A grin crept across my lips. I was genuinely glad I hadn't lost the orcs. My poker face is abysmal, so I didn’t even bother trying to hide it. They’d been doing excellent work keeping order in the barony, and replacing them with equally competent forces would be both tedious and expensive. Besides, I’d grown used to them, and I had a good working relationship with Drackar.

  I looked up to meet his gaze.

  “So, how’s the orc village project coming along?”

  He gave a small shrug. “Slow but steady. We’re up to thirty-six families now, and the numbers keep growing. Some of your human peasants have asked if they can move there too. It’s a good location. Are you okay with that?”

  I shrugged,

  “I don’t see any reason to oppose it.”

  He nodded.

  “That’s what I figured. Still, better to check. Some people don’t like mixed-race villages.”

  I nodded. I was well aware that problems might arise: different customs, behaviors, values. I’d learned recently, for example, that nudity was commonplace among orcs, considered entirely normal. Not so with humans. Orcs apparently had enhanced metabolism when exposed to sunlight, and communal sunbathing was a popular pastime. But since everyone was expected to follow the domain’s rules, most of these issues should be manageable.

  I glanced at Drackar. I’d seen nearly all the other orcs sunbathing at some point, but not him. Maybe he thought he was too old for it?

  How old is he, actually? I’ve never asked.

  I shook the thought away. Whatever. I sighed and tried to refocus on the actual issues I’d meant to discuss. I’d been having some trouble communicating with Yisila, and maybe Drackar could help me understand what I was doing wrong.

  “There’s one thing I wanted to ask you about,” I began, and as he looked at me, I blurted out, “How old are you?”

  I froze. That was not what I meant to ask.

  “Sixty-five,” he replied, raising one brow with a chuckle. “Do you think I’m too old for the job?”

  “No, no!” I waved my hands frantically. “I was thinking about how old K’hordock must be. His early interactions with Julietta were at least sixty or seventy years ago...”

  “Oh, K’hordock,” he said with a shrug. “That monster’s at least two hundred. That’s way beyond a normal orc lifespan, but his level and his mastery have stretched his years. Some think he’s a lich, but I don’t believe that. More likely, he’s used necromancy to extend his life.”

  “Oh!” I said, nodding as if that had been exactly the answer I was after. At least I managed to save face. Honestly, it was interesting... but now for my real question.

  “Tell me, what’s the best way to communicate with Yisila?” I asked. “She can’t really explain things in words, but she did show me something. I saw that the dwarfs’ location was in the middle of the lake.”

  He tilted his head, visibly confused.

  “I’m not sure I follow,” he said slowly. “You don’t talk to a spirit tool, you use it. Don’t let the way she was made confuse you. She might have been a person once, but now she’s just that: a tool. So… you mean the dwarfs are still there?”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “They’ve already left. But they were there.”

  “They were there when you saw them?” he asked, frowning. “We could’ve tried to ambush them. Pity they’re gone now. Are you certain they’ve left?”

  I sighed, trying to clear the misunderstanding.

  “No, Drackar. Yisila showed me the place where the dwarfs had been operating from. It was something in the past, not a current scene.”

  He looked up and scratched his head, his brows drawing together.

  “A spirit tool… isn’t supposed to remember things. Not in that way,” he said slowly. “Normally, they can only show you what’s happening right now. So you probably saw what was happening... or... I don't know…”

  His voice trailed off.

  I shook my head and took a deep breath.

  “But I think she did. I think those were images from the past...”

  He sighed and gave a resigned shrug.

  “That’s not really something a spirit tool is supposed to do.”

  We looked at each other in silence for a moment, both digesting the implications. Maybe I needed to ask Yisila more deliberately next time—to clarify what she was trying to show me. And maybe... maybe I should start taking those requests she made more seriously.

  “Could it be that she’s different from a standard spirit tool?” I asked.

  “She is different,” he admitted, “but she’s still a spirit tool. I can’t say for sure you’re not misinterpreting what she showed you.”

  I sighed, deciding to shelve the topic for now.

  “Alright. Let’s leave it for the moment. I thought maybe I was just using her wrong.”

  I gave a small shrug, then looked at him more intently.

  “I’d like you to gather everything you can about Hologomora,” I said. “I want to figure out where Julietta might be held.”

  “As a high-value prisoner, she’s most likely in K’hordock’s castle—or his private dungeons beneath it,” he replied without hesitation. “The castle is at the center of the Kingdom, high in the mountains. A few of my men have traveled through Hologomora, but none have been inside the castle itself. It’ll take time to gather anything more precise.”

  *

  * *

  Thereus was tired. Bone-deep tired.

