Heir of the Fog

CHAPTER NINETY-SIX

Not One of Us

"Rogara, the Ultharis of Omen. You shall be the leader of Hunting Group 84."

Sharn's voice boomed across the stone expanse of Vadis, reaching every tier of the city's. Her tone was dry flint—sharp enough to cut, final enough to silence. The moment the words left her lips, a hush settled over the crowd of gathered orcs.

It had been some time since I'd returned to Vadis, and though I held the title of Ultharis, surprise flickered in the eyes of many. Recognition came, but not the kind I had expected. "The late arrival?" someone muttered, not even trying to hide the scorn. A second voice followed, rougher, louder. "The tiny one?" And another, laced with cruelty: "She ain't even an orc anymore."

Today was the day the new hunting groups were being formed. It happened only twice a cycle, and always in full view of the city. Sharn, the voice of Sjakthar, stood atop the blackstone dais beneath the great effigy of the last Baruk from Vadis, her eyes gleaming with fanatic fire as she called each name. It was her right to appoint leaders, to shape groups, and to enforce the god's will.

Utra, as expected, was assigned command of Hunting Group One—an honor so ingrained it no longer shocked anyone. But when she spoke my name next, assigning me to lead a group of newly minted Vadruk, even I stiffened in disbelief.

Sharn never explained her choices. She simply declared them, and any orc with enough nerve could challenge what they didn't like, settling it in blood.

Eyes turned on me, and with them came weight. I stood at the far edge of the gathering, posture steady but low among towers of muscle. My stature was dwarfed by nearly every Vadruk present. My limbs weren't as gnarled, my jaw not as wide, and even the once-vivid green of my skin had begun to fade. In its place, a creeping pale overtone had spread, like ash born of fire too white to stain.

I heard someone spit. "A flame-skinned thing ain't no orc."

But Sharn had spoken. Her word was law—divine law, as they saw it. She was Ultharis of Sjakthar, after all… just as I was Ultharis of another.

"Silence," came a voice like cracking bone.

Utra. The warrior stepped forward from his circle, not looking at me but planting himself before the crowd like a monolith. "The decree's made. Anyone not named leader and still runnin' their jaw, step forward. Challenge her and be done with it."

The gathering wavered. Murmurs cut short. The right to challenge was sacred—older than Sharn's voice, older than any flame or frost. If they truly thought me unworthy, they could take my place with blood. But no one moved.

They had seen, or at least heard. Of the flames that were not flame, white as blight. Of the screams from the upper caves, how they burned. They called me not-orc, but none stepped forward to make it so.

Cowards or wise, it didn't matter.

Utra turned, already striding away with the members of his hunting group. "Just like I thought," he barked. "If you can't hold on to your whining, best keep your mouth shut and follow your betters."

The silence that followed was heavier than any roar.

All the while, Sharn's smile never left her face.

That cold stretch of teeth had remained since Utra silenced the crowd. If anything, the tension in the air only seemed to feed her. Since my return, she had watched me with something sharper than scrutiny—interest. A thing most often followed by pain.

"Two magic types," she had mused days prior, "and not just two, but two that should devour one another, yet don't. Life and flame, in union." Her eyes had burned with a fevered gleam. "Worthy of praise from Sjakthar himself," she said. I doubted even Sjakthar would understand such a fusion, and that thought alone likely thrilled her.

Their hatred toward me came from many roots, but the deepest of them were always pride and purity. I had returned late, past the time most assumed me dead in the lower caves. And worse still, I returned changed. I was an Ultharis. Their chosen title. Yet mine came not from Sjakthar, but from a different master entirely. One who was not even a God by their reckoning. A lesser. A pretender. And so I was a stain, not a symbol.

Sharn raised a hand, cutting the air like a blade. "The newly appointed hunting leaders may now choose from the new generation of Vadruk," she declared. "The Vadruk may accept or refuse. That is their right."

As her voice echoed down the stone tiers, the crowd rippled with shifting weight, each orc standing taller, bracing for selection. I swept my eyes across the gathering, seeking one in particular.

