Thorwin walked alongside Falstad and Cedric, as well as among the others—gladiators, captives, and broken men drawn from different corners of conquered lands—all of them bound together by rope and fate alike. Their hands were tied tightly behind their backs, wrists rubbed raw where coarse fiber bit into skin already scarred by chains and combat. They were driven forward across the scorched lands for hours without rest, a slow, punishing march meant not merely to move them, but to remind them of their place.
A dozen orcish guards surrounded the column, weapons ever at the ready. Some marched with casual cruelty, shoving prisoners forward when their pace faltered, while others watched in silence, eyes sharp and measuring. No one spoke among the captives. Breath was saved. Pain was endured. The land itself offered no comfort—cracked earth stretched endlessly beneath their feet, blackened by fire and war. Ash clung to boots and hems, and the air reeked of soot, old blood, and something fouler still.
At the head of the procession rode a massive orc astride a dire wolf.
The beast's fur was as black as the scorched earth beneath it, coarse and bristling, its yellow eyes glowing with predatory intelligence. It padded forward with unsettling ease, claws crunching softly against stone and ash, its low, guttering growls rolling backward through the line like a warning. The orc rider sat tall and unmoving, barking sharp commands in Orcish that cracked like whips through the air. Now and then, the wolf snapped its jaws or lunged a step closer, just enough to remind the prisoners how quickly weakness would be punished.
Thorwin kept his eyes forward as the march dragged on, shoulders burning, legs trembling beneath him. Around him, other captives stumbled and recovered, driven onward by fear alone.
By the time Thorwin felt his knees begin to tremble in earnest—when each step became an act of stubborn defiance rather than strength—the column finally slowed. A harsh command rang out, and the march came to an abrupt halt at the edge of a broad valley. The land before them dipped sharply, opening into a wide expanse of broken earth and scattered stone, its depths veiled by drifting smoke and heat-haze that shimmered like a living thing.
They were forced down to the ground without ceremony. Thorwin sank to his knees, then to a seated position, breath tearing from his lungs in shallow, burning pulls. The rough earth scraped against his skin, but the pain was distant—muted by exhaustion. Around him, the other prisoners collapsed as well, some bowing their heads, others staring blankly ahead. The brief stillness felt like mercy, however thin, and Thorwin clung to it greedily, letting his trembling legs rest before they betrayed him entirely.
Above them, the orc leader barked commands in his guttural tongue, his voice carrying easily across the valley. The words were sharp, clipped, spoken with the confidence of one who expected obedience without question. Thorwin strained to listen, catching fragments amid the unfamiliar cadence—enough to chill him. Send. First. Survey. The words came again, harsher now, followed by another that needed no translation at all. Meatshields.
At last, impatience took form in cruelty. One of the orcs strode forward and drove a heavy boot into Falstad's side, the impact dull and brutal. The dwarf grunted as he rolled once in the dirt, then pushed himself upright with a growl, beard bristling but eyes sharp. He said nothing—defiance here would only invite worse—but the way he straightened, shoulders squared despite the pain, spoke of a will not yet broken.
Rough hands followed. The ropes binding their wrists were cut away, fibers snapping one by one, leaving behind raw skin and a dull ache where circulation returned in painful waves. Before relief could settle, battered weapons were thrust into their hands—familiar steel, scarred and nicked, offered not as mercy but mockery. An orc stepped close, tusked face inches from Thorwin's, breath rank with rot and smoke.
"No escape," it snarled in broken Common, jabbing a thick finger toward the ridge behind them.
Thorwin followed the gesture and felt his stomach tighten. Orcs with bows stood ready, arrows already nocked, their aim steady and unblinking. The threat was unmistakable.
"We fire," the orc continued, lips curling into something like a grin. Then it barked a single command, sharp and final. "Move!"
They were shoved forward, boots scraping as they were driven toward the valley's descent. Thorwin closed his fingers around his sword, the worn leather of the hilt grounding him, anchoring his racing thoughts. He glanced first at Falstad, who gave a faint, humorless snort, then at Cedric, whose jaw was set hard, eyes forward. Only then did Thorwin look back.
Five sentries followed them.
He counted them carefully, measuring distance, angles, the ready bows behind. Too far. Too many. Any sudden movement would end in a storm of arrows before a blade could be raised in earnest. There was no fight to be had here—only obedience masquerading as choice.
"There's no hope," Thorwin murmured under his breath, just loud enough for his companions to hear. "Not now."
Neither argued.
There was no point in pretending otherwise, no comfort to be gained from defiance spoken too late. Each of them understood, with a clarity born of long captivity and too many deaths witnessed at arm's length, that they had been chosen precisely because they were expendable. The first to walk ahead. The first to test the ground with their lives. Whatever lay within the valley—ambush, beasts, traps, or worse—it would greet them before it ever reached an orcish boot.
And so the trio moved onward.
Their steps were slow at first, cautious rather than hesitant, boots crunching against brittle stone and blackened earth. Heat rose in waves from the ground, distorting the air until the world ahead shimmered like a fevered dream. Pools of molten lava dotted the valley floor, glowing a dull, angry orange, occasionally bubbling as gases escaped from beneath the crust. The scent was overwhelming—sulfur and ash, rot and scorched flesh layered thickly in the air.
They passed bodies.
