Heir of the Fog

CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

Herald of Sjakthar

Vadis indeed showed me what a truly grand city was. Despite its lack of technology, its people survived through sheer might and cunning. The place thrummed with life, its vast cavern glowing beneath a mana-crystal-lit ceiling, the blue-violet radiance washing over the stone city like a false dawn.

Yet the beauty of this hidden refuge did little to calm the flood of emotions stirred by Sharn's revelations. Learning that warlocks were servants whose minds were chained to gods had unsettled me, especially when I realized I might grant such power myself, even while still at the crimson stage.

Above all, I was not certain how potent that power truly was. I could give blessings. I had done so for Hazeveil and Wulric, but forging a warlock's bond was another matter entirely. Under Sharn's guidance I had learned much, and the price was a promise to attempt creating one of my own.

Forging such a bond, controlling another's mind, felt like a violation as dark as the abyss itself. Yet my word bound me, and I doubted the orcs would refuse an opportunity to rise. In the end, what mattered was how the power was used, and I had no intention of enslaving an orc from the abyss.

But all of this was speculation until I tried. Sharn sensed a will within me strong enough for the task, though such power was divine, not something Baruks should possess, and she agreed. Still, what if I could? I considered pretending failure, but her eyes—gifted by Sjakthar to see through shadows—might catch any deceit.

Would her God care? She had said blood pleased him, not honor, yet breaking my word was a line I would not cross after offering it freely in our deal.

After leaving the temple, Sharn melted into the city's flow; I followed in Hazeveil's shadows. She insisted the people be warned so they would not be scared by a Baruk in their city, but I knew she also wished to present my arrival as that of an emissary of her God.

Vadis pulsed around me. Vadruk hauled beast carcasses through crowded markets, bone knives crafted from magical beast parts, durable as surface steel, they sliced sinew with practiced ease.

Saruk trained at the river's edge, crude axes flashing in mock battles, each swing honing them for Kharvad. The air carried the sharp scent of moss, fresh blood, and the river's steady pulse as it cut from rock wall to rock wall. Plants sprouted from stone cracks, their roots bartered for crystal shards. No coins, only the raw exchange of hunt spoils.

Sharn headed toward the riverbank, a bustling stretch where orcs gathered after hunts, trading meat for crystals or boasting of kills. A broad slab of stone where Vadruk and Saruk mingled, their voices a low growl over the water's rush.

Sharn mounted a low platform of bone and crystal, her runic-marked skin glowing faintly, tusks catching the light. Raising her arms, she shouted in raw Orcish—Kara translated in my mind: "Sjakthar sees the hunt!"

Orcs drifted closer—ten, fifty, a hundred—bone weapons slung across scarred shoulders, crystal sacks thumping against thighs. It was clearly not her first time rallying them; I felt the hush of expectation settle as every gaze locked on her.

She didn't need to reach the whole city—just a knot of listeners who would carry her words outward like ripples on a pond. Trusting in that, she spoke. "Great Baruk comes to Vadis! He will make an Ultharis. One of you, chosen for Sjakthar's glory!" Her zeal burned bright, runes flaring, fingers cutting the air as if Sjakthar's will poured through her.

Despite Sharn's status as an Ultharis, the highest rank here, they doubted her. They believed Baruks could not enter these caves. A broad, grizzled Vadruk bellowed, "Baruk? Caves not fit Baruk!" Bone axe raised, he scanned the riverbank for a titan, suspicion sharp in his tone.

A female Vadruk clutching a crystal sack growled, "Baruk big, like mountain stone!" At first their speech sounded foolish, like what I expected from a society made entirely of hunters, but in truth their language was simply undeveloped. With fewer words, Kara's translations made them seem dim. Their language and tools were crude, yet these orcs were far from bestial.

However, hearing them compare me to a mountain amused me. Do they even have mountains down here? In their culture, a small Baruk like me would be blasphemy; they imagined titanic demigods, not someone human-sized.

Sharn's lips twitched at their words, amusement flickering in her yellow eyes. She relished the shock to come.

"Once you reveal yourself, kill one, maybe a few, to set an example," she had told me before leaving the temple.

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"That would be fear, not respect," I replied. Only later did I realize their language had only one word for both. Perhaps, to these people, they were the same; they respected Sjakthar no less than they feared him.

Sharn swept the crowd, runes pulsing brighter. "Baruk here!" she barked. "Sjakthar opens caves!" She jabbed at a wall mural showing titanic Baruks towering over Vadruk, crimson cores etched in glowing stone.

Bone tools clinked as eyes scanned the market for a giant. A lean Saruk, axe in hand, growled, "Where? No titan in Vadis!" His voice was sharp, calculating, as he weighed Sharn's claim. Tension thickened; the river's rush underscored their rising questions.

