Heir of the Fog

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

Among the Vadruk

Each dawn in the orc city—or what passed for dawn under the crystal-lit ceiling—I pulled my notebook from my storage ring, its pages worn from days of scribbling. Elina's face flashed in my mind, her eyes wide at the thought of this place. I'd write for her, for the surface, capturing a world they'd never believe. My finger scratched out a note, the words flowing as I sat hidden by Hazeveil's shadows, the city's hum around me.

In the deepest parts of the abyss, a path was lit

not by sun or flame, but by crystals blooming from stone.

The walls bore symbols carved by claw and will,

and beyond them, a hidden world unfurled.

To the beasts within, this was all they'd ever known.

A sky of crystal light.

A river that flowed through stone without source.

Structures shaped not by tools, but by the cave itself.

Plants that breathed without sun, fed by something unknown.

The orcs called this place Greshkhor Vadis, or just Vadis, a name I'd pieced together from their guttural speech with Kara's patient analysis. Bit by bit, their language unfolded through repetition and context. Vadruk meant the onyx adults, towering with scars earned in hunts, and Saruk for the ebony younglings. Vadis housed thousands, a society dwarfing any district I'd roamed on the surface, bound by a brutal horde instinct that pulsed like a heartbeat. Their ways were harsh, but ordered, a design as deliberate as the caves that cradled them.

Hazeveil's shadows clung to me like a second skin as I moved through Vadis, my steps silent, a ghost among the orcs. The cloak's faint aura dulled their senses, rendering me invisible to the onyx and ebony beasts as I wove between their hulking forms in the crowded streets.

I kept low, my tentacles grazing the smooth stone, catching the city's pulse, the grunts of labor, the rush of the river cutting through, the clink of fingers sorting crystal harvests. The air was thick with damp moss and the sharp tang of orc sweat, alive in a way the abyss's fog-choked pit never was. I'd linger near market stalls, where Vadruk bartered bone tools for crystal sacks, or by the riverbank, watching Saruk splash in the shallows, their budding tusks catching the crystal glow.

I paused by a training ground carved into the cavern's edge, Hazeveil's shadows pulled tight, as a Vadruk instructor barked at a cluster of Saruk wielding crude axes, miniatures of the bone-and-claw weapons Utra's horde carried, but sharp enough to cleave stone. "Khor sar vadis, Vadruk kharvad!" the instructor roared, his voice booming off the cavern walls, a phrase I'd heard daily, its cadence seared into my memory.

The Saruk swung in unison, their strikes clumsy but driven, sweat gleaming on their pitted, green-gray skin. I crouched behind a rock pillar, my notebook open on my knee, noting the words with a steady hand. "Kharvad," I whispered to Kara, my voice a thought directed inward. "That's their trial, isn't it?"

[Kara]

[Affirmative. Analysis suggests "Kharvad" denotes a ritual for Saruk transitioning to Vadruk status, aligning with observed training patterns.]

I nodded, my eyes fixed on a Saruk who stumbled mid-swing, earning a swift cuff from the instructor's hand. The younglings were fed well—hunted meat from Vadruk expeditions, crystal shards to stoke their cores, until their ebony cores reached their peak, brimming with mana but unable to grow further.

Then came Kharvad, a brutal test where Saruk were sent to the lower caves to hunt under the abyss's first rule: brutality. Success meant ascension to onyx, returning to Vadis as Vadruk, full members of the horde, their axes heavier, their scars a badge. Failure meant death, their cores left to feed the caves' endless hunger. I'd watched a few Saruk depart for Kharvad, heads high, axes clutched tight, their grunts defiant. Most didn't return, their absence unmarked by grief. The orcs' high birth rate kept Vadis teeming, a grim balance that churned my stomach but made sense here.

The brutality of it stunned me, but it fit Vadis's rhythm like a blade fits a sheath. The Saruk trained relentlessly, their spars growing bloodier each day, steeling them for a trial where survival was rare. Yet the Vadruk didn't mourn the fallen—they honored strength, carving symbols into the rock for those who returned as Vadruk, their names growled in pride. I leaned closer, Hazeveil's shadows flickering faintly, catching the instructor's next shout: "Sjak, Saruk! Vadis gresh!" The Saruk roared back, their axes flashing in the crystal light, and I scribbled the phrase.

