Far to the east, where the jagged peaks of the Icy Mountains clawed at the sky, two colossal giants waged a brutal battle for dominance. Each of them towered as high as the mountains themselves, their massive forms shaking the earth with every thunderous strike. Their roars echoed through the valleys, splitting the air like a raging storm. Stone crumbled, glaciers splintered, and entire ridges collapsed beneath their feet as they fought — not just for strength, but for the right to rule the frozen expanse.
Amid the chaos, a figure descended from the sky. His armour gleamed despite the grey, snow-choked clouds swirling around him, the wind tugging at his dark cloak. A crooked grin played across his face as he watched the giants tear into each other like feral beasts.
He landed with a deafening crash, flattening an entire mountain beneath him as though it were nothing more than a mound of dirt. The impact sent a shockwave through the battlefield, silencing the giants for the first time. Both titans turned, their massive heads swivelling toward the intruder, eyes burning with fury and confusion.
The man stood unfazed, his eyes flickering with amusement.
He wasn't just anyone. He was Thragmor — a member of the Council, a figure whispered about in fear and reverence across all the realms.
And he hadn't come to watch. He had come to decide.
he gripped his hammer which is a celestial weapon crafted in the forge of Empyrean, where the Omni-Gods existed, the hammer used to be wielded by Lunariath in the great war.
"Time to put an end to this meaningless squabble" Thragmor spoke his voice deep and almost rumbling like thunder.
both the giants look at him, "who the hell are you" one asks.
Thragmor grips his hammer tighter as he focuses his gaze on the one who asked him the question, "you two are really annoying with all that fighting, so to answer your question I am the man who came to kill both of you" thragmor said as he jumped towards them his hammer in his hand, his grin widened.
Deep in the heart of the Orc Kingdom, within the towering black fortress of Grom'Khal, the Orc King sat upon his throne—a monstrous construct of gleaming gold and the skulls of fallen enemies. His crimson eyes burned with the fire of conquest as he overlooked the massive courtyard below.
Hundreds of warrior orcs stood ready, their hulking forms clad in armor forged from the bones of ancient beasts. These were not ordinary warriors; they were High-Tier Orcs, beings of immense power, each capable of warping reality with a mere thought. Most wielded their gifts in predictable ways—summoning weapons and armor, shifting the battlefield to their advantage, or snuffing out life with a gesture. But among them were the rarest and most feared, orcs whose imaginations stretched beyond the limits of comprehension. They could blot out the sun with a flick of their wrist, shatter moons as if they were glass, or banish enemies to the void between dimensions.
And above them all, reigning supreme, sat the Orc King—stronger, wiser, his mind an endless abyss of creation and destruction.
The heavy clang of armored boots echoed through the throne room. One of the king's knights approached and dropped to one knee, fist pressed to the stone floor.
"We are ready, Your Majesty. On your command, we march." His voice was steady, unwavering.
The Orc King leaned forward slightly, his massive fingers gripping the arms of his throne. His deep, rumbling voice carried the weight of an earthquake.
"Good," he said. "Have them take position. We attack at sundown."
The knight bowed his head before rising to his feet. Without another word, he turned and strode out, his steps brisk with purpose.
The Orc King exhaled slowly, his gaze shifting toward the horizon. Soon, the greatest kingdom in the world would tremble beneath his army's might.
Beyond the towering walls of humanity's greatest kingdom, nestled in the countryside, a lone farmer tended to his animals. The air was crisp, carrying the familiar scent of damp soil and hay, yet something felt… wrong.
As he moved through his small farm, observing the cows, pigs, and sheep, a frown creased his weathered face. Their movements were sluggish, their bodies frail. A sense of unease curled in his gut.
"This isn't right," he murmured, stepping closer.
The moment he approached, the animals reacted—agitated, their usual docile nature replaced by something wilder, something unnatural. The cows trembled, their eyes flickering with something he couldn't place. The pigs shuffled in circles, snapping at each other. Even the sheep, the gentlest creatures on his farm, shuddered with a strange, restless energy.
"What's gotten into you?" the farmer muttered, crouching beside the last sheep. He placed a firm hand on its wool, feeling the rapid rise and fall of its breath. Its body was feverish, its muscles tense beneath his touch.
But no wounds. No visible illness. Nothing that explained this madness.
Then, a dreadful realization crept over him like a shadow at dusk. He had seen this before. Long ago.
His breath hitched. His hands trembled.
"No… It can't be."
Panic surged through his veins as he stumbled to his feet, bolting toward his carriage. He needed to get to the kingdom—needed to warn the king before it was too late.
But as he reached his horses, his stomach dropped.
They stood motionless, their bodies eerily still. Their eyes stared blankly ahead, unseeing.
Dead.
"No," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the rising wind. "It's worse than I thought."
The farmer turned, legs burning as he sprinted down the road, his only thought hammering against his skull, I have to tell the king.
Zyrenith's gaze was distant, fixed on the horizon beyond the mountains. "I've seen the future," she said at last, her voice like tempered steel. "The kingdom of Aureliath will fall—burned to ruin by the Orc King's hand."
In the shadow of the mighty Ebon Spire, within the heart of the Valdyros Imperium—a kingdom that stood beside the greatest kingdom of the age—two figures lingered in the high council chamber. Cloaked in hushed voices and sharper minds, Councillors Zyrenith and Valebane stood facing one another, deep in conversation.
Valebane stiffened, arms folding defensively across his chest. "Then send someone else. There are five other members on this council besides us. Any one of them would jump at the chance to aid the greatest kingdom in the realm."
She turned to face him fully, her expression sharp with irritation. "And that's exactly why it has to be you."
He frowned. "That doesn't make any sense."
"You're the newest member," she said, stepping closer, her eyes fierce. "You've yet to prove yourself beyond these halls. If you go to Aureliath and help turn the tide, the world will see what kind of power Valdyros has placed its faith in."
Valebane looked away, jaw clenched. "Still seems like a suicide mission, if your vision's true."
"Do you think I'd send you if I didn't believe you could survive it?" Zyrenith's voice softened, but her conviction didn't waver. "I'm not asking you to go as a sacrifice. I'm asking because you're capable. Because they need you."
He opened his mouth to argue again, but she cut him off with a wave of her hand.
"No buts," she said, more gently this time. She stepped back, letting the tension between them settle. "Just go."
Her eyes met his, and the edge in her voice faded. "Do it for me... please."
For a long moment, Valebane didn't move. Then, finally, he sighed.
"Fine," he muttered. "But you owe me a new sword when I get back."
A faint smile ghosted across her lips. "Deal."