Earlier, before all these, the Dreadmaw Clan had settled into what was supposed to be a period of uneasy waiting.

Deep within the ancient stone chambers, where the air was thick with dust and the scent of old earth, the older members of the clan had gathered together, attempting to maintain a calm front.

Their mission had been simple: stay hidden, wait for the conflict between the Red Elven Warlocks and the Dark Elven Witches to run its course, and then return home when the skies were clear.

But the Labor Orc named Volk seemed to have other plans.

The younger generation of the Dreadmaw Clan Orcs, restless and itching for action, followed their leader Volk with a mixture of excitement and confusion.

They sprinted down the winding tunnels, their boots thudding loudly against the stone, trying to keep pace with Volk’s massive strides, leaving their wives behind.

His body radiated purpose, and his eyes burned with determination. But no one knew where he was leading them.

“Why are we running?” one of the younger Orcs gasped, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts as he struggled to keep up.

“I thought we were just supposed to wait,” another chimed in, his voice tinged with panic. “We were supposed to stay here and lay low!”

Despite the growing uncertainty, they continued to follow Volk deeper into the catacombs, moving farther from the safety of the main clan gathering.

The path grew darker, narrower, and more treacherous, as if they were descending into the bowels of the earth itself.

…

Meanwhile, back at the catacomb’s main chamber, the remaining Dreadmaw Clan Orcs and Elves were left with the unsettling realization that their protectors were gone.

They huddled together in the dim light, exchanging anxious glances.

The older Orcs, their muscles once bulging with strength but now weakened by years of battle, sat in silence, suppressing their physical energy to conserve it for them to stay in the dungeon.

Solluha’r, Volk’s elven wife, left behind too, as Volk didn’t ask her to come with him.

Her pale skin, smooth and silken like moonlight, was in stark contrast to the rough, battle-worn skin of her Orc kin. She had a slender, willowy frame, with silvery green hair cascading down her back like a waterfall.

Her eyes, deep pools of emerald green, were filled with worry as she watched her husband’s retreating figure.

“Volk…” Solluha’r whispered under her breath. But her voice, fragile like a leaf caught in the wind, was drowned out by the clamor of boots and heavy breathing.

She didn’t understand.

Why had Volk suddenly led the others away?

What had changed?

They were supposed to hide in the catacomb until the war between the Red Elven Warlocks and the Dark Elven Witches had subsided.

It was a strategy they had all agreed upon. And yet, Volk had chosen to run, to take the younger members of the clan with him, leaving the older and weaker Orcs, as well as the Elven allies, behind.

Confusion swirled in her mind, but she pushed it aside.

Her loyalty to Volk, to the Dreadmaw Clan, outweighed her doubts.

She tightened her grip on the short sword at her side and pressed forward.

The Elves tried to focus on defensive spells to reinforce their surroundings to protect themselves from the beasts.

“Do you think they’ll come back?” one of the Elves asked, her voice shaky.

“They have to,” another replied. “My husband says he believes in Volk.”

But as the words left her lips, a strange tremor rippled through the ground beneath their feet.

The walls of the catacomb groaned as if the very stones were waking from an ancient slumber. The air turned cold, and an oppressive darkness crept into the chamber, heavy and suffocating.

Solluha’r had barely made it back to the main chamber when she felt it—a pulse of magic, dark and malevolent, like a storm brewing on the horizon. She halted in her tracks, her breath catching in her throat.

“Something’s coming,” one of the older Orcs muttered, his eyes narrowing as he peered into the shadows that now engulfed the room.

Then, without warning, a figure emerged from the blackness.

It was a woman, or at least the shape of one. Her body was wrapped in a cloak of shadows, and she rode upon a massive creature whose form was impossible to discern in the dim light.

Its eyes, glowing crimson, burned like the fires of the underworld, and its growls reverberated through the catacomb, causing even the bravest Orcs to flinch.

The figure raised a hand, and her voice rang out, cold and sharp as the edge of a blade. “Capture them.”

The moment the words left her lips, more shadows began to seep from the ground.

They writhed and twisted, taking on the form of dark figures—warriors of shadow, their weapons gleaming with ethereal energy.

The older Dreadmaw Orcs and Elves sprang to their feet, weapons drawn, ready to defend their clan.

Sollahha’r stood at the forefront, her heart racing.

She drew her sword, her knuckles white with the force of her grip. Her mind was focused on the safety of her people, but something dread crept into her soul.

Volk… where are you?

Before anyone could react, the shadow warriors lunged forward.

The clash of steel rang out through the chamber as Orcs and Elves alike fought back with every ounce of strength they had left. But they were no match for the creatures of darkness.

The shadow warriors moved with unnatural speed and grace, their forms shifting and flowing like water, making them nearly impossible to strike.

One by one, the Dreadmaw Clan fell, their weapons slipping from their hands as the shadow warriors overwhelmed them. And as each one fell, a dark mark, a tattoo of swirling black ink, appeared on their skin.

The magic that bound them was ancient and powerful, a curse that sapped their strength and left them helpless.

Sollahha’r fought with everything she had, her blade cutting through the air with precision, but even she could not withstand the onslaught for long.

The shadow warriors surrounded her, their glowing red eyes fixed on her as they moved in for the kill.

Just as she thought all hope was lost, she felt a pulse of magic—strong and familiar.

Volk.

He was still out there, still fighting.

As the shadow warriors closed in, Solluha’r dropped to her knees and clasped her hands together, her voice barely above a whisper. She prayed, not to any gods, but to Volk.

“Where are you, Volk?” she whispered, her voice trembling with desperation. “Please… come back to us.”

The shadows loomed closer, and just before they struck, Solluha’r felt a surge of warmth deep within her chest.

It was faint, but it was there—a connection to Volk, a bond that had not been severed despite the distance between them. It gave her hope, even as the darkness swallowed her whole.

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—

Far away, deep in the twisting corridors of the catacomb, Volk felt it too.

The tug on his soul, the faint whisper of his wife’s voice in his mind.

He didn’t know what had happened back in the main chamber, but he knew one thing for certain: his clan needed him.

His eyes narrowed, and he gripped his axe tighter.

There was no turning back now.

He still have a mission to do or the Dreadmaw Clan would be turn into pieces.

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