Grodak
Grodak woke with a violent gasp, the motion tearing through his abdomen like a rusted blade. Pain—sharp, electric, unrelenting—forced him back onto the bed. His fingers dug into the soaked bandages, and he waited, trembling, for the spasm to pass.
A week.
A week since Grall had stabbed him.
A week since Grodak had struck back.
A week since Grall—his brother, his greatest sorrow—died screaming beneath the green sword.
Grodak's vision swam in and out of focus, his eyes refusing to cooperate. Shapes drifted like ghosts: the faint outline of the window, the scattered shadows of furniture, the dim flicker of a torch burning low. It took several slow, controlled breaths before the world began to steady.
His armor lay discarded on the floor, thrown aside as if it were nothing more than scrap metal. His weapons leaned against the wall in a sloppy pile—unorganized, uncleaned, uncared for. That alone told Grodak how much chaos had followed his collapse. He had never once left a weapon on the ground.
He stared at them through half-lidded eyes.
His own blades, born from fire and hammered into purpose by his hands.
Milindar's sword—Firnist—gleaming like ice trapped under moonlight.
Harstinor, the spear pulled from the Aether itself, its name borrowed from Talengar's legendary blade.
Then his gaze froze.
The green sword rested in front of the others like a serpent coiled in judgment.
A weapon with a thousand minds whispering within it.
A weapon that devoured sanity.
A weapon he had used to kill the only person he wished he hadn't.
Grall.
Grodak swallowed hard, the motion painful in his throat. His memories blurred after that final strike. He only remembered the scream—his or Grall's, he couldn't tell—and then darkness swallowing everything.
When he first woke, he had called Grall's name so loudly the windows rattled. Grodak had expected him to appear, irritated and exhausted but alive. He always returned from death. Always.
But no matter how desperately he reached into the Shadow World—no matter how fiercely he clawed at the realm of fallen orc souls—there was no trace of Grall.
Only void.
Empty.
Final.
Grall was gone.
A soft sound pulled him from the spiral.
He looked down.
Xierma had fallen asleep at the foot of his bed, head resting against her arms, dried tear tracks staining her cheeks. She must have refused to leave him. Even unconscious, her hand hovered near him as though she expected him to vanish if she didn't keep watch.
A guilt deeper than pain tightened Grodak's chest.
He wished he could pull her into his arms—feel her warmth against his skin, bury his face in her hair and forget—but he could hardly breathe without agony splitting him open. Magic had tainted the wound. Magic kept it from closing. Magic was now the only thing that could save him.
How Grall would have laughed at that irony.
Sleep crept over him again, heavy and unavoidable. He lifted his arm weakly to the side, fingers grasping instinctively for a presence he had summoned a hundred times before.
But his hand closed around nothing.
The Shadow World remained silent.
Grall was neither there nor anywhere on Xeno-Movia.
For the first time in Grodak's long life, he felt something collapse inside him.
His brother was truly dead.
And Grodak—king, warrior, casarn, destroyer—found himself wishing he could trade places.
If only to wake and see Grall standing at the door, rolling his eyes, calling him an idiot.
He let the darkness take him, heart aching with a grief so raw it barely had shape.
Only one thought followed him down:
"I want my little brother back."
---
Drillohiem
Drillohiem stood at the outskirts of Whitewater, boots cracking through layers of frost, snow caked up to his knees. A week had passed in the material realm since Grall died, yet Drillohiem carried a full year of solitude, wandering, and unraveling truths.
The night of Grall's death—now called the Night of Green Amber—had ignited the spirit realm. An eruption of green light had torn across the heavens like a newborn star. Everyone claimed the light had been beautiful, terrifying, divine.
But Drillohiem had never seen it.
He was the light.
No elder—not the spirit-wise elves nor even the bohemians, masters of aetheric theory—understood what had happened. The closest anyone came was this:
At the moment Grall died, he formed a perfect mental link with his son.
A final inheritance.
A final message.
And Drillohiem woke with all of Grall's memories.
Even the hidden ones.
Even the ones Grall himself had forgotten.
