Prologue:

  Arrival

  “The Fae ripped open our world and those creatures spilled into it. If given a few generations to prepare, we might have been able to withstand them. They wielded a magic we had never seen, which struck down Elf and Orc alike. Why would the creators do this to us?”

  “The End of the álfar Wars” From A Collection of the Ancient Orcish Oral Tradition by John Allen

  A thousand elven fifes shrieked across the silent forest, a sound that clawed at One-Tusk's soul, a harbinger of death he knew all too well. On the day his world died, One-Tusk gnawed on a handful of acorns, the grit still grinding between his teeth, and a few strips of cured flesh—the origin of which he preferred not to contemplate too closely.

  The axe tore free, a wet thwunk echoing the sickening crunch of bone. One-Tusk tasted sickeningly sweet blood – familiar, yet a bitter betrayal. This wasn't the promised glory, the incandescent symphony of battle he'd craved. This was a slow, agonizing death of the spirit, the silence screaming louder than any battle cry. The absence of any meaningful enemy force, a torment more profound than any blade, had hollowed him out, a husk yearning for the cleansing fire of either victory or death. Disheartened, he amble back over to the warband.

  He was a fool, a fool burdened by more than the weight of his axe; burdened by the crushing weight of unfulfilled expectation, a weight heavier than any armor, a weight that crushed the very soul of the fighter he once was, leaving him a hollow echo of the man he aspired to be. The crimson sunset mocked his despair, staining the dust the color of his broken dreams. Even the smell of his own sweat was a reminder of the bitter failure, a testament to the agonizing emptiness of his endless, silent march towards oblivion. The green hand in his hair, the clumsy leather cuirass – these were trivial details against the vast, agonizing emptiness that threatened to consume him entirely. This was a pilgrimage to nothing. A pilgrimage to the oblivion of a life unlived, a war unfought, a glory forever out of reach.

  With each step, One-Tusk’s feet throbbed, the dirt between his toes now a distant memory. The ache had crept up to his shins, jolting with every movement, and his knees burned, resisting every bend. One-Tusk didn’t feel connected to the Stonemother here; this was Elf land, and it punished him with every footfall. In the time he had alone with his thoughts, One-Tusk wondered if the glory of battle was worth this relentless suffering.

  The weight of his axe made his back throb, the chafing that began weeks ago now a constant rake across his skin with each step. The odd, transparent blue-gray of the jagged great axe was formed from a single piece of adamantine, the very tears of the Stonemother. He’d earned the axe in an earlier raid, and now his back was paying for it. One-Tusk couldn’t use the magic the adamantine weapon strengthened and stored, not in any meaningful way. All the Stonemother’s children could channel her magic to some degree, but One-Tusk was nothing special.

  The Gargoyle leading the warband wielded a monstrous axe in each hand, towering nearly twice as tall as the largest Orc. His massive wings and tail hung inches from the ground but never touched it. Not a drop of sweat rolled down the stone skin of his back. Torgal didn’t even breathe heavily.

  Though the giant elemental had fathered One-Tusk, it afforded him no special treatment. Half the Orcs in the warband could make the same claim. One-Tusk wished he had just a bit more of his father’s endurance.

  Torgal held an axe up, and the horde of Orcs stopped in their tracks

  “We are close,” Torgal’s voice rumbled, making the stone under One-Tusk’s feet hum.

  There was a cheer through the ranks. One-Tusk remained silent. He didn’t even care that the true bloodshed was about to begin. He was already dreading the walk home, let alone the raid he had to take part in before he was able to start. Instinct dictated that One-Tusk would rage when he saw crimson Orc blood and smelled its sharp tang, but his heart would no longer be in it.

  “We will run from here on out,” Torgal said.

  One-Tusk cursed under his breath.

  Torgal raised his axe high, his hard eyes pinning the Orcs in place. “When we get to the island, we will burn the southern bridge behind us and then put everything on it to the axe and flame!”

  The Orcs cheered again, many drawing their weapons.

  Torgal’s gaze swept over the warband, lingering on One-Tusk.

  “Spill all the Elf blood you can, but if you bring me the head of a Warden, you will earn your axe!” The unspoken challenge hung in the air, daring them to prove their worth. He held up his own adamantine weapons while the Orcs looked on with hunger and awe.