Agnash.

He had passed the Kharvad long before I did. Strong, quiet, loyal. He was my brother, though we shared no blood. He wasn't leader material by Sharn's standards, but I knew his heart. I knew his strength. If I was to form a hunting group of my own, I wanted him beside me.

I found him half-shielded by a pillar of basalt, arms crossed, posture unreadable. Our eyes met for a second, then he looked away. Not in shame, but distance. Cold, calculated distance.

He doesn't want to join my group.

Perhaps he aimed for something greater. One of the grand formations, perhaps even a place among Utra's ranks if a slot opened. I could not blame him. I wanted his success, as he once wished mine.

But as the day wore on, my hopes thinned. Dozens of groups formed. Leaders picked swiftly, powerful, brutal, worthy. I approached several Vadruk I'd once fought beside, and each denied me with a bow, a grimace, or no word at all.

Even Agnash said nothing.

I understood now. It wasn't cowardice. It was fear of association. My altered flesh, my dwindling stature, my whitening skin, and above all, the white flames scarred them all. I had become too different. Too close to something else.

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When the final names were read, a handful remained unchosen. Seven, all Vadruk of the new generation. Plus Agnash. Eight left behind.

Sharn looked upon them with no more weight than she might give to a patch of mold. "The leftovers," she said aloud. Her voice carried, amused and dismissive. "If none of the leaders see you fit to hunt, then do the city a favor. Kill yourselves."

None of them spoke. They only stood, shoulders twitching, jaws clenched. Orcs who had passed the Kharvad. Who had bled in the lower caves. Who had returned with cracked tusks and new scars. But in Vadis, passing meant nothing if no leader claimed you.

Every year, some were left. Not weak, not broken—just unwanted. The law offered them two paths: exile into the wilds, where death was slow and certain… or suicide.

I stepped forward.

"You can all come with me."

Silence followed. Their eyes widened, not in awe, but confusion. I had offered before. Each had turned me down. And now, offered again, some glanced sideways, unsure whether this new mercy was genuine or mockery.

But I meant it. I would not leave Agnash behind. Even if his silence had cut deeper than any blade had.

Eight unclaimed warriors. And me.

By day's end, Hunting Group 84 was formed. The scraps, the undesired.

***

Hunting in the upper caves differed from the lower warrens in every way that mattered. Here the ceilings soared beyond torchlight, their arches veiled by warm fog. Echoes made prey sound larger, closer, or farther than they truly were, and stalactites dripped like ticking clocks overhead. We found everything, from skittering packs of cave‑hares no larger than a fist to lone leviathans that prowled the tunnels on six clawed limbs.

Each hunting group bore a quota: so many stone‑weight of edible meat to be hauled back to Vadis each month. Failure meant the leader's authority could be contested on the spot, a duel to the death that left the loser's corpse as part of next cycle's tally. No parchment, no appeals—just a blade and a verdict.

For the first three days my new companions marched in sullen silence. Even Agnash, usually a wellspring of steady words, kept to curt nods and watchful eyes. I did not press him; the weight between us was already heavy enough.

Tonight we returned dragging more than double the quota for the entire month, a fortune in sinew and marrow. Two warriors wrestled a boar‑beast, its hooves clacking against the tunnel floor. A third lugged sacks filled with hare carcasses. "Mind that flank," a burly Vadruk barked, irritation sharpening each syllable as his fingers slipped on slick hide.

"Don't blame me," retorted the leanest of the eight, taller than I by a head, eyes narrow as spear tips. He jerked his chin toward the immense carcass he tugged by one rear leg. With a wet pop the limb tore free, sliding across the rocks in a smear of pale blood. The lean orc froze, then swung his gaze to me in silent accusation.

The creature had fallen to my white flames. Heat that pure made sinew brittle; joints parted easier than clay. I opened my mouth, felt a protest rise—I saved your necks—then swallowed it. A leader did not apologize for keeping her group alive.