That was when he knew he could no longer remain in the upper layers of the spirit realm. He had to descend, had to cross through the thinning borders of existence to reach the material world. The journey had stripped him—armor shredded, weapon lost, dignity bruised.
All he had left were the scratchy human clothes clinging awkwardly to his body.
He tugged at the cloth irritably, grimacing.
Freezing to death seemed preferable to wearing these things.
But he pushed forward. Whitewater's towering gates rose before him, imposing and rimed in ice. The guard who stopped him held a spear angled toward Drillohiem's throat. The orc's expression tightened with suspicion—and a hint of hatred he could not explain, yet knew intimately from his father's memories.
"State your name," the orc barked. "Whitewater does not open its gates for wanderers seeking handouts."
"I am Drillohiem," he replied, careful not to mention the rest. "I seek an audience with King Grodak."
The guard narrowed his eyes. "If you want food or work, find another kingdom. Whitewater accepts no more adventurers."
"No food?" Drillohiem blurted, genuinely confused. "Don't you have the ice box?"
The guard stiffened. "How do you know of that?"
Drillohiem cursed himself silently—but then a familiar voice cut in.
"Everyone knows about it," Adrian said as he strode into view, the multi-colored dragon at his side gliding through the snow like water. "Even I do, and I haven't been home for weeks."
The guard bristled. "Sir Adrian, the council—"
"Oh, the council again," Adrian groaned, exasperated. "Of course. Leave them to me."
He placed a hand on Drillohiem's shoulder and gave the guard a dismissive look.
"I'll take responsibility for him."
The guard swallowed whatever argument he wanted to make. Adrian's reputation—feared, respected, unpredictable—made resisting him unwise.
The two walked through the gate. The streets were quiet, shadows long in the pale light. Snow clung stubbornly to gutters and roof edges. Smoke curled from chimneys, making the air smell of burning oak and cold stone.
Once they were alone, Adrian's tone shifted.
"So," he murmured softly, the voice of a serpent sliding through tall grass, "what business does someone like you have with Grodak?"
Drillohiem began to turn—
steel kissed his skin.
"I didn't say look at me," Adrian hissed.
Drillohiem went perfectly still. He debated lying, then discarded the thought. Adrian would see through it.
"I am Drillohiem, son of Grall." The words were barely above a whisper, yet they felt deafening. "I've come to meet Grodak… my uncle. And to take my place in this realm."
Adrian was silent for a long moment.
Then he withdrew the blade.
"Turn around."
Drillohiem obeyed.
Adrian studied him—and Drillohiem watched the shift in his expression as recognition struck.
"Yeah," Adrian murmured, "I see it. Paint you green, break your nose, give you tusks… You'd be Grall's little copy."
Drillohiem didn't know what to say. He was too focused on Adrian's startling appearance—snow-white skin, hair equally pale, but eyes burning like coals dipped in blood.
He had seen eyes like that once.
On Tyril.
"You're not going to kill me?" Drillohiem asked.
Adrian sheathed the dagger. "Sins of the father don't apply to those I'm speaking to. Just don't tell anyone else who you are."
Drillohiem nodded. He had no intention of making this any harder than it needed to be.
As the castle drew near, he stopped in his tracks. The Great White River—the ever-flowing crown of the kingdom—was frozen solid. A grave of ice.
"What happened?" Drillohiem whispered.
"You know the river?" Adrian asked, surprised.
Drillohiem nodded.
"When Grall lost himself," Adrian said quietly, "and before Grodak… ended it—Grall killed all but one demon lord. Too much power died at once. It spilled across the world. It needed somewhere to settle."
Drillohiem felt a chill deeper than the snow.
Imp had told them this. But hearing it spoken aloud made it far more real.
"The power sought out the domain of the last demon lord," Adrian continued. "The Ninth Layer. Frost. Snow. Damnation."
He gestured to the frozen river.
"It's leaking into our world now."
Drillohiem shivered.
And for the first time since the journey began, he wondered whether he had arrived too late.
---
Grodak
Grodak glared at his reflection as though it had personally offended him. His face—strong, hardened, unmistakably orcish—hadn't changed since becoming a casarn. And yet everyone on the battlefield insisted his skin had shifted colors, that red and black stripes pulsed across him like war-paint made of living shadow.