  Some of them looked at One-Tusk and the adamantine axe he carried. He scowled. Half nearly worshipped him like a Gargoyle, while the other half had thoughts of taking the thing for themselves.

  Fools either way.

  Torgal signaled the charge, and tired bodies creaked into motion, the dance of death calling to them all. Grandfathers kept pace with Orcs barely old enough to grow a mane as they rushed towards their own demise. One-Tusk shook his head and pulled the axe off his back. His bruised feet moved hesitantly at first, but soon matched the cadence of the host.

  Arrows exploded from the trees, blossoming nightmares of obsidian tipped death. Each shaft slammed into his armor – a bone-jarring THWACK, followed by the sickening prick of the piercing obsidian, the rasping GRIND of splintering bone and the hot, wet splat of blood erupting from the wounds. The mundane arrows were a rain of agony, each a hammer blow shattering his resolve. But it wasn't the pain; it was the anticipation. He choked on fear, tasting blood – his own, metallic and coppery – and the sickening tang of his comrades' spilled life. He waited for the POP, the sound that heralded the Arcane Snipers' death-dealing magic. Their bows, impossibly large for their slender forms, spat bolts of solidified malice, each a spear-length projectile that ripped through the air, leaving a cold, screaming pull in its wake. He’d seen it before: the unholy WHUMP as those things punched through Orcish ranks, leaving trails of butchered bodies, fountains of crimson spraying across the mud. He’d seen the fear-stricken eyes of his comrades before the light flickered out. He remembered the screams, the echoing silence punctuated only by the drip, drip, drip of blood. This time, the memory triggered a primal scream, a guttural roar ripped from his throat.

  Then came the barrage – not a sound, but a catastrophe of motion. A blur of veridium death; a wall of bolts tearing through the air at chest height, a screaming, lethal wave. The air itself crackled with the force of their passage, vibrating with the raw energy of impending doom. Orcs screamed, fell, their bodies imploded by shafts, their lifeblood spraying across the ground in crimson geysers. The sickening thud of bodies hitting the earth was a gruesome percussion to the storm of projectiles; even the thick hides and musculature of his brethren were insufficient. The archers, calculating, cruel, had timed their volley perfectly, creating ghastly lines of death.

  One-Tusk felt a searing pain in his arm, a dull throbbing escalating to a white-hot agony. He saw the Orc beside him, his bald head blossoming with a crimson flower – a gaping wound spraying blood. The One-Tusk’s eyes glazed over; a low, guttural growl rumbled in his chest as his form twitched, his muscles hardening, his skin slick with a feverish sheen. The Orc's sanity drained away like water through cracked earth. Reason, fear, pain – all vanished, replaced by a surging tide of incandescent rage. The screams of the dying – once a source of terror – were now a blood-curdling symphony, a heady, intoxicating perfume that fueled his own fury. The stench of blood, once repulsive, now a primal stimulant. One-Tusk roared, a sound as brutal and savage as the weapon in his hand. His vision narrowed, his mind consumed by a single, brutal purpose. The axe, heavy in his grasp, felt like an extension of himself, a conduit for his unleashed rage.

  He charged.

  The mass of Orcs followed behind him and plowed into the front line of the Elves, snapping bones with the pressure of their bodies alone. Every drop of blood spilled forced their rage to burn hotter. They became a horde of two-legged beasts.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  One-Tusk held on to the last scraps of his mind with white knuckles. He ran to an Elf, tall, thin, and wearing delicate plates of wooden armor. The scales never seemed to tangle no matter how he twisted away from One-Tusk, and their clattering rang in his ears like a mocking song. The Orc raised his axe high over his head to bring it down on the Elf with all his might. His chest flared as the tip of his opponent’s spear sliced through his armor and skittered across his flesh. The Elf’s weapon snapped into position to block the coming attack, but it was no use. Adamantine bit into the wooden shaft and sheared right through. Green blood oozed out of the Elf as the jagged axe glid through shoulder, and chest, finally running out of power when it reached his navel. The Elf’s seafoam eyes looked at the ruined length of his haft in horror.

  One-Tusk wrenched his weapon free and let the Elf fall to the ground. He was already looking for another one to hew. He moved from Elf to Elf, spreading blood with his brothers and sisters, deepening his rage until there was nothing but a speck of One-Tusk left. Howling with each kill, the Orc grew faster and stronger. His burning nerves dulled with every strike, the recoil of his axe biting through bone a dull thud against his increasingly numb hands.

