Chapter 31 – Rite of the Warlord
Ember 25, 2999 | 10:15 AM – Ironhowl Ceremonial Ring
The Ironhowl ceremonial ring pulsed with ancient magic and anticipation.
Shiro stood shirtless in the crimson clay arena, gold fangs gleaming under the sun, white dreads tied back into a primal tail. The crowd surrounding the ring—dozens of orcs, warriors, shamans, elders, and feral beasts—fell into a heavy silence as the shaman struck his bone staff to the ground three times.
A low thrum echoed.
"The Rite of the Warlord begins!" the shaman bellowed. "Grakka Ironhowl seeks a mate. The suitors must prove themselves through three trials—Strength, Cunning, and Combat. The final test… shall be of the Bond. Only the worthy shall walk away whole."
Grakka stood tall on the edge of the pit, eyes fierce. Her suitors flanked her:
Thrag the Boulder, shirtless with a boulder-sized maul slung over his back, eyes already bloodshot with fury.
Kelzan, the jade-tattooed warpriest with glowing prayer bands wrapped around his arms.
Ravik, a lean archer in light armor, bone piercings on his brow, a sentient longbow slung across his back, veins humming with wind enchantments.
Shiro cracked his knuckles and smirked. "Lotta bark out here. Let's see who can bite."
Grakka's father, Chief Brokk Stonecleaver, stepped forward from his stone throne overlooking the ring. He slammed his axe into the ground, voice booming:
"Let these trials be done with fire, pain, and truth. And may no outsider leave unscathed."
Trial One: Strength of Arm
The clay pit trembled.
Stone rose from the earth—four battle-forged golems, each over ten feet tall, etched with war runes. Their fists crackled with volcanic pressure, and their eyes burned with primal fire.
"This wasn't the number agreed," the shaman hissed toward Brokk.
Brokk smirked. "They say they want a warlord. Let's see them fight like one."
Grakka narrowed her eyes at her father, but said nothing.
Kelzan went first. The warpriest chanted in orcish, his jade tattoos glowing as spectral wolves coiled around his arms. He clashed with two golems at once, dodging wide strikes and shattering arms with spirit-infused punches. He held on for a minute—until the third golem shoulder-charged him into the wall.
He coughed blood, wiped his mouth, and staggered back. "Survived. Barely."
Thrag grinned. "My turn."
With a snarl, he charged in. His maul crushed the first golem's head like a melon. He tanked a hit from the second, laughing through cracked ribs, then brought the maul down like thunder. But the third golem grabbed him mid-swing and hurled him across the ring. He stood dazed, growling. "They cheat."
Ravik entered silently. He drew his bow—"Whisperwind"—and loosed arrow after arrow, each glowing mid-flight. He danced on the edge of the ring, targeting joints and cores. Two golems crumbled under surgical strikes, but the third rushed too fast, and he rolled away too late. The golem clipped his leg, and the archer hissed, retreating with a limp.
Then came Shiro.
The crowd hushed.
He entered the ring slow, the air around him shifting. His Primal aura rose like heat from stone—wild, untamed, electric.
The golems charged.
He met them with a beast's grin.
He ducked under a haymaker, lunged forward, and tore out the first golem's rune-core with his bare hands. Stone exploded.
The second swung. Shiro rolled, vaulted off its arm, and landed on the third's back—slamming his elbow into its neck until its spine crumbled.
The final golem tried to grab him. Shiro let it.
Then headbutted it so hard it collapsed.
Silence.
Then thunderous cheering.
Even Grakka's mom stood up fanning herself. "Whew! That boy fights like a goddamn prophecy."
Brokk muttered, "We'll see if he lasts the next one."
Trial Two: Cunning of the Hunt
The arena warped into a living maze of roots, mist, and illusion—a shamanic projection over real terrain. Somewhere within, a spectral wolf danced between shadows, testing the instinct of the hunters.
Ravik went first. He vanished into the fog, arrows at the ready. His sharp eyes tracked the beast well, even shooting through false images. But a mirrored trap rebounded one of his own arrows, clipping his shoulder. He gritted through it and exited the trial, breathing hard.
Kelzan moved with caution, using spirit magic to sense false trails. He almost found the wolf—but mist illusions warped him in loops. In frustration, he roared and dispelled the maze around him. Disqualified.
Thrag stomped forward. "I don't hunt. I crush."
And he did—tearing through roots and illusions alike. But the wolf toyed with him, phasing through strikes. In his rage, Thrag struck a shaman statue—triggering a backlash spell that knocked him cold. Out.
Shiro's turn.
He crouched low, eyes gleaming gold, nostrils flaring.
He didn't chase the wolf—he anticipated it. He stalked it like an apex predator, crawling along the walls, flipping over thorn traps, sniffing the subtle trace of blood and ether.
He vanished into the fog—
Then emerged from above—tackling the spectral wolf midair, slamming it to the ground.
The crowd gasped as the maze shattered.
Shiro stood in the clearing, the wolf beneath him fading into sparks.
Trial Three: Combat of Worth
Chief Brokk stepped up, voice sharp. "Final combat. All suitors. At once. You say you're worthy of her—fight like you mean it."
The arena was cleared. No illusions. Just blood, dirt, and flame.
Kelzan, Ravik, and Thrag stepped in.
So did Shiro.
The bell rang.
Thrag charged first, maul swinging like a wrecking ball. Shiro ducked, landed a kick to the knee that made the big orc stumble.
Kelzan called down a spirit ward, launching jade spikes at Shiro's back—only for Rena's enchantment token to block it mid-air.
Lena, seated nearby, sipped wine. "Told you. He's not alone."
Shiro used Thrag's stumbling weight, grabbing his arm and hurling him toward Kelzan. They collided in a mess of limbs and curses.
Ravik loosed an enchanted arrow—Shiro caught it mid-flight and snapped it between his teeth.
Then blurred forward—a flash of claws, muscle, and fury—and cracked the archer's bow arm with a brutal elbow.
One by one, he dismantled them.
In minutes, all three suitors lay on the clay, bruised and broken.
The crowd was silent… then howled in approval.
Final Trial: Bond of Blood
The shaman stepped forward, holding a ceremonial dagger.
"Shiro Connelly. Grakka Ironhowl. Approach."
They stepped to the center.
The blade sliced shallow lines across both palms. They gripped hands. Blood met blood.
Auras surged.
His wild primal force met her thunderstorm core.
There was no clash.
There was fusion.
The ring of obsidian stones ignited. Flame coiled skyward. The wind howled.
Their eyes locked. Their bodies trembled—but in sync. Power danced between them, neither overwhelmed.
The entire ring pulsed with shared power.
When the surge faded, their hands were still locked.
Their bond was sealed.
Grakka pulled him close, fangs grazing his jaw. "You survived."
Shiro grinned. "Nah. I conquered."
The shaman raised his staff. "The Rite is complete! The Warlord has chosen!"
Grakka turned to the crowd, lifting Shiro's hand.
"My mate."
Cheers erupted.
Brokk growled in defeat, but his wife leaned in. "Told you. He got bite."
Grakka smirked at Shiro.
"Tonight… you learn what it means to be mine."
Shiro chuckled, still bloodied and proud.
"Bet."