  He glanced down at his bloodied feet and sighed. He was old, weak, and had no special skills. He was just another worn-out peasant. Worse, his legs still bore raw, oozing wounds from those damned rusted chains. The idiot orc who'd locked the shackle on the first day had used a ring far too tight for his left leg.

  Now he could barely walk.

  Who would want him? Even when his price had been slashed down to just two Hologomora-solen, not a single bid had come in. He knew what that meant.

  He was going to be used as entertainment. A moving target for the young orcs to practice their strikes on.

  There were two other old men in the group, but they were even worse off than he was.

  Another sigh escaped his cracked lips as he watched the slave chariots roll away, one by one. The market was winding down, and with each departure, his chances of being sold slipped further into nothing.

  Not that being sold promised anything better, but it might mean living a little longer, and clinging to hope just a bit more.

  At least he was too weak for the mines. That meant he wouldn’t end up dying exhausted beneath a collapsing shaft.

  In his mind, being bought for a mine was even worse than being used as a moving target for the young orcs.

  A few buyers still lingered, mostly poorer orcs scanning the leftovers for someone cheap to help on a small farm. But even they preferred someone like Evans, the fourteen-year-old boy with sinewy arms and a future, or Tedra, the lean woman who could still cook, wash, and do all the chores of a household.

  It had been his fault. He knew the Hologomora orcs would come raiding again, just as they did nearly every year, sweeping across the land in search of slaves. Small bands of young orcs, barely more than boys, would skirmish with the locals, snatch up any stragglers, pillage a few villages and isolated farms, then retreat back to their kingdom with whatever spoils and captives they’d claimed. Not a real war, just blood sport dressed as tradition. A barbaric nation and a plague on earth!

  But the barons and counts were no better. They never organized real defenses. They guarded their own manors, their servants, a few key towns and fortified villages. The rest - scattered farms, minor hamlets - were left to fend for themselves.

  People learned to go into hiding when the season turned. And he should have done the same. They’d been warned.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  But he had gone back for those stupid sheep.

  He thought he could find them and return before the raiders came. They weren’t even worth that much, but losing them meant they’d run at a loss this year. And that meant they wouldn’t be able to pay the debt, wouldn’t keep the farm.

  He sighed.

  He had gambled, and lost. What more was there to say?

  His thoughts went back to his farm and his wife. What would Sena do now? Poor woman.

  Maybe she’d go to Vinny in the town, if the boy had any room or use for her.

  But more likely, she’d stay and try to hold out. Alone with the farm? She'll die next winter. A tear slid down his cheek as he thought of her. Then another.

  Not only had he brought doom upon himself, he had condemned her, too. That sweet old girl he still loved so deeply.

  He heard his name and lifted his head. It was Sangha, the Aertya girl. She had once shared her food with him, small portions she could spare, thanks to her people's ability to survive on less through their innate magic. He had helped her carry her burden once, and they had shared quiet moments of humanity in the midst of this nightmare.

  Her carriage was now leaving. She had been sold quickly. She waved to him, and he raised a trembling hand in return, tears still running down his face.

  He tried to hide them. She shouldn’t think he cried from fear.

  Only three of them remained now.

  One of the orcs stepped forward and unbound the chains of Thores, the oldest among them. Just a light push was enough to set the man stumbling to his feet.

  To Thereus’ shock, Thores began to run, surprisingly nimble for his age.

  The orcs chuckled, casually readying their weapons. It was a game to them. A younger orc loosed an arrow. It missed as Thores had stumbled just as the shot came.

  The others laughed, jeering at the poor aim. Then another orc stepped forward, hefting a small throwing axe.

  It whizzed through the air with a sickening hiss - and struck Thores squarely between the shoulders. The old man fell with a dull thud. He wasn't dead yet. A low moaning still rose from his crumpled form.

  A bit of commotion stirred among the orcs. They barked angrily at the ax thrower, apparently displeased that the entertainment had ended too soon.

  Then they moved on to the second man. He was a priest, and he simply refused to run. He stood, silent and still, unmoved by their shouting or threats. He even chuckled at them.

  Annoyed, the orcs grabbed burning sticks from a nearby fire and began jabbing them at the priest. At first, he gritted his teeth, determined not to give them the satisfaction of hearing him scream. But the torment went on, each jab more vicious than the last, and eventually, moans turned into cries of pain. The air filled with the stench of burned flesh and singed hair.

  Thereus shut his eyes. He didn’t want to see anymore.

  But the priest’s screams found him anyway, echoing in his ears no matter how hard he tried to shut them out.

  It lasted long, far too long, before the cries finally ceased.

  Then it was his turn.