Grodak saw none of it.
Only the red of dried blood across his stomach.
A knock sounded. Grodak forced himself not to grimace.
The door opened to reveal an older orc—Kensural—standing stiff and solemn. Grodak's heart sank. He couldn't look him in the eye.
When Imp had moved Whitewater's civilians into the pocket dimension, Kensural had been a boy no older than four. Safe, preserved… but not immune to the distortions of time.
In the sanctuary, days could be years, years minutes.
Grodak had never known which direction it would fall.
Never known whether opening the gate would bring out children or old men.
Seeing Kensural now—grown, weary, decades older than he should be—sent a fresh stab of guilt through Grodak's chest, sharper than his wound.
All those lives twisted because of Grall.
Because of me.
Because I failed him.
He closed his eyes.
For the first time since becoming king, Grodak wished he could run.
Run from the throne.
From the council.
From the sword he used to kill his brother.
From the kingdom frozen by a demon lord's dying breath.
But especially—
run from the man Kensural now was.
A man grown old waiting for a salvation Grodak wasn't sure he could give.
"King Grodak," Kensural said softly, respectfully, unaware of the storm he had stepped into. "We need to speak."
Grodak tightened his jaw, forcing himself to stand tall despite the searing pain.
"Enter," he said, voice darker than it had ever been.
Because for the first time in his life…
He wasn't sure which terrified him more:
The truth Kensural carried—
or the ghost of a brother who refused to stay dead.
This caused a wave of chaos when the citizens first spilled from the tear. Most believed the world had ended, that the realm they'd entered was some eternal prison they would never escape. In the first years, hundreds died — starvation, exhaustion, despair. But far more were killed by the war that followed.
With no structure, the dasari and the pyroniams lunged for control, claiming it was their right to rule the new land. But the orcs, elves, humans, and beastfolk already had a council — rough, rigid, defensive — and they rejected the newcomers' authority outright, calling it "the seeds of tyranny."
War erupted. Fast. Brutal. Merciless.
Only when the dasari and pyroniams were cornered, bodies lying in piles at the edges of hastily built fortifications, did the council finally overpower them. Those who survived were enslaved; those who resisted were killed on the spot.
And they might have remained enslaved forever if not for the eruption that was Adrian.
---
Adrian vs. the Council — Six Years Ago
The council hall had been built from raw stone and desperation. Torches crackled along the walls as representatives argued, each voice an eruption over the next. When the subject of dasari and pyroniam "containment" came up again, the room split into two camps: frightened…. and vicious.
Adrian stood in the center like a raging storm condensed into a man.
"You chained them," he said coldly, "because you're cowards who fear anyone who looks at you without trembling."
A human councilor — a broad-shouldered man named Feldren — slammed his fist into the table. "They attacked us first!"
"They defended themselves," Adrian shot back. "You seized their food. You seized their homes. What choice did they have?"
An elven representative rose with the stiffness of an ancient tree. "You overstep your position, human. These creatures are dangerous."
Adrian marched toward him, stopping close enough that the elf instinctively stepped back.
"They're children, most of them. You've starved them. Tortured them. What part of that sounds like 'leadership' to you?"
Feldren snarled, "We must maintain order. We must prevent—"
"No." Adrian's voice cracked like thunder. "You want power. Don't pretend this is about survival."
Guards subtly shifted, hands on their weapons. None dared move closer.
And then Xierma spoke from the shadows, her voice cold and crystalline. "Enough posturing. We all know the council fears what they cannot control."
Jaxale followed with her calm, measured tone. "Let them go. Or we will discuss the matter… differently."
No one moved. No one breathed.
Adrian leaned across the table, planting his hands on the wood. "You will free them," he said, voice low and dangerous, "or I will make a new council out of what's left standing."
And the council — faced with Adrian's fury and the silent backing of Xierma and Jaxale — finally bent.
Thus, the slaves were freed.
---
Back to the Present — Grodak
Grodak bit back the bile rising in his throat. Out of everything he imagined might've occurred after the tear opened… war and slavery were never among them.
He rose carefully, clutching the wound in his side.