  By the time it happened, the impact was a phantom vibration, felt more in the deep bones than as a true sound. The air crackled, not with the familiar snap of lightning, but with a discordant hum that vibrated not just in his teeth, but deep in his chest cavity, a pressure wave that resonated in his very bones. It wasn't a sound so much as a feeling – a prickling unease, a crawling sensation beneath his skin that preceded a horrifying display.

  It wasn't a simple appearance; it was a rending of reality. One moment the Orc was charging forward, a blur of rage and muscle, and the next, the world fractured. They didn't arrive; they unfurled. First, a shimmering distortion in the air, a ripple in the very fabric of existence, accompanied by a shift in the air pressure that felt like a sudden, chilling draft. The air itself felt strangely thick, almost viscous. Then— impossibly beautiful, yet terrifying beyond comprehension— they were.

  One-Tusk’s breath hitched, the air catching in his throat with a harsh rasp. These two… things weren't merely beings; they were manifestations of something… else. The first was slight, a creature of ethereal grace, with skin like the pale blue waters of Lake Androdol, but impossibly translucent, as if light itself were woven into her being. Her dress, black as midnight, shifted and flowed, the fabric seeming to brush his senses with an odd coolness, revealing glimpses of incandescent colors beneath – a maelstrom of impossible hues that shimmered and shifted just at the edge of his vision. Her eyes, vast and luminous, held a chilling depth of ancient sorrow, their light seeming to burn into him, a cold fire in the back of his eyes. Her wings, vast and iridescent, unfurled with a whisper of sound that was more a sigh of cosmic dread – a pressure wave, like a vast hand passing over his skin – than a simple flutter. She radiated a power that made One-Tusk's blood run cold, each breath feeling like ice in his lungs.

  The second… this one was a chilling contrast. Skin the color of death, hair like spun moonlight, he hung suspended a hair’s breadth above the ground, supported by vast, moth-like wings that beat with a silent, unnerving rhythm, the faintest pressure change in the air preceding their movement. His armor was black, clinging tightly to his gaunt frame, and the weapon at his hip… it wasn't simply a weapon, it pulsed with an internal light, a sliver of something impossibly sharp and dangerous, and the air around it hummed with a barely perceptible energy that made the hairs on One-Tusk's arms stand on end. A wave of nausea rolled over him, a sickly sweet smell, like crushed blossoms and decay, filling his nostrils and clinging to the back of his throat.

  The very air churned, turning to an unnatural fog, a swirling miasma of shimmering colors and unearthly whispers that pressed against his ears, a heavy, suffocating weight. The sounds of battle were muted, replaced by a high-pitched keening that seemed to pierce his skull, a physical vibration felt more than heard. The ground trembled, not with the force of clashing armies, but with a deeper, more unsettling vibration – the shuddering of reality itself, felt as a deep, resonant thrumming beneath his feet, up his legs and into his very core.

  Something about the odd pair tickled the back of One-Tusk’s mind, but the fog of rage muddled his thoughts. He could almost hear his mothers’ voices but couldn’t remember the words to their song. It didn’t matter. Whatever these things were, they were in the way. One-Tusk snorted and raised his axe. He figured he could lop off both fools’ heads with a single swing.

  The strangers raised their hands, and an eerie light burst forth. The ground shook as if the Stonemother herself were trying to run from the glow.

  “… Run and run and run away,” his mothers had sung. “Fear the ghostly light of Fae…”

  The center of the island cracked open, and the burning blood of the Stonemother fountained from it, freezing into a jagged spire hundreds of feet high. Strange creatures materialized at its base, their skin a spectrum of pinks and browns, their faces twisted in cold determination. Their eyes, glittering with unsettling intelligence, drew power from the pulsing monolith. This was a power beyond One-Tusk's comprehension, a primal fear seizing him and shoving the rage away.

  Twisted, metallic growths sprouted from the Stonemother's flesh; the creatures harvested them, raising bladed weapons that crackled with unnatural light. These weren't tools of war, but instruments of death. Their attack was a symphony of precise, coordinated movements, a stark contrast to the brutal chaos One-Tusk knew. They charged, their guttural war cries – chilling, devoid of mercy – echoing over the screams of dying Orc and Elf alike. They were efficient, ruthless, cutting through seasoned warriors as if they were straw.

