East of the Iron Hills, past the frost-bitten slopes and abandoned watchfires,where nothing grew and even ghosts were silent,the wastelands of Dremghaal lay white and frozen —a land forgotten, not by history,but by hope.
Here, even the sky dared not descend.
A figure moved through the storm —cloaked in grey, tall and patient, with long white hair that curled like smoke beneath the folds of his hood. His boots left no tracks. His presence stirred no wind.
But the land remembered him.
Not his face.Not his name.
Just the weight of his steps.Like truths best left buried.
They met where the cliffs split open to reveal the Hollow Crevasse — a yawning wound of black rock and broken bones, where ice dripped like blood and the wind whispered in forgotten tongues.
There, the orc waited.
Not one of the frenzied grunts that stormed cities for meat and plunder.No. This one watched.
Rurgan.Tall as a man but wider, cloaked in jagged fur and plated bones, adorned with fetishes that hissed and clicked when the cold wind passed.His skin was grey-green, veined with violet rot, and his eyes were pale—too pale, as if washed of memory.
He held a staff of twisted blackwood, crowned with a shard of stone that throbbed faintly in the storm.
He bowed.Not from reverence, but recognition.
"You are late," Rurgan rumbled, voice gravel and hate.
The figure in grey said nothing at first. Only looked. Then, from beneath his cloak, he unrolled a silken bundle bound in seals older than speech.
From within, he revealed a rune.
Not carved.Not drawn.
Burned.
It shimmered not with light, but with wrongness.A spiral of red veins across dark crystal — twitching, pulsing faintly, as if it breathed.
Rurgan hissed.
"The Eye… it is real."
The cloaked one nodded. "And it is hungry."
The orc warlock stepped closer. He reached for it —but the grey figure held it back.
"Careful. It sees all that holds form. And it binds what it sees."
Rurgan's grin stretched unnaturally wide. "Then let it see the Wyrm."
The Eye of Skaadii was not made of this world.It came through the Rift — not like the beasts that fed, but like a seed meant to take root.
It did not dominate.It did not devour.
It corrupted.
With every soul it marked, it rewrote them.Turned will into rot.Turned oath into leash.Turned flame into cage.
And now — it would be set upon the greatest flame ever known:
The Wyrm.
"But why now?" Rurgan asked, licking frost from his cracked tusks. "The dwarves have awoken their fire. Their king rallies. The Riftborn yet breathes. Why not strike before?"
The figure turned, slowly.
"Because the Riftborn must burn brighter before he is offered."
A pause.
"The Wyrm must resist before it kneels."
Rurgan frowned. "You mean to let the dwarves fight? Let their king rise?"
"No," said the cloaked one. "I mean to let them hope."
Rurgan barked a dry, wheezing laugh.
"And what of the Riftborn, then? He begins to awaken. I feel it. I see it in the fog. The Void plays with him."
The figure's tone sharpened."He must not be broken. He must be shaped. Nurtured in fire. Tempered by loss. Let him bleed, but let him breathe. For the Rift will need not a slave..."
His eyes flashed beneath the hood.
"...but a mirror."
Rurgan clutched the Eye now — its pulse threading into his flesh.
Already, his veins turned black.
Already, his staff whispered in new tongues.
Already… the snow around him began to melt.
He trembled, grinning like a man possessed.
"I will march on Druvadir. The orcs will rally. They already chant the dragon's scream in their camps. But now — they will follow the scream."
He raised the Eye.
"Let the fire of the Forge be bound."
The grey figure turned.
And vanished into the storm without a footprint.
Rurgan remained in the snow, staff crackling, veins splitting with rot and power, as the wind began to circle.
And far below — in the darkest corners of Druvadir —
the Wyrm felt a second leash begin to tighten.
And it did not know whether to fear it…
Or welcome it.