The orc tongue was simpler than human speech, its words fewer, its rules looser, but no less alive. Their writing fascinated me most; it had no letters, just symbols, each a word etched with claw or bone.

I'd spent days sketching them in my notebook, cross-referencing with Kara to crack their meanings. Vadis's temples drew me deepest, their vast halls humming with crystal light, walls carved with tales of blood and glory. Epic battles sprawled across the stone—orc heroes clashing with titans, their axes raised, tusks bared. Names of fallen Vadruk lined the borders, etched in sharp slashes, and above it all loomed Sjakthar, their God, depicted as a colossus wreathed in fog, the abyss's master.

I sat cross-legged in the grandest temple, Hazeveil's shadows cloaking me, my notebook open on the stone floor. The air was cool, heavy with the scent of moss and polished rock, the crystal ceiling casting blue-violet prisms over the carvings. My finger scratched feverishly, copying a scene: a Vadruk, axe aloft, facing a Baruk, a crimson monster.

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The detail was crude but vivid, the Baruk's fall a moment of triumph. I paused, tracing the symbol for Sjakthar, a spiral crossed by claws and wondered what kind of god claimed a place like this. The lens at my chest hummed faintly, its whispers blending with the temple's quiet, like it sensed the weight of this place.

A rustle broke my focus. Someone sat beside me, close enough that I tensed, my tentacles twitching under Hazeveil's veil. She was a female orc, leaner than most Vadruk, her frame still dwarfing mine, muscles rippling under green-gray skin marked with glowing runes, arcane, almost like wards.

Her eyes, yellow and sharp, stared at my notebook, not through me. I held still, expecting her to move on. Onyx beasts shouldn't see me, not with Hazeveil's shadows dulling their senses. But the feeling of her gaze lingered, heavy, until she spoke, her voice low and clear. "You draw Sjakthar's glory?"

I froze, my finger halting mid-stroke. Her human tongue was flawless, accented but precise, and she was looking right at my sketch. Hazeveil should've hidden me; onyx beasts didn't pierce its shadows. My mind raced. Lirien, back in District 98, had seen through shadows, her onyx rank boosted by drugs that burned her out. But Vadis's tech was crude, bone and stone, no alchemical labs. I scanned her runes, glowing faintly, and her calm posture, no weapon in hand. "How?" I muttered, then louder, "You speak my tongue?"

She smiled, tusks glinting, her eyes never leaving mine. "Khoris from Sjakthar. He gifts me tongues to speak, eyes to see, for his sanctuary." Her words mixed human clarity with orc cadence, "Khoris" slipping in naturally, a term I'd learned meant blessing. Her gaze flicked to the carving. "That battle, when our last Baruk fell long ago. It stirs Saruk and Vadruk, shows strength for Kharvad."

I blinked, processing. Baruk—crimson beasts, like me, painted as giants on these walls. The scene was no myth; it was history, meant to fire up the younglings for their trials. I glanced around, tentacles curling, noting the temple's emptiness. No orcs prayed or lingered here, strange for Vadis's heart. "You're a Warlock?" I asked, my voice tight. The lens's hum sharpened, a prickle against my chest.

"Ultharis, in our tongue," she said, her smile softening. "In yours, Warlock fits. Or call me Sharn." She leaned back, hands resting on her knees, no threat in her stance. I hesitated, then let Hazeveil's shadows slip, my tentacles unfurling slowly, ready to strike. "Are you here to fight me, Sharn? Using Sjakthar's power?"

Her laugh was sharp, echoing off the stone, but it faded quick, her eyes warm. "No Khoris makes me match a Baruk. I'd fall, axe or no." She tilted her head, studying me. "I saw you days ago, slipping through Vadis. Why stay? You don't take crystals, don't kill. If you want our gresh, our wealth, we'd give it to you Baruk."

I stared, my frost mist curling faintly, more reflex than intent. She'd tracked me for days, silent, while I thought Hazeveil hid me. Her orc words wove into her speech like they were instinct, but those common ones had become familiar to me. "If you knew I was here," I said, slow, "Why haven't you warned others? Why haven't you sent a Baruk to drive me out?"

Sharn's smile faded, her gaze dropping to the temple floor. "No Baruk walk Vadis now. Utra dreams of it, but greed blinds him, too far from Kharvad's truth." She sighed, her runes dimming. "Even if we had Baruk, they belong to Sjakthar's battleground, not caves. The abyss is his, made for their glory."