Human corpses lay twisted and burned, armor half-melted into their skin, faces frozen in expressions of terror or pain too great to be named. Orcish carcasses followed—massive frames torn apart, tusks shattered, limbs severed and left where they had fallen. Whatever battle had taken place here had not been clean, nor brief. Blood, dried to a black crust, stained the ground in wide arcs and splashes, marking desperate last stands and brutal charges alike.
There were other remains as well.
Beasts Thorwin did not recognize at first—chitinous shells cracked open, curved tails stiffened in death, barbed stingers snapped or buried uselessly in stone. Falstad slowed beside one such carcass, squatting briefly despite the risk, his weathered eyes scanning the shape with grim familiarity.
"Scorpids," the dwarf muttered, voice low and rough. "Nasty buggers. Venom'll kill a full-grown bull if ye're unlucky."
Thorwin swallowed, grip tightening on his sword.
There was no flora to speak of. No grass. No trees. No signs of life beyond carrion and decay. The valley felt abandoned by the world itself, as though even nature had recoiled from whatever violence had scarred this place. Every step seemed to echo too loudly, every breath too exposed.
And then the land changed.
It was subtle at first—so subtle Thorwin almost missed it. The ground beneath his boots softened, the crunch of ash giving way to something damp, almost springy. The air cooled by a fraction, the heat less oppressive. He looked ahead—and stopped short.
Before them lay a stretch of land untouched by fire.
Lush, vibrant green spread outward like a wound healed too cleanly to be natural. Grass rose thick and healthy, wildflowers blooming in impossible colors—violets, golds, deep blues—swaying gently as though kissed by a breeze that did not exist elsewhere in the valley. The border between ruin and life was unnervingly sharp, the scorched earth ending abruptly as if cut away by a blade.
Thorwin stared, heart pounding—not with fear, but disbelief.
It did not belong here.
"A miracle…" Cedric whispered beside him, awe softening his voice despite himself.
For a fleeting moment, Thorwin felt it too—the pull of wonder, the dangerous temptation to believe that something pure had survived this place. That perhaps the world had not wholly turned its back on them.
But the feeling passed quickly.
Too quickly.
Thorwin's eyes narrowed as he studied the unnatural border, the way the flowers grew without scorch or ash, the way the green thrived amid death. He had learned, painfully, that beauty in such places was rarely a blessing. More often, it was a warning.
"Don't lower your guard," he said quietly, voice firm despite the wonder tugging at his chest. "Not here."
Falstad snorted softly. "Aye. Land don't stay pretty in places like this without reason."
They advanced once more, slow and deliberate, every step measured as though the ground itself might shift beneath their feet. Muscles remained taut, blades held ready, eyes scanning every shadow and rise in the terrain. Yet despite their caution, Thorwin felt an unease unlike any he had known before—not the sharp edge of fear born of steel and blood, but something softer, more insidious. It was as if the land itself whispered to them, urging them onward while quietly begging them to lay down their weapons, to abandon vigilance, to trust. The sensation crawled along his spine, subtle and persistent, like a hand pressing lightly between his shoulder blades.
They did not recognize the danger until it was already upon them.
The valley narrowed as they approached the base of the mountain range, stone rising sharply on either side until the world seemed to funnel them toward a single point. There, half-hidden by shadow and jagged rock, yawned the mouth of a cave. It was no grand cavern, no natural wonder—but an ugly, jagged wound torn into the mountainside. Darkness pooled within it, thick and absolute, swallowing what little light reached its threshold. The air around it felt colder, heavier, as though death itself lingered there, clinging to stone and soil alike.
Thorwin slowed, dread knotting in his chest.
A sound brushed the edge of his hearing—high, sharp, and wrong. Not quite a scream, not quite a whisper. It slid through the noise of the wind and the distant crackle of heat, threading itself directly into his thoughts. His head throbbed as the sound pressed closer, scraping at the inside of his skull.
"Can you hear that?" he asked, voice low but urgent.
Falstad and Cedric both paused. The dwarf cocked his head, brow furrowing, then shook it. Cedric followed suit, confusion flashing briefly across his face. "Hear what?" the knight asked.
Understanding dawned with a chill that had nothing to do with the air.
They were oblivious.
The sound was meant for him alone.
Thorwin's grip tightened on his sword as his eyes returned to the cave. Every instinct screamed at him to turn away, to run, to do anything but step into that waiting darkness. The cave did not feel empty. It felt aware. As though something within it watched, listened, and waited with infinite patience.
They hesitated at the threshold.
Then the world exploded into motion.
An arrow tore through the air, slicing past Thorwin's side so close he felt its passage like a blade against his ribs. He spun around just in time to see an orc already drawing another arrow from his quiver, eyes cold and intent. There was no warning shout, no hesitation—only execution. The message was clear.
Forward, or die.
Rage flared hot and sudden in Thorwin's chest. Death had brushed him too closely for comfort, and the knowledge that it came not from the darkness ahead but from those behind sharpened his fear into something harder. Still, there was no room for choice. Turning back would mean arrows in their backs before a single step could be taken.
Another orc acted before they could move.
A lit torch arced through the air, spinning end over end before striking the ground at their feet, sparks leaping as it landed. Flame flared bright and hungry, pushing back the darkness just enough to reveal jagged stone and the yawning maw of the cave beyond. Cedric moved instinctively, snatching the torch from the ground, its heat biting into his gauntlet as he lifted it high.