Even the leanest Vadruk dwarfed me—four times my weight, twice my height, some even more. A Baruk, they believed, should blaze—massive. Would they balk at my size? My deal with Sharn hinged on their acceptance; an Ultharis must choose the bond, and these strength-driven orcs might reject a pint-sized Baruk.

A scarred Vadruk muttered, "Sjakthar gift… Ultharis from Baruk?" His tone was cautious, testing, as he tried to grasp how a Baruk could create an Ultharis.

Sharn, prepared, answered. "This Baruk not any Baruk. An old Baruk walks Vadis—his will ancient as stone."

My skin prickled at the word old, realizing Sharn had marked me ancient in their eyes, a Baruk worthy of divine power.

I paused, wondering why I could attempt what only legendary Baruks could. Had my first sleep before District 98 lasted that long? Or had countless deaths forged my will? Perhaps even the great sword I lost in the abyss played a role, one I still intended to recover if fate allowed. Regardless, better to be seen as old than weak, since orcs respected nothing less than strength.

***

Sharn's proclamation still echoed through Vadis, her words lingering in the orcs' gruff murmurs as they bartered hunt spoils by the riverbank. The scent of fresh beast blood mingled with damp stone; bone knives scraped hides beneath the dim glow of the mana crystals overhead. Sharn had spun my arrival into a divine gift, her mastery of the Second Rule clear—she wove Sjakthar's will into every word, stoking faith to bind more souls to her God. Warlocks, I now understood, existed also for this: to spread their master's name and grow his influence, a purpose she wielded with fervent precision.

The orcs believed Sjakthar had sent me, a Baruk to forge an Ultharis; another step toward their dream of crimson ascension. I wouldn't shatter that belief by admitting I had fallen into Vadis by chance, not by divine decree. They knew little of blessings and less of bonds, unaware of the chains.

Yet Sharn's claim, her Ultharis status as Sjakthar's voice, held them fast. "Your god knows I'm here?" I asked in a soft human tongue as Sharn joined me.

"Sjakthar sees Vadis," Sharn said in human tongue. "He greets the Baruk and wishes your Ultharis roots as deep as the abyss." Her yellow eyes shone with fervour, tusks catching crystal light like ivory blades. I couldn't tell whether the words were hers or a god's echo rattling inside her skull.

The river hammered the stones at our feet; on the far bank, Saruk axes clanged through Kharvad drills. I kept my voice even. "When my task is finished, will Sjakthar open a way back? I crossed a bridge to reach this… place; I never meant to enter."

"Leave…?" The single word snagged, as if barbed. A crease of thought passed over her face—then vanished. Colour drained from her eyes, leaving a frost-grey glaze. The runes along her arms flared white-hot, and her mouth resumed moving without hesitation:

"Walk the deep abyss as Baruk," she intoned, monotonous, each syllable forced through unfeeling lips.

Gooseflesh crawled up my neck. The lens thrummed, and I understood: even the idea of leaving had been cut from her mind before it could bloom.

Sharn blinked, her gaze clearing as though nothing had happened, however that changed once I told her I would choose a Saruk. "Are all of them weaklings? If you think so, something must be done. Have we trained them wrongly? Should we force the trial of Kharvad at a younger age?" she asked, baffled.

I raised a calming hand. "Your Vadruk are formidable. I simply want to guide the fire closer to the ore—earlier in the forging, not harder."

She exhaled, tusks lowering a fraction, but the runes along her skin still pulsed, as if the God behind them waited to clip the next forbidden thought the moment it sprouted. The horror lay not in what she said, but in all the things she was no longer able to say.

"Fine," Sharn said at last, tusks scraping. "But by what sign will you name the one?"

I thought for a bit, of how those I know would decide. Tarin would have weighed odds, Elina would have chased their stories, but neither had stood in a cavern where a God pruned thoughts like dead branches. Their methods might be ideal for human society, but not to this world enveloped by fog. Down here, survival boiled to a single measure.

Will.

I rolled the monocle between thumb and forefinger; its chill bled through the leather of my glove, and distant voices stirred just beyond hearing. "I have a trial," I said. "Call every Saruk who is ready for Kharvad. Bring them to me at dusk."

Sharn's yellow eyes narrowed, searching my face for the details I withheld. She found none, yet she nodded. "As you will, Baruk."

The rumor raced through Vadis before we left the riverbank. A hidden Baruk had come; a Saruk would rise. Training yards clanged without pause—axes sparking, bone shields splintering, but I watched their eyes rather than their forms. Strength swung a weapon; only will kept it raised when ghosts closed in.

Tomorrow night they would meet those ghosts in a place where breath turned to frost and the past refused to stay buried. When dawn crept back, one Saruk would still be standing, and the dead would be silent at last.