  He no longer heard Thores, and the ax thrower went to retrieve his weapon.

  Thereus let out a long breath and rose slowly to his feet.

  As they waited for the ax thrower to return to his spot, Thereus looked out toward the distant treeline.

  Maybe two hundred meters? It was close, but not close enough.

  He knew he had no chance. A quick death will be all he might still hope. That would be fine. Better than being toyed with.

  So, the moment they unshackled him and gave him that mockery of freedom, he began to limp away - as fast as his ruined leg would allow.

  He heard laughter erupt behind him, but he didn’t look back.

  Several seconds passed. He kept moving. An arrow whizzed through the air and missed. On purpose. But too damn close! He tried to run faster. Maybe...

  The forest was getting closer. A hundred meters, perhaps.

  So close. And yet, still so far.

  The earth shook, and a violent blast hurled him face-first into the dirt. The sky above darkened in an instant. Another blast rolled him across the ground.

  Was this the end? Or the end of time? This couldn’t be the orcs, it felt like all the hells had been unleashed behind him.

  Rocks and splinters sliced the air above, whizzing past. Then came thick, choking dust. He coughed violently, blinking through grit, his vision nearly gone.

  He tried to stand and another tremor slammed him back down. An earthquake? But…

  He glanced back.

  Where the orcs had been, something dark, enormous, and shifting loomed. Was it the sky itself? A volcano erupting right behind him?

  His mind couldn’t make sense of it.

  Blasts of fire scorched the earth to his left, trees bursting, rocks melting instantly.

  On all fours, he crawled, dragging himself away from the madness. His thoughts spun wildly, disjointed, absurd.

  He only knew one thing: he was terrified.

  Then came a terrible roar.

  Deep. Gut-churning.

  Kyriat-Bael-Noctharion, the World-Ender - known under many names, the dragon of prophecy, the doom of ages - could not have been more terrifying than the monster behind him.

  And it was a dragon. Maybe it was him. The World-Ender.

  He didn’t even notice when the trees swallowed him. He just kept going. Running. Fleeing.

  *

  * *

  So much for sneaking in unnoticed and rescuing her!

  Damn dragon wouldn’t give me a moment’s peace.

  I’d been trying to scout the damn castle in shadow form - quiet, careful, almost there - but somehow, something sensed me. Golems? Wards or anti-intruder alarms? Whatever it was, I got blasted and had to retreat fast.

  And just when I thought I was far enough… That flying bastard came down from the clouds like it’d been waiting for me.

  I shifted fully into shadow again, but no dice. Somehow it still tracked me. Worse: its dragonfire hurt—even in shadow form.

  No matter what I did, no matter what tricks I pulled, it was always there, slamming into me again and again. I transformed into dragon and fought him, but he didn't relent.

  Level 102. Hell of a level. And those hits? They hurt. Even in dragon form.

  Sure, I had more levels, but he had the better combat skills. He was faster and his hits were sharper and more focused. And he didn’t let up for even a second. It was like being stalked by a living blade.

  I was stronger and yet I was losing. It was maddening. If only I could grab him, just once, I was sure I could end it.

  But the bastard was slippery. Always slipped away at the last second.

  Until he didn’t.

  After what felt like a full hour of brutal supersonic sky combat, I finally got my claws around him and I didn’t let go.

  We fell like a meteor.

  I wasn’t going to stop.

  That damn beast had made my life hell for an hour straight. Now it was his turn.

  But just as I clamped him down, ready to finally snap his neck, he begged me to let him live.

  Yeah, sure, now you want to talk?

  But more came through. Not words, but raw, desperate telepathy.

  He wasn’t fighting anymore. Not even struggling. Just... submitting. And I listened.

  My dragon head lowered, inching closer to his.

  He whined.

  He wasn’t on the same cognitive level. He understood emotions, some basic phrases, but no true language. No real speech, just images, feelings, and... nuances.

  He was maybe as intelligent as a dog. Or a dolphin. Maybe a bit more, but not much.

  Control. Control. Control.

  The emotion came through in waves. Not fear. Not resistance. Just... pleading.

  He'd been controlled.

  Something had been using him. Forcing him. But the fall had broken it.

  And then I saw it: a spider-like thing clinging to the back of his neck, a gleaming dark diamond at its center. Eerie similar to that thing that had controlled Ju. It hung limply now, its grip dislodged from the impact.

  I slid a claw beneath its spindly legs and tore it off.

  Pain surged through the telepathic link, sharp and searing, but the dragon didn’t move. Didn’t resist. Just whined again, low and broken, like a beaten dog.

  And suddenly... instead of rage, I felt pity.