My skin prickled, the lens's hum a steady pulse. A god's abyss, designed for crimson beasts to clash. I'd felt its purpose in the caves, in the crystals, in Kharvad itself. "But I'm here," I said, leaning forward. "A Baruk, in your caves. If what you say is true, then shouldn't it be impossible for me to be here?"

Sharn's eyes widened, her breath catching. She studied me, my small frame, the lens glinting at my chest. "Baruk are… vast, power like storms. I didn't know one could be…" She paused, wincing. "Small. The caves keep grand Baruk out—Sjakthar's will."

I snorted, her bluntness stinging despite her honesty. Smaller than her, sure, but crimson all the same. The caves' design was already obvious to me and she only confirmed my suspicion. The entrances were simply too narrow for titans, but perfect for me, an anomaly. Sjakthar's abyss had rules, but I slipped through their cracks.

I leaned back against the temple's cool stone, the crystal ceiling's prisms casting faint blue-violet flecks across my notebook, still open to my sketch of Sjakthar's battle. Sharn sat beside me, her runic-marked skin glowing softly, her yellow eyes steady but unthreatening. The lens at my chest hummed, its whispers a low buzz, sharper now, like it sensed the weight of her words about Sjakthar's abyss. I took a breath, choosing my words carefully. "I'm not here to take your… gresh? Your crystals, or harm your kin," I said, the orc word feeling clumsy on my tongue. I paused, staring at the carved Baruk on the wall, its crimson core frozen in stone. Why was I here?

Back home, I'd left to find answers about the fog, the wards, the world crumbling beyond our walls. Power, too, to face whatever waited. But Vadis had pulled me in, its orcs a puzzle I couldn't leave unsolved. Their speech, their city thriving in the abyss—it was a marvel, useless to the surface maybe, but vital to me.

If orcs could build this, could humans survive when the wards failed? I glanced at Sharn, her calm gaze waiting. "Honestly," I said, my voice low, "I'm not sure why I'm here. I followed Utra's hunters to the caves, saw they could speak, and… I had to know more. Your people fascinate me. But I don't need your crystals. I hunt in the pit, Sjakthar's battleground. I'm not here to destroy your sanctuary or anger your God."

Sharn's face lit up, her tusks catching the crystal glow, but her eyes held a fervor that made my tentacles twitch. "Small Baruk, yet bold to face the pit, where few endure without Sjakthar's Khoris," she said, her voice warm but edged with zeal. She leaned closer, her runes pulsing faintly. "But you miss truth. All in Sjakthar's domain—Vadruk, Saruk, Baruk, even you—belong to him. To kill for ascension, to claim gresh through blood, is the purest love for Sjakthar. Your mercy, sparing us, is kind, but weak. It displeases him, shuns his glory."

My frost mist curled faintly, a reflex as her words sank in. I'd just said I wouldn't anger her God, and she called it weakness? Her tone wasn't cruel, but fervent, like she truly believed Sjakthar craved death as worship.

A twisted god, demanding blood for love? I'd heard from Kara about Warlocks serving dark powers, but this was different—fanatic, yet sincere. I stayed silent, wary of Sjakthar's reach, my eyes flicking to the temple's empty halls, half-expecting a divine shadow to stir.

Sharn didn't press, her gaze softening, but the zeal lingered. "If you seek no harm," she said, her voice steady, "perhaps an allegiance to serve Sjakthar's will? Choose a Vadruk for your Veksara, to carry your Khoris or even rise as Ultharis, like me."

I blinked, the unfamiliar word tripping me up. "Vek… Veksara?" I asked, stumbling slightly, my human tongue awkward with the orc syllable. The temple's quiet pressed in, the carved Baruk looming above us, its stone eyes unyielding.

Sharn nodded, patient, her runes glowing brighter. "Veksara—chosen, in your tongue. One to bear your Khoris, your blessing, or become Ultharis, what you call Warlock." Her words were casual, as if offering me a tool. The lens's hum spiked, a jolt through my chest, and I stared, my tentacles curling tight.

Me, grant a blessing? Create a Warlock? The idea was insane, I was no God, just a crimson monster, a mortal from the surface. Yet Sharn's eyes held no doubt.