"What is it?" he demanded, voice sharp as a blade. He made no effort to hide his disgust for those who had ever desired chains on another living being.
Kensural bowed, the stiffness in his posture revealing his contempt at having to bow to a wounded chieftain. "My lord, Sir Adrian requests your presence in the audience chambers."
"He did, did he?" Grodak reached for one of his swords, needing the weight of steel at his side. Kensural stepped forward, placing a hand on Grodak's wrist.
"I do not think you will be needing a weapon, my lord."
Grodak growled, fingers tightening as he removed Kensural's hand. "I do not need a weapon," he snapped. Then, gripping Kensural's wrist hard enough to nearly crack bone, he added, "But if I wish to carry one, I will."
Kensural bowed, wincing. "Yes, my lord."
Grodak buckled the blade to his hip. His eyes flicked to the green sword — the one that had slain Grall. For a moment he reached toward it, fingers trembling. The minds within the sword, once silent during battle, clawed at him now. Grodak flinched away.
He couldn't bear to touch it.
Turning sharply, he limped toward the audience chambers.
---
Drillohiem
Adrian led Drillohiem into a bare chamber — an open stone space devoid of tapestries or finery. Only a few torches flickered along the walls. Drillohiem tensed, half expecting an ambush, but he forced himself to relax. Adrian wasn't the sort to hide behind shadows or traps. Grall's memories confirmed that.
As they approached the center of the room, Drillohiem's eyes drifted to the throne at the far end. It wasn't elegant — just carved wood, sturdy and meaningful, built by hands that valued purpose over beauty. Grodak's craftsmanship, Drillohiem guessed.
Adrian noticed his gaze and motioned for a nearby servant. Within minutes, torches were lit, snow was cleaned from the floor, and the chamber brightened.
Then the door behind the throne opened.
A tall orc stepped out — handsome, broad-shouldered, his brown hair tied back neatly. His skin was a healthy green, his eyes a sharp blue, his jaw more human than most. Drillohiem caught himself staring; he'd never expected his uncle to look so… composed. Or so wounded. Blood soaked through the side of his pants.
"Adrian," Grodak said, sitting heavily upon his throne. "What do you need of me?"
"Orc bro," Adrian began, fighting not to laugh, "I met this halfling on my way in. Thought he might be useful to your military."
Grodak's gaze sharpened on Drillohiem, weighing him, dissecting him. "Why do you wish to join my forces?"
Adrian inhaled—ready to assist—but Grodak raised a hand, silencing him.
Drillohiem's heart hammered. What did I come here to do?
Confront him? Murder him? No. This was family — fractured, bloody, broken family — but family still.
He saw Grodak's wound again. The spreading stain.
Even if he wanted to kill him, the man wouldn't be able to chase him down. That thought brought little comfort.
Finally he straightened, voice steady:
"I came to tell you… I am Drillohiem, son of Grall and Leah."
Grodak stared at him with cold disbelief. Drillohiem looked to be in his mid-twenties. Even with the four years spent in hell, it was impossible. Grall had been younger than Grodak. There was no way—
"Oh?" Grodak's tone was the sound of a hammer striking iron, testing its truth. "How is that possible?"
Drillohiem opened his mouth — Grodak cut him off.
"Do you understand my brother is my junior? How could he have a child your age when I am only thirty-six?"
Another attempt — another interruption.
"If you came for inheritance, you will find none." Grodak stood again; blood dripped onto the floor. "He left nothing for kin — even less for imposters."
"Why. Are. You. Here?"
Drillohiem swallowed, then told his story — abandonment, Leah's mercy, the spirit realm, two hundred years of growth compressed into eight years of mortal time. His voice was emotionless, but his trembling betrayed him.
"…I am Grall's son," he finished. "The rightful heir to Talengar's curse."
Grodak's expression stayed unreadable.
"Talengar's curse?" he murmured. "What curse is that?"
"The Shadow World."
Grodak shook his head. "The curse died with your father."
Drillohiem nodded. "I know. He told me before I came here."
Grodak froze.
"He… told you?"
Drillohiem hesitated. "Yes. The day you killed him with the green sword."