The air grew heavy. Nemira inhaled—and choked. The smell appeared suddenly, sharp and acrid. Decay. But not the ordinary forest kind. This reeked of death—old, stagnant. As though something had died here long ago, but the body hadn't decomposed, instead preserved in this cold.

  Banarka froze. Her hand clenched tighter on the axe. Her head turned slowly to the left. She stared there for several seconds, unmoving.

  Nemira followed her gaze. Nothing. Only stones and dry earth.

  But the orc woman knew something different. She took a step backwards. Then another. The axe rose, the blade turning horizontal—a defensive stance.

  Livien swallowed; her hand gripped the torch. The wood was warm, dry. She struck the flint and steel.

  Sparks showered down, died in the wind. Again. Strike. A spark caught the oil-soaked rag, smouldered—and flared. Flame leapt up greedily, engulfed the torch head, danced orange.

  She lowered the torch, thrust it into the earth beside her. The shaft entered firmly. Fire lit a circle about six feet across—stones became sharper, shadows longer.

  Nemira shifted the bow to her left hand; her right settled on the string. Now she needed only to bring the arrowhead to the flame—and she could shoot. One movement, one second, and she'd have a burning arrow.

  The troll woman drew the string. Not fully, about thirty per cent. Enough to shoot quickly, but not so much that her arms would tire holding the tension.

  Silence stretched. Seconds became minutes. Her heart pounded in her chest, pulse throbbing in her temples. Nemira breathed slowly, deeply, as she'd been taught—control, no panic.

  Banarka retreated further. Her back almost touched another boulder. Her gaze didn't tear from the point to the left. What did she see there?

  And then the earth trembled.

  Faintly. Barely noticeable. But Livien felt it—the vibration passed through her soles, climbed up her legs.

  The orc woman jerked to the left. Sharply, as promised.

  Nemira swept the arrow to the torch.

  Flame flared greedily, engulfed the oiled head. Fire ran across the metal, caught. She drew the string to its limit—shoulder muscles tensed, fingers dug into the shaft.

  From the shadow between stones burst something black.

  Mass and speed. Six paws struck the earth simultaneously, hurling the body forward. Black fur gleamed with an oily sheen—green reflections ran across the scruff, vanished.

  The maw gaped. Fangs the length of a forearm, yellowish at the base, blackened at the tips. Saliva—viscous, dark—dripped from gums, splattered on stones. Where it landed, it hissed.

  The sigkhun hurtled towards her. Front paws left the ground, ready to crash down with full weight on the spot where the orc woman had stood.

  The creature flew past; claws slashed the air where her head had been a second before. Momentum dragged the massive body forward—hind paws slipped on stones, found no purchase.

  The troll woman exhaled.

  Shot.

  The string snapped, whipped against her bracer. The arrow tore free, became a streak of fire. Air whistled.

  The sigkhun wheeled. Too fast for such bulk. Its head swung towards Nemira—empty sockets, from which blackness oozed.

  The girl averted her gaze. Reflexively, without thought. Banarka's second rule surfaced on its own.

  The arrow entered the open maw.

  Deep. To the very fletching. Fire blazed inside the gullet—a bright flash illuminated rows of teeth, a tongue covered with black growths. The creature jerked, rasped.

  The sound was wet, gurgling. As though choking on blood. Its head swung from side to side; paws scraped the earth. But the creature didn't fall.

  Banarka charged forward. The axe soared above her head, crashed down on the scruff. The blade entered flesh—not deep, the fur was too dense. But hide burst, sprayed something black.

  Not blood. Thicker. The smell was such that Nemira would have retched inside out, had she stood closer.

  The sigkhun wheeled towards the orc woman. The maw still blazed—fire consumed the oil on the arrow, spread further. But the creature didn't stop. Fangs snapped before Banarka's face—she leapt back, lost her balance on the stone.

  Fell onto her back.

  The creature lunged.

