Grodak
Grodak reached the gates of Whitewater just as the sun dipped behind the horizon, its fading light stretching shadows across the gleaming stone. This will be interesting, he thought as he eyed the guards posted along the walls.
"Halt!" one of them barked. "State your business."
"I'm here to speak with your king—"
"Another for the quest!" the guard shouted over him, gesturing toward the others as though he'd solved some clever puzzle. "Alright," he continued, turning back with self-satisfaction, "come with me."
Grodak hesitated for only a breath before following. "So…" he said, mostly to fill the thick, sweaty silence clinging to him like a hot summer day, "what exactly is this quest about?"
"You'll hear it from Tyril, our king," the guard replied. Pride crept into his voice at the name—pride so warm it almost sounded like a son admiring a father. Grodak studied the soldier. Mid to late thirties, hardened, but still carrying that boyish awe. What kind of king inspires that?
He didn't have to wonder long.
Before them rose a spiraling white castle, stretching into the sky like a tower carved from a single massive pearl. Even Grodak, who had seen its silhouette from afar, was struck breathless by its radiance up close. Enormous doors—large enough to welcome dragons—stood wide open, allowing citizens to drift in and out freely.
"Wait here," the guard said, snapping Grodak out of his trance. "I'll inform the king you've arrived."
Left alone at the threshold, Grodak took in the flawless craftsmanship. Minutes later the guard returned, wearing a wry smile.
"You may enter."
Grodak followed him into the great hall and then into the ornate throne room. Priceless artifacts glittered across the chamber—trinkets he didn't care for, but ones that even he knew were worth more than twice his weight in gold.
Two figures already stood inside. One was a blonde human whistling an off-key tune; the other a Dasari—noticeably without the dragon their kind was known to keep at their side. Grodak frowned, taking them in.
Movement caught his attention.
He cursed himself for not noticing sooner—there was a third presence.
Sitting upon a golden throne, looking thoroughly bored, was a young man with white hair and crimson eyes. The sight of him sent a cold shiver crawling up Grodak's spine. The man radiated something unnatural—an ancient stillness wrapped in youthful skin.
"Is this everyone, Isaac?" the young man asked without shifting his gaze.
"Yes, my lord."
The king's soft voice carried both sorrow and centuries. "I suppose this turnout is better than expected." His eyes finally lifted, settling on them with quiet weight. "I am Tyril, king of Whitewater. You are welcome in my city."
The other two bowed; Grodak moved to follow, but Tyril raised a hand.
"No bowing. You accepted my request—you stand as my equals."
Grodak straightened, keeping his gaze respectfully low. He did not dare meet those crimson eyes.
"If you possess the courage you claim," Tyril continued, "then you will take the trial."
A sharp click sounded behind the throne. Three white-furred hounds with glowing red eyes emerged.
"Defeat them," Tyril said lightly, "and we'll discuss your task afterward."
Grodak drew his sword and lunged. In one clean sweep he decapitated the first hound. Spinning, he saw the human dispatch another with a flourish of steel, while the Dasari held a beaker dripping a strange liquid onto the melting corpse of the third.
Tyril chuckled. "Perhaps I made it too easy." His voice was soft, yet carried effortlessly across the room. "No matter. You have passed. Follow me to hear your mission."
In a side chamber, Tyril laid a parchment on a table. "This," he said, "is where I need you to go."
The three leaned in.
"It's used for smoking plants!" the human declared proudly.
"No, fool," the Dasari snapped, horrified. "It is a map—an ancient one, though its script eludes me."
"There's no way this is a map," Grodak scoffed. "Looks more like something you'd wipe your ass with."
Their arguing spiraled for nearly an hour while Tyril quietly laughed himself breathless. At last, he stepped forward, reclaimed the parchment, and flattened it onto the table.
"Let us try again," he said, dangerously calm. "This is a map of Whitewater and the surrounding territories. Here—" he pointed to a small tower symbol "—unwanted visitors have made themselves quite comfortable. Remove them."
Grodak frowned thoughtfully. He had watched his father pore over battle maps countless times, memorized formations in his sleep. He himself was not a strategist—Grodak preferred open battles and honest steel—but his brother had always excelled at such things.