Grumbles rippled through the line. This was common: murmured blame for scorched meat, whispered doubts about my pale skin and un‑orc stature. They owed their lives to the very fire they resented.

"She wouldn't have burned it so harshly if you lot hadn't needed rescuing," Agnash said at last. His tone was calm but steel‑edged. "Mind your steps next time."

Silence answered him—a silence dense enough to taste. The others quickened their pace, eyes forward.

By the time we reached the outer walls of Vadis, torches painted the cavern walls in rusty gold. The guards counted our haul with grudging respect while my group waited in a loose half‑circle. As the tally finished, the murmurs resumed, quieter now, but still carrying.

"Thank you," I whispered to Agnash once the others drifted ahead.

At first he faced the wall, shoulders broad and tense. After a heartbeat he sighed, turning halfway toward me. "Sorry, Rogara," he said, voice low enough that echoes couldn't carry it. "Since… that twisted night, I've needed time. Time to process everything and how things changed..." His gaze flicked to my arms, where pale tracings of flame‑scar shimmered under the torchlight.

"I understand," I rushed to say. "You want a place worthy of you. I won't force you to stay in Eighty‑Four. But I'm grateful for the support you give."

He managed a faint nod. In that moment I realized how small I must sound, how childlike, while near him. Still, hope rose. If we kept our quotas high, perhaps next cycle a greater group would claim him. I would cheer his ascent, even if it left me behind.

Unfortunately, I was very wrong for thinking it would be so simple.

***

It happened a few months later, as the next cycle crept close, the day when new leaders would be crowned and entire hunting groups reshuffled like dice in Sharn's palm.

By then Group 84 had pushed farther up the cavern tiers than most dared. The air here tasted of iron and warm fog; tongues of steam curled from fissures above us. Along the way we had carved out small victories, splitting cores and harvesting mana crystals until every member felt power humming beneath their skin.

My own core hovered just shy of its peak, and the others were not far behind. Against the odds, none of us had fallen. I made certain of that, hurling white fire when blades slipped.

Today began no differently. We tracked a trail of molten droplets that led to a pack of lava hounds—four‑legged brutes whose hides bled orange light and whose breath stank of sulfur. They circled us at a distance, dripping molten rivulets that hissed on the cavern floor. The pattern felt wrong. Too deliberate.

"Danger ahead." The warning brushed my thoughts in a voice colder than ice. The Great One could not see this with his own eyes, but somehow, through me, he must have sensed it.

"We should turn back," I told my group, pivoting on my heel. "Another tunnel, or a full retreat. Something is wrong ahead."

"No way," snapped the lean orc with spear eyes. He pointed to a distant glow where crystals winked like scattered coins. "A few more crystals and we'll triple the quota. Look at that light."

I planted my feet. "There is danger." My words rang softer than theirs but carried the weight of my master certainty.

"How can you know?" he demanded.

"My … master told me."

Laughter, thin and mocking. "Your master isn't even a God. Does he whisper the future to you now?"

Heat flushed my cheeks, but I swallowed it. The Great One taught that anger laid snares as deadly as claws while on the battlefield.

Another warrior stepped beside the mocker, gaze sliding to the glittering crystals. "A quick grab, then we leave," he bargained, turning toward the only one he thought could sway me: Agnash.

Agnash's boots scraped rock as he caught up. He met my eyes, calm but insistent. "Just a few more," he said. "Then we go back."

I hesitated. I owed Agnash—owed him friendship, owed him more than I could name, perhaps even the place he should have claimed in a better group. The group waited, watching the silent exchange, pupils reflecting crystal gleam.

"Very well." The words tasted like dust. We advanced.

The tunnel widened into a shallow bowl of basalt. Crystals lay in a neat crescent, too neat, as if plucked from their seams and arranged by careful paws. The moment we stepped across the first gleaming shard, the pack emerged, at least forty lava hounds, eyes ember‑red, saliva dripping magma.

On every side molten streams hissed from vents and raced across the stone, weaving a fiery cage. In heartbeats the floor cracked, heat blooming through our soles. We were ringed by glowing death.