Uneasy Camp
The desert night pressed in like a living thing. Cold winds drifted over the dunes, tugging at tents, rattling armor, scattering ash from the dying campfires. Shadows shifted across the sand as the warband moved quietly, each soldier lost in their own thoughts beneath the blanket of starlight. Even the warbeasts shifted uneasily, pawing the ground as if sensing something stirring beneath the dunes.
Fires flickered against the stone outcroppings that ringed the camp. Far off, Uruk'herald rose black and silent, cutting into the sky like a blade.
Vulghere stood near the largest fire, arms crossed, eyes scanning the men. Whispers carried just above the crackle of flames:
"The climb should have ended by now.""The Prophet said nothing of delays.""Maybe he never made it to the top.""The gods test the worthy… but they also bury the unworthy."
Each voice was a spark threatening to ignite the tension Vulghere worked to contain. He did not speak—not yet—but their words dug deep. Mortals were fragile. Hope was brittle. And tonight, it cracked.
The commander was gone. And in that absence… ambition, fear, and doubt waited.
Rallying the Band
Vulghere let the murmurs simmer another heartbeat, then stepped forward. His voice cut through the night like a whipcrack:
"Enough!"
Heads snapped up. Conversations died. Even the fire seemed to dim for a moment.
Vulghere moved to the center of the camp, firelight casting shadows across his stern face.
"Vulhairi lives. He climbs not for glory, but because he was chosen. And he will return because he is worthy. The Prophet saw it. So did I."
He scanned the soldiers—young and old, scarred and untested. Some met his gaze, others looked down, ashamed.
"You swore to the Light. You swore to each other. That oath does not vanish because one man is gone. You do not serve the mountain. You serve the mission."
He pointed toward the desert horizon.
"Guard this camp as if Vulhairi were already returned, blade in hand and harpies at his back. Do I make myself clear?"
A few voices answered softly, uncertain.
"Do I make myself clear?!"
This time, the response came louder, unified.
"Yes, sir!"
Vulghere nodded once, then returned to the fire. Tension eased slightly among the soldiers, but not within him. Doubt twisted in his chest like a thorned vine.
What if the Prophet is wrong? What if this isn't a trial of ascension… but of sacrifice?
Whispers and Unease
Night deepened, the desert stretching endlessly under a cold, endless sky. Fires burned low. Soldiers returned to their tents, but rest did not follow. Silence weighed heavy—as if the world itself held its breath.
Vulghere sat alone beside the central flame, sharpening his blade. Steel against stone—predictable, grounding. Real.
Behind him, whispers floated again, softer this time, edged with fear.
"He could fall.""And then what? Retreat? Or follow the Prophet into a war led by ghosts?"
Vulghere did not look up. Doubt was everywhere—in the camp, in himself. He had fought beside Vulhairi through ambushes, border raids, and desert campaigns. No one was more capable.
But Uruk'herald was not a battlefield. It was something older, sacred, and sacred things cared little for logic or loyalty.
And the Prophet… he had changed. Words more cryptic. Eyes more distant. Seeing not the men before him, but something far beyond.
All must serve.
Once he had believed it. Tonight, the words felt colder. Less like guidance. More like warning.
The Vision in the Firepit
A soft whumph stirred the flames.
Vulghere's hand drifted to the hilt of his blade. The wind had shifted, sharp and clean, carrying a hint of mountain air instead of desert sand.
The fire surged. Sparks spiraled upward—not red and orange, but white-gold, shimmering like feathers caught in the sunlight.
Then they fell.
Golden-white feathers drifted silently into the pit, glowing faintly. Some gold with white tips, others silver-blue, all landing atop the logs without burning. They hummed with an energy that tingled in Vulghere's teeth.
One by one, they dissolved into light, vanishing as if they had never been.
"What in the name of the old gods…"
A young scout crouched nearby stared, mouth open. Others saw it too, drawn by awe rather than curiosity.
Vulghere said nothing, only watched, certainty forming in his gut. Vulhairi still climbed. And something beyond mortal hands had taken notice.
Echoes of the Prophet
The last feather vanished. The glow faded. Silence returned—expectant, not uneasy.
Vulghere remained by the fire long after the others had retreated to their tents. His eyes stayed fixed on Uruk'herald, its summit lost in clouds.
The Prophet's words echoed: "Each of you will bind yourselves to the Light in ways you cannot yet imagine."
Vulghere had thought they applied to Vulhairi.
Now… he wasn't so sure.
A patch of warm stone caught his attention. He reached out. For a moment, he thought he saw another feather resting there.
Then it was gone.
The mountain would soon give its answer.
And Vulghere would be ready.