Even so, a plan formed.
"We should enter from two points," Grodak said slowly. "East and west. With the sun's position, an eastern assault would draw their eyes. One distracts, two flank. They'll be cornered—no escape, minimal casualties."
All eyes widened.
This brute—who couldn't read a simple map—had devised a solid military strategy.
Tyril burst into laughter. "Excellent! I'll meet you at the stables."
After Tyril departed, the human turned eagerly. "What was your name again?"
"Grodak."
"I'm Adrian! I plan to own one of every animal one day."
Grodak blinked. "Ambitious."
"And he's Impartis," Adrian whispered about the Dasari. "I call him Imp. He likes… thinking."
Imp didn't argue.
The trio prepared to leave.
"We haven't decided who's distracting them," Imp noted.
Grodak grinned. "Isn't it obvious? I am."
---
The timing had to be perfect.
Shadow climbing the tower door… shadow's head reaching the top—
Now.
Grodak slammed through the entrance with raw force. Twenty black-robed figures turned, their circle breaking as blinding sunlight outlined Grodak's silhouette.
He roared and charged.
Two fell before they even screamed. Blood spattered the stone. Flesh tore. More robed figures collapsed in panic as Grodak cut through them with ferocity bordering on the feral.
By the time Adrian and Imp stormed in from the west, only a handful remained. Moments later, silence smothered the tower—broken only by dripping blood pooling underfoot.
"That was too easy…" Imp muttered, rifling through the dead. "They have no weapons—why would Tyril send us to kill unarmed—"
His voice stopped.
A small black book lay in his palm.
"Necromancers."
Grodak immediately grabbed bodies and dragged them outside. "We burn them."
"Why?" Adrian asked.
"Because death is merely an inconvenience to them," Imp said grimly. "If their bodies remain—"
"They return," Grodak finished.
The bodies were piled and ignited with one of Imp's flasks. Flames roared, and the group headed back inside.
Grodak found her first.
An elven woman, regal in bearing despite the blood spattered across her dress, chained to the wall.
Her eyes snapped open as he approached.
"Where am I? Who are you? Where is my husband?!"
Grodak raised both hands. "We were sent to clear this tower of necromancers by King Tyril—"
"Tyril!" she cried. "My husband sent you? Then take me to him—at once!"
Imp arrived, and Grodak nodded toward her. "She claims to be Tyril's wife. Trap or truth—we can't leave her."
"You won't feel safe until I check," Imp said.
A moment passed as he chanted.
"She is clean. But dark magic was used on her… not to harm, but to bring her back."
"Then we free her," Grodak said.
He took hold of the chains and tore them from the wall with a single mighty pull.
---
Upon returning to Whitewater, Tyril rushed forward, gathering Elvyna into his arms. Tears streaked his pale face as he held her.
"Thank you," he breathed. "Your reward will come later. For now… I need my wife."
They left hand in hand, clinging to each other as though afraid they'd vanish.
---
Grall
Grall stood before Whitewater's gates at midday. The town bustled with life; no one paid any mind to the slender orc lingering at the entrance.
"Is my brother truly here?" he murmured. Ten years alone had taught him to speak to himself—silence was too heavy otherwise.
"Hey! You!" a guard barked, seemingly noticing him only now. "State your business." The guard looked far too proud of remembering to say the line.
Grall bit back a laugh. "I'm looking for my brother. Perhaps you've heard of him—his name is—"
"You want the king," the guard interrupted triumphantly. "Orc kin here means he's one of the ones who saved our queen."
Grall's jaw tightened. Slowly, with effort, he kept his tone calm. "Then yes. I'd like to speak with the king."
"This way."
Grall followed through the winding streets, observing the human love for trinkets with bemusement. As they approached the spiraling white castle, he frowned.
"That's the castle? Looks more like a temple."
The guard snorted. "Just wait here."
Grall had to swallow the urge to storm inside himself. Eventually the guard returned and led him to the throne room.
There sat Tyril—the white-haired king with crimson eyes that looked as though they had seen a thousand lifetimes. Power radiated from him like heat from a forge.
"I am Grall, your Highness," Grall said carefully. "I have come to—"
"To find your brother," Tyril finished, amused. "The guard told me. But what makes you think he is here?"
