The wastes of Dremghaal no longer howled alone.
From the deep-cracked ravines and frost-buried pits, from snow-laced caves and long-abandoned forts cloaked in ancient moss —they came.
Not men. Not beasts.
Orcs.
And not just any.
These were the clanborn — blood-marked leaders of the shattered tribes who once warred for scraps in the ashes of fallen kingdoms. Now, they marched beneath a single flame.
The banner of Rurgan.
Warlock. Prophet. The Rift-Split Eye.
It began in silence.
Rurgan stood upon a jagged altar of blackened ice, a spike of stone that jutted from the floor of an old fire-temple now frozen shut. The Eye of Skaadii pulsed at his chest, bound to his flesh with ritual spikes and iron wire. Veins of rot crept along his ribs like tree roots.
Behind him, a brazier of green flame roared despite the wind.It smelled of blood.And star-metal.
One by one, they approached.
The clan-chiefs.
Their feet cracked frost that had never before broken. Their eyes burned with old grudges.
They did not bow.
But they listened.
The first was Vrakk Spine-Crusher, Chief of the Grimgut Horde.A mountain of muscle and armor, his jaw broken and re-set so many times it looked like stone. His left eye glowed dim from an old skymetal wound.He wore a necklace made from dwarf-fingers — each still bearing its ring.
"We came because the Forge lives," he said, voice like an avalanche."If it breathes, we will break it. If it bleeds, we will drink it."
Rurgan did not answer.
He did not need to.
The Eye pulsed once —and Vrakk stepped back.
Next came Shaama the Pale-Fang, matriarch of the Hollow Brood.Her skin was death-grey, and her teeth filed to points. Tattoos of screaming moons and writhing chains wrapped her arms.She spoke in riddles, but her blades did not.She led orcs born of rot and cave-blood, whose howls drove wolves mad.
"You carry the hunger," she whispered to Rurgan, "but will you carry the weight when the Rift opens? Or will you be devoured like the rest?"
Rurgan smiled. Not with lips — but with presence.
Behind him, the flame turned blue.
Shaama grinned, wide and toothy.
"Good."
Then came the twins — Urum and Gruum.Born conjoined, split by fire.Now, they led the Ash Tongues, a nomadic clan of fire-walkers and corpse-eaters.One blind, one mute. Both killers.They said nothing. But they placed a broken dwarven helm at Rurgan's feet.
A gift.Or a warning.
Last to arrive was the one none thought would come:
Oggrazh the Black Howl — elder warchief of the Oath-Breakers, the largest splinter horde in the eastern continent.He was old — his tusks cracked, his mane white, his armor fused to his skin. But his presence silenced even Vrakk.
He looked at the Eye of Skaadii.
Then he looked at Rurgan.
"You seek to bind a god," he said.
Rurgan nodded.
"You will fail."
"I might," said Rurgan. "But I will not fail alone."
They stood in silence as the green flame towered higher.Above them, in the cracked ceiling of the frost-temple, the stars flickered.
Not as light.
But as eyes.
Rurgan spoke.
"The Forge breathes again. The dwarves call it rebirth. The elves call it danger. The humans call it myth."
He raised his staff. It burned with the Eye's pulse — red-black flame threading through its grain like veins.
"But we…"
He looked to the gathered warlords.
"...we call it home."
A pause.
"For when the Rift opens fully, and the old chains break, our kin will need a cradle. A sanctum. A tower of iron and fire through which they will pass."
Vrakk growled. "You speak of invasion."
Rurgan nodded.
"I speak of return."
A hush fell.
Then — laughter.
Low. Wicked.
Shaama cackled. "So the world ends at the hearth of dwarves. Poetic."
Oggrazh snarled. "No. The world begins again. The Rift is not death."
He looked toward the stars.
"It is birth."
Rurgan turned to them, his staff raised high.
"Then swear it. Here. In ash and ice."
"Swear that when the horn is blown and the Eye blinks wide, you will march not as tribes —"
The flame roared.
"—but as a single fire."
One by one, they stepped forward.
Vrakk cut his hand and smeared blood across the altar.
Shaama offered a bone, carved with runes and still warm.
The twins burned the dwarf helm where it lay.
And Oggrazh — he took a brand from the brazier, pressed it to his own chest, and screamed through gritted teeth as his skin split.
The mark of the Rift was accepted.
The pact was made.
And far beneath Druvadir, where the Forge still murmured in its sleep…the Wyrm stirred again.
Its flame coiled in confusion.Not fear.Not yet.
But it could feel the ground change.Not in stone.But in intention.