  One-Tusk's heart hammered. He searched desperately for Torgal, finding him only to witness a dozen lightning bolts obliterate the elemental, his body exploding in a spray of deadly shards. Grief and terror choked him. The sight of his sire's annihilation shattered his resolve. He froze, witnessing a Warden engulfed in flames, his wooden body flailing wildly, while a creature casually switched from disemboweling an Orc to crushing an Elf's skull. Then, the rout began.

  One-Tusk succumbed to primal fear. He ran. Not a strategic retreat, but a panicked flight. He didn't think of friend or foe, only escape. He hauled others up, desperate for company in his frantic flight, Orc and Elf alike scrambling alongside him as he became a living vortex of fear and desperation pulling them towards the crushing wave of alien attackers.

  *               *               *

  The fires on Qu’eldaron died down, leaving behind an unnatural stillness as Ljósálfar and D?kkálfar huddled in a shared fear. The air, thick with the stench of smoke and something else… something acrid and unsettling, hung heavy. The island itself seemed to hold its breath. The once-vibrant, chaotic landscape was now a scarred parody of its former self; twisted, blackened trees clawed at the smoke-filled sky, their branches contorted like skeletal fingers. The ground, where once fertile earth had thrived, was now cracked and fissured, revealing veins of obsidian beneath. A single, broken branch, snapped from a nearby tree, clattered to the ground, its descent almost impossibly loud, as if the very air eared to break the silence.

  "We need to tell the other elementals of the danger," the Gargoyle grumbled, his voice a low rumble that seemed to shake the already unstable ground. "They’re confined to the island for now, but they’ll spread."

  The silence was absolute, broken only by the occasional sigh of the wind whispering through the ravaged landscape – a mournful dirge for the fallen. The Warden, her remaining limbs gnarled and scarred, stood amidst the devastation. One of her massive boughs, newly broken, lay at her feet, a testament to the strain of the night's battle. She didn't attempt to repair it. She looked towards the Gargoyle, his silhouette stark against the ashen sky, his remaining hand still clutching the glowing rune, a malevolent ember in the twilight.

  The Warden nodded solemnly. The vines of her feet, weakened and broken, searched the scorched earth for purchase. Three arms lay scattered, useless. Regrowth felt impossibly distant. Silence stretched, broken only by the sigh of the wind through the ravaged trees.

  The Gargoyle remained silent, his gaze fixed on the smoldering ruins of Qu’eldaron. The alien settlements glittered malevolently in the fading light.

  The Warden’s voice, a whisper, barely audible above the wind: "Hiding."

  He shifted his weight, a barely perceptible nod towards the ruins. A flicker of something – not quite satisfaction, but an absence of something else – crossed his stony face. The Gargoyle’s remaining hand, a veined marble fist, clenched around a glowing rune. He displayed it. A low chuckle, like grinding stones, escaped him.

  “A deal. Centuries ago.” He admitted.

  The Warden recoiled slightly.

  He dropped his hand. The chuckle was darker this time. “A pix. For the power of Fire. Cost me my name.”

  A long silence. The Warden’s eyes narrowed. “And now?”

  “The pix promised I’d be … ‘destructive as a Human.’” He paused, a bitter edge to his voice. “I think that… that must be what she meant.”

  The Warden murmured, almost to herself, “Yes.” A soft gasp came from the grass as she leached its Nature to tried to stand, boughs groaning in protest. Some snapped. She looked at the Gargoyle. A single question, strained and pained.

  “The others…”

  The Gargoyle nodded, a low rumble in his chest.

  “Dragons.”

  He paused, the silence heavy. “I will warn them.”

  A silent exchange followed, heavy with the weight of their shared devastation. An understanding, born not of words, but of a catastrophe that had left them speechless. The Warden turned, her movements stiff, labored. Her voice:

  “Griffins… Leviathans…” Her voice trailed off, lost in the gathering dusk. A raven took flight, its shadow a fleeting darkness against the bruised sky. The silence closed in, a suffocating blanket. The unspoken words hung in the air, a chilling promise of an unknown future, a terrible uncertainty. What next? The answer, hidden in the desolate landscape, was worse than any open war.