes turned to Varnok. His heart thudded, but he knew the choice. Disobey and die, or obey and live.
Cazrek turned to him. Hoping. Perhaps Varnok would refuse. Perhaps he would look away. Perhaps he'd show some remorse.
But he didn't.
And in that moment, Cazrek's expression shifted-he wore the same look those children had before they died. Pain. Betrayal.
"Build a stake," Varnok commanded, his voice low.
The soldiers obeyed without hesitation. A wooden post was raised. Ropes bound Cazrek to it. The execution came together like a rehearsed ritual. Varnok stepped forward with the torch.
The flame danced in his hand.
He lit the base.
Cazrek's eyes never left his. For a moment, he simply stared. Then, through the flicker of fire, he smiled.
A single tear slid down his cheek.
"Thank you," he whispered, closing his eyes.
The flames rose.
His screams tore through the hollow air-and then, silence reclaimed the ruins.
The robed figure stepped forward and handed Varnok a scroll.
"The Master sends this."
Varnok took it, fingers trembling.
"Dunwick will be your final conquest," it said. "There will be no more fire, no more death..."
It paused, the air thick with meaning.
"...for the heir has returned. And now, the wheel of time spins."