  Nemira was already reaching for her quiver. Her fingers found the next arrow—oiled. She yanked it out, laid it on the string. Brought it to the torch, lit it. Drew.

  Banarka rolled. The sigkhun landed where her head had just been. Claws ripped the earth, struck sparks from stone. The orc woman sprang up, retreated to the boulder.

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  The creature pursued. Six paws carried it faster than seemed possible. The distance between them melted too quickly.

  Banarka pressed her back against the stone, raised her axe horizontally. Defence.

  The sigkhun leapt again.

  Nemira shot.

  The arrow passed through the flame in the maw, buried itself beside the first. Deeper. The head pierced something soft inside—the creature jerked in mid-air; its trajectory veered.

  It fell wide of Banarka. Heavily, clumsily. Paws buckled; the body skidded across the ground, raising dust.

  The orc woman didn't hesitate. A step forward—the axe crashed down on the head. Once. Twice. Thrice. Blows rained down one after another, methodical, merciless. Black ooze sprayed in all directions, soaked the earth.

  The sigkhun jerked. Weakly. Paws scraped stones but couldn't rise. From the maw poured smoke—fire had reached something inside, consumed it from within.

  But despite such outwardly impressive wounds, the creature wasn't dying. Wasn't rasping its last, wasn't slowing, wasn't losing strength. As though the damage didn't matter at all.

  Banarka's axe split the skull—bone cracked, fractured. Black ooze gushed in a torrent, flooded the muzzle. But the sigkhun rose. Front paws braced against the earth, pushed the massive body upward.

  The orc woman retreated. Her face was stone, but her breathing had faltered—her chest heaved more rapidly.

  The creature shook its head. Arrows protruded from the maw at odd angles; the fletching had charred. The fire died—not enough oil. From the split skull oozed liquid, dripped onto the earth. Grass beneath the drops blackened, shrivelled.

  Nemira lit the third arrow. Her hands trembled—barely, but noticeably. She clenched her teeth, drew the string. Aimed for the chest.

  The sigkhun darted left. Sharply, in an arc. Six paws worked in sync—front paws hurled the body forward, hind paws pushed. Speed built.

  The troll woman spun to follow. Her aim veered. Too fast it moved, the angle was wrong.

  The creature rounded the boulder, vanished behind stones.

  Banarka tore after it. Axe ready to strike, muscles tense. But behind the boulder—nothing. Only shadow and scattered pebbles.

  Nemira spun round. Her heart pounded so hard it seemed it would burst free. Where was this creature?

  The earth trembled to the right.

  Too late.

  The sigkhun burst from behind another stone—from the side the girl hadn't expected. Mass slammed into her side, knocked her off her feet. The bow flew from her hands, rolled somewhere aside. The torch swayed but held—flame crackled brighter.

  The troll woman fell on her back. Stone dug between her shoulder blades, knocked air from her lungs.

  The creature bore down on top. Front paws pinned her shoulders to the ground. Claws sank into blue skin—not deep, but painfully. Blood flowed in warm streams, soaked her shirt.

  The maw gaped above her face. Stench struck her nostrils—rot, decay, something sour and acrid. Saliva dripped onto her cheek, scorched. Livien jerked, but the creature's weight held her fast.

  And then she looked.

  Straight into the sockets.

  Emptiness looked back. Not simply the absence of eyes—there was something. Blackness that moved, pulsed. As though alive. It flowed into the girl's skull, seeped through her pupils.

  Horror crashed over her in a wave.

  Icy, all-consuming. Her legs failed—muscles turned to water. Her hands trembled; fingers unclenched of their own accord. Breathing faltered, quickened. Air wouldn't come—her throat constricted, as though strangled.

  Nemira rasped. She wanted to scream—it didn't work. Only a rasp, pitiful and helpless.

  The creature leant closer. Fangs almost touched her face. The stench became unbearable—the girl choked, tried to turn away. Couldn't. Her gaze stuck to the empty sockets, wouldn't tear away.