"The elder chieftains told me," Grall whispered, suddenly feeling as though those red eyes pierced through his very bones.
Tyril's smile vanished. "Grodak is here. But you will not speak to him until you pass the test."
Grall stiffened. "Test? What kind?"
"A test of strength."
A panel opened. Three hounds stepped out.
Grall smiled grimly.
A battle—that he could do.
He drew Oathkeeper—his brother's forgework, the last remnant of his childhood—and struck. Two hounds fell instantly. The third leapt, claws tearing into his arm. Grall yelped, stumbled back.
This one was different. Faster. Smarter.
He felt its intent, its hunger.
Grall exhaled and reached into the shadow world.
His own shadow rose—elongated, fanged—and impaled the hound.
He hated relying on that power… but he hated losing more.
Tyril looked unimpressed.
"Well done. Now for your—"
"Hey, Tyril, any news—" a familiar voice called from behind Grall.
Tyril brightened. "Ah! Grodak. We were just speaking of you."
Grall turned.
There he was.
His brother.
Grodak's fist hit him a heartbeat later. A wild left hook that sent Grall crashing to the ground.
"How dare you show yourself before me!" Grodak roared.
"Grodak, wait—listen—!"
But Grodak was already storming out the door.
Grall lunged after him, only to be blocked by a Dasari—and a massive dragon.
"That wise?" the Dasari asked flatly.
"Imp," Tyril said, "let the boy pass."
Imp stepped aside.
Grall chased his brother through the city until he found him in a blacksmith's forge. Clanging metal drowned the world as Grodak worked—silent, focused, refusing to acknowledge him.
"Brother," Grall called softly. "We need to talk."
Grodak didn't look up.
Grall watched him shape the heated metal with the same dedication he'd had since childhood. The scent of the forge triggered memories—two boys, one hammering steel, the other dreaming of leadership.
Only Grall had inherited the tribe's gift.
Only Grall could hear the dead.
Only Grall had been chosen to be chief.
And Grodak had rejoiced for him.
Grall placed a hand over the sword on his hip—Oathkeeper, forged on the night of his birth.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
"Father sent me," Grall finally said.
Grodak raised a brow. "Father?" he echoed with a faint smirk. "How is he doing… in the next world?"
"As well as a dead man can."
Grodak stared distantly into the forge fire. "I remember when they brought him back from the battlefield…"
Grall remembered too.
Smoke choking the air. Their father, Chief Gryoon, leading a hopeless charge. Betrayal. A dagger from an ally tribe ending the life of the strongest orc Grall had ever known.
They laughed about Gryoon's embellished stories of glory—about dying fighting enemies long extinct.
The warmth faded.
"So why did he send you?" Grodak asked.
"Something about us needing each other," Grall said bitterly. "I don't care about the reason. I want to get rid of this cursed gift."
"You don't like speaking to the dead?" Grodak teased.
"I don't mind speaking to them," Grall muttered. "I mind being unable to die because of them."
Grodak eyed him sharply. "You speak like you want to."
Grall remained silent.
Before he could answer, Adrian burst in.
"Grodak! Look at my new pet!" he said proudly, gesturing to a massive black panther.
Then Imp arrived, words overlapping until Grodak slammed his fist into the anvil.
"Quiet!"
He mounted a reptilian steed and rode off.
"Brother!" Grall shouted, jumping onto a nearby horse and giving chase.
But Grodak's mount was too fast.
Hours passed. The sun dipped. Grall felt the pull—unmistakable.
"No… not now…"
Darkness swallowed him.
He collapsed into the shadow realm where Gryoon waited.
"Why?!" Grall cried. "Why do you haunt me? I'm no longer chief—you abandoned me! Go hound Grodak!"
Gryoon's eyes were cold. "You were born with the gift. Through you, we speak."
"So that's all I am?" Grall screamed. "A mouthpiece? A puppet? You won't even let me die!"
"Silence." Gryoon's voice softened—barely. "Even a failure like you can be useful. Tell your brother: the cycle's end draws near."
Before Grall could speak, he was yanked back.
He woke in the dirt, tears slipping down his cheeks.
"What did I do to deserve this?" he whispered.
No one answered.