Vorath lost all track of time inside Raznal's searing forge. He spent every waking moment tirelessly training his magic under Nara's supervision, and honing his swordplay against Raznal and the few lesser Mawsworn the Painsmith deigned to throw at him for target practice.
It could have been a single day or an entire month; in the eternal gloom of the tower, Vorath simply had no way of knowing. But one thing he knew without a doubt was that he was getting stronger. Manipulating magic was still far from an innate trait for him, but he had grown exponentially better at shaping and expelling his anima on command.
Intrigued by his progression, Nara had even taken it upon themselves to instruct him in the complex theories of Rune magic, along with the basics of Frost magic intrinsically tied to the realm of Death.
This was much to the Painsmith's dismay. Raznal had fiercely wanted him to learn Soulfire first, but the argument between him and Nara had been undeniably sound: Frost magic was far easier to grasp as a starting point than the volatile nature of Soulfire.
But right now, magic took a back seat. It was time for his swordplay lesson, and Vorath was currently being ganged up on by three heavily armored Mawsworn.
He ducked under a lethal mace swing and immediately brought his Mourneblade up to parry a crushing overhead axe strike, all while never taking his eyes off the crossbow-wielding minion circling in the background.
This is so damn hard, Vorath thought darkly as he was once again pushed back into a corner. Despite his recent advancements, he still had a massive amount of work to put into his swordsmanship and combat tactics.
The Mawsworn were far better fighters than he had initially given them credit for. These fuckers were, after all, the foot soldiers of an endless army designed to rival the Burning Legion.
Vorath bolted toward the axe-wielding minion, raising his dark sword and channeling his raw anima inward, flooding his limbs with a sudden, explosive surge of power.
The Mawsworn saw it coming, bringing its heavy axe up with surprising speed. The two weapons collided with a deafening sound, instantly locking the two warriors in a grueling contest of raw strength.
For a moment, they strained against each other, boots scraping against the stone floor.
Instead of pushing back, Vorath suddenly twisted his wrists, angling the Mourneblade. The heavy axe slipped harmlessly down the side of his sword. With his opponent's balance suddenly broken, Vorath drove an anima-fueled kick right into the minion's armored knee. The joint buckled with a sharp crunch, sending the axe-wielder crashing heavily to the ground.
He didn't have a second to celebrate. The low whoosh of the mace swinging for his head forced him to drop into a sudden crouch. The spiked weapon sailed mere inches above his helmet. Using the momentum of his dodge, Vorath pivoted on his heel and brought the heavy pommel of his sword crashing directly into the side of the mace-wielder's helm. The brutal kinetic force dropped the second minion like a stone.
Suddenly, Vorath threw his shoulder forward purely on instinct. A heavy crossbow bolt ricocheted off his pauldron with a bright shower of sparks.
The remaining Mawsworn frantically reached for another bolt, but Vorath was already moving. Harnessing his enhanced speed, he closed the distance in three strides. Before the minion could even load the weapon, Vorath batted the crossbow aside with a backhanded swing of his blade, then swept the minion's legs out from under him.
The third Mawsworn hit the floor hard. Vorath immediately stepped forward, pressing the soul-thirsty edge of the Mourneblade directly against his defeated opponent's throat.
"Enough!" barked one of the higher-ranking Mawsworn who had been silently spectating the match from the shadows. "Those who were damaged, go to the forge to be mended."
A group of lesser minions scurried forward, quickly dragging the injured soldiers out of Raznal's makeshift arena.
"That was a decent showing," the commander told him, stepping onto the floor with a heavy, menacing halberd resting easily in his grip. "Now, try to defeat me. You may use magic as much as you desire."
Vorath nodded, bringing his dark Mourneblade up into a defensive guard.
This is going to be hard, Vorath thought, his grip tightening on the hilt.
After all, Mawsworn higher-ups were all spellcasters in some capacity. Facing a battle-mage wielding a massive halberd only heightened his awareness of the terrifying gap in strength between them.
But he wasn't going to let the commander have the advantage of leading the assault. Vorath bolted, channeling raw anima into the soles of his boots to create a localized explosion of energy, propelling himself forward with a massive burst of speed.
The Mawsworn officer didn't even flinch. The long shaft of his halberd glowed with an eerie, sickly light as a dormant rune activated. He swung the heavy weapon in a blindingly fast, sweeping arc, meeting Vorath's plunging assault head-on.
CLANG!
The impact sent a violent shockwave through Vorath's arms, threatening to rip the Mourneblade right out of his grip. The rune on the halberd flared, unleashing a concussive blast of kinetic magic that threw Vorath entirely off balance. He skidded backward across the cold stone floor, his boots carving sparks into the ground as he fought to stop his momentum.
Vorath released a hoarse, ragged chuckle as he looked at the imposing commander in front of him.
"Now, that is a hell of a fight," he muttered aloud.
He didn't fully comprehend what he was sensing inside himself. Was this the actual desire to fight? The sheer, adrenaline-fueled thrill of battle? He didn't know, but he could feel another dark chuckle rising in his throat. Gripping the Mourneblade tight, he channeled his energy and charged the commander once more.
—
Meanwhile, Raznal walked through the oppressive, darkened halls of the Sanctum of Domination.
Ahead of him, the massive, rune-carved doors to the inner chamber were already standing wide open. His Master was awaiting him inside.
On his way to the throne room, the Painsmith passed by the two commanders of the Maw's projection forces. Raznal held a deep, simmering disdain for the pair. In his eyes, they were almost entirely useless, lacking both the vision and the brutal efficiency required to forge a true army.
But he was not one to ever judge the infinite wisdom of the Jailer's grand design. Keeping his silence, Raznal strode past them without a second glance, his metallic footsteps echoing ominously as he entered the chamber of the Banished One.
"You called for me, Master?" Raznal knelt before the chained god looming above him.
Raznal could sense the faint presence of Varithoman lingering somewhere in the vast chamber, but the elusive Penitent remained entirely hidden from his sight.
"My Painsmith," Zovaal acknowledged, his impossibly deep voice echoing through the sanctum as he slowly stood. "I want your assessment of the new soul you are training."
Raznal paused for a fraction of a second. He knew the soul was a piece of the Jailer's grand design, but for it to be important enough to warrant a personal summons before the Master? That was far beyond what the Painsmith had anticipated.
He kept his head bowed reverently. "He is excruciatingly slow to learn even the most basic magic, Master. Furthermore, his essence... it behaves differently from all the millions of others I have broken upon my anvil."
"That is to be expected."
Zovaal's impossibly deep voice resonated through the very foundations of the Sanctum. The heavy, monolithic chains binding his towering form clinked ominously as he took a slow step forward.
"His soul was not forged within the confines of our reality."
Raznal's head snapped up slightly, his icy blue eyes widening in sheer disbelief. "N-not from our reality, my lord? You do not mean... a divergent timeline?"
The Painsmith's mind faltered for a moment, struggling to process the revelation. There were other universes entirely ? Realms existing completely outside the pantheons of Order, Chaos, Life, Death, Light, and Void? Outside the very design of the First Ones?
Zovaal looked down at his servant, his piercing gaze devoid of any warmth or mercy.
"Timelines are but a fragile illusion woven by the Makers to cage this existence," the Jailer rumbled, his voice dripping with contempt. "This soul is a true anomaly. He is unbound by the flawed design of the First Ones, untethered from the machinery of Death that currently imprisons us. That is why his anima resists the natural laws of this cosmos."
The chained god turned his gaze away, staring out into the swirling vortex of the Maw