  Run. She had to run. Now. Immediately.

  But her body wouldn't obey. Lay there, paralysed by fear.

  The world trembled.

  Not physically—inside her skull. Stones vanished. The torch went dark. The sigkhun dissolved, as though it had never been.

  Instead—a city.

  Burning.

  Flame devoured houses, climbed the walls of stone towers. Roofs collapsed; beams cracked. Smoke billowed in black columns into the sky—so thick it blotted out the sun. Or the moon. Unclear. There was light, but strange—dim, dead.

  Streets choked with bodies.

  Layer upon layer. Arms protruded from beneath other arms. Legs tangled so it was impossible to tell whose belonged to whom. Faces stared at the sky with empty eyes. Mouths gaped—frozen mid-scream. Blood flowed between cobblestones, ran downward, there where the street sloped.

  A river.

  Not of water. Scarlet, thick. It flowed slowly, heavily. Along the banks lay more corpses—hundreds, thousands. A mountain of bodies loomed at the crossing. So tall its summit wasn't visible. Flesh had fused into a single mass—skin to skin, bone to bone.

  Livien tried to close her eyes. It didn't work. Her eyelids wouldn't obey. Or there were no eyes at all—only the vision, which burrowed into her mind.

  The mountain began to move.

  At first barely noticeably. A twitch somewhere to the side—one arm jerked, then another. Fingers bent, seized the neighbouring body. Pulled.

  A corpse crawled from the heap. Rose to its knees. Its head lolled—the neck broken, hanging at the wrong angle. But the creature rose. Took a step. Another.

  Behind it—the next. Then another. The mountain stirred ever more actively. Corpses slid down, rose, staggered. Some crawled—they had no legs. Others dragged their guts behind them, which trailed across the ground in wet ropes.

  They were silent. No moans, no cries. Only the shuffle of feet, the scrape of claws on stone. And also—raspy breathing. As though each one's lungs were full of water.

  The girl choked. Air wouldn't come—her throat constricted. She tried to inhale—it didn't work. Only a rasp.

  And then she felt it.

  The cold.

  Not like the wind. Not frosty air that nips the skin. This was inside. It penetrated through her ribs, wrapped icy fingers round her heart. Her lungs compressed, refused to work. Blood froze in her veins—didn't stop, but became thicker, heavier.

  A whisper slid at the edge of hearing.

  There were no words. Or there were, but in a language the girl didn't know. Sounds—low, vibrating. They resonated inside her skull, echoed in her bones. As though someone spoke straight into her brain, bypassing her ears.

  Hlad.

  Nemira didn't hear the word—she knew it. Felt how it imprinted itself into memory. Hlad. Void. The absence of warmth, light, life. Nothing. Only cold, which devours all.

  Nocturne.

  The name scorched from within. The troll woman jerked—or it seemed so. Her body didn't move, but something inside contracted, tried to push away this knowledge. Useless. It had lodged deep, put down roots.

  The Lich King.

  The third name settled with weight on her chest. Pressed so hard her ribs cracked. The girl rasped, tried to inhale. Air scorched her throat—icy, cutting.

  The vision thickened. The city vanished. The river of blood dried. Corpses dissolved.

  Only darkness remained.

  Complete, absolute. Not simply the absence of light—space itself had become black. Livien floated in this blackness, lost. There was no up, no down, no direction. Only void, which pressed from all sides.

  And the whisper.

  It continued. Didn't stop. Words formed into sentences, sentences into speech. Nemira didn't understand the meaning, but felt the message. Promise. Threat. Invitation.

  Join.

  Become part.

  Serve.

  Accept gifts.

  The cold clenched tighter round her heart. The muscle jerked, its rhythm broken. One beat. A pause. Two beats too fast. Another pause.

  The troll woman tried to cry out. Her mouth opened—there was no sound. Only silence, which consumed everything.

  And then something clicked.

  Loud. Sharp.

  The vision cracked.