Titan King: Ascension of the Giant

"Drag these demonic monsters back," Orion commanded casually as he cradled Aerin in his arms. "We'll need them for the necropolis." He stepped back onto the Blight Wyrm, preparing to head back.

On the ground below, several phantoms flickered into existence in the blood-soaked clearing. They were members of the shadow army, spirits of the fallen summoned by Clymene, now a permanent part of the undead armies. But for this mission, they answered to Orion.

The shadows silently gathered the corpses, and once the area was clean, they vanished back into the air.

Titanion Realm, Soaring Bird City

The Allied Forces had swept through the northern barbarian lands, conquering vast swaths of new territory. Before these spoils of war could be officially divided, all eyes were on Soaring Bird City, and on the Four Factions Summit that was still in session.

As a result, the city was flooded with merchant caravans and high-ranking figures from every race. The summit had made Soaring Bird City more prosperous and bustling than ever before.

In a blacksmith's shop in the western district, the forge roared. The iron waiting to be hammered glowed cherry-red. A bellows enchanted with wind magic huffed and puffed, sending flames licking high up into the flue.

The hearts of the dwarves Harbek and Dain were much like that glowing iron—searing hot and full of turmoil. Their future, like the unformed metal, was without shape or direction.

"Dammit all! What kind of Five-Faction Alliance carves up the territory of the fifth faction?" Harbek, a surviving elder of the dwarven race, was filled with a bitter rage. One of the main topics of discussion at the summit was precisely how to divide the lands of his people.

Furious, he lifted his flagon to his lips, but he'd already drained it dry.

"This is infuriating!"

With a loud clang, Harbek hurled the metal flagon to the stone floor, the impact denting its spout.

"Har...bek!"

The noise startled the dwarven prophet Dain from his coma. His voice was a frail whisper from the nearby bed.

"Prophet! Prophet, I'm here! Harbek is here!"

Despite his agitation, Harbek was a Legendary-level warrior. He heard Dain's faint call instantly.

"Where... where is this?"

"We're in Soaring Bird City, Prophet. In our people's old smithy."

"Soaring... Bird City... Still in the human kingdom?"

"Yes, Prophet!" Harbek reached out, intending to help Dain sit up.

But the prophet's gaze stopped him. For a prophet who had exhausted his life force and his very spirit to be awake and speaking now, it could only mean one thing: a final, fleeting surge of clarity before the end. The slightest touch from Harbek might be enough to extinguish the last flicker of life within him.

Dain was exhausted; those few words seemed to have drained him completely. He fell silent, gathering his strength.

Harbek wasn't a fool. Seeing the prophet's silence, he began to recount everything he knew.

"Prophet, the Alliance won. We've taken back the dwarven territories. Our king... was turned, and then he was slain. The one responsible, Torin, was taken by some unknown power. We don't know if he's alive or dead. The southern armies are pushing the border north, and the Four Factions Summit is deciding how to carve up all the new land... including ours."

"Those bastards, how could they..."

Harbek had stayed in Soaring Bird City with Dain for this very reason, waiting for the summit to conclude, waiting for a final verdict. A small, foolish part of him still held onto the hope that the human kingdom would help them reclaim the dwarven Tribe's lands.

He poured out his heart, and as Dain listened, he slowly regained a bit of strength.

"Harbek," Dain's voice was steadier now. "While the summit is still in session, you must leave. Leave Soaring Bird City."

His spirit seemed to rally, his speech becoming clear and urgent. "Go to the Stoneheart Horde. It's a faction built by giants, more accepting of other races. The dwarves can find a place for themselves there."

"But Prophet, our territory is still..."

Harbek tried to argue, but Dain's calm, knowing gaze silenced him.

"Don't be a fool, Harbek! The dwarven tribe is history. The Alliance is the one that reconquered our lands. If you try to take them back, you'll be declaring war on the entire Alliance. Do you have any idea what that means?"

The prophet's eyes grew preternaturally bright, as if he could see through the mist of the present into a future Harbek could not. "The dwarven race cannot die with us. While the summit is ongoing, before those vultures turn their eyes on us, you must get out of here."

Dain's voice grew louder, raspier, his breathing labored. "If you don't, you won't be able to leave at all!"

"You have to... you have to go... now..."

He repeated the words three times but couldn't finish his thought. The brilliant light in his eyes suddenly dimmed, leaving them dull and lifeless. The last spark of life in him was gone.

"Prophet... Prophet... Oh, Prophet..."

Dain lay motionless on the cot, utterly still. The hood on his head slipped back, revealing a hairless, skeletal frame, nothing more than skin stretched tight over bone. Harbek didn't know the exact price Dain had paid on his journey to the human kingdom, but he knew this: shortly after Dain's arrival, the kingdom's Grand Duke had marched to war. Dain had only made it back to Harbek by sheer force of will, running on his last breath before collapsing into a coma.

If Harbek hadn't smashed his flagon in anger, the prophet might have simply faded away in silence. In a way, that single act had vented his own rage and jolted Dain back from the brink of death for one last warning.

The West, Stoneheart City

While the dwarves mourned and the four factions haggled over every square inch of land at the summit, the Youngling Championship was kicking off in the Colosseum of Stoneheart City.

"Younglings!" Orion's voice boomed from the highest platform of the Colosseum. He stood clad in his Ghostbone Armor, a thick beast-pelt cloak draped over his shoulders, looking like a god of war as he gazed down upon the competitors and the roaring crowds.

"This is the Colosseum of the Stoneheart Horde! A place forged in the blood and sacrifice of countless races who fought for their freedom! It is also a place where glory is won with sword and shield!"

He surveyed the eager young faces below.

"I expect you to take up your weapons, defeat your rivals, and seize your honor! Seize your legacy! Let all our peoples know that you are true bloodline warriors! That you are the hope of the Stoneheart Horde!"

Orion didn't speak of bloodshed or slaughter to them. For warriors their age, raised on the heroic tales of their parents, glory was the most potent stimulant of all. Now, the chance to earn it for themselves would be the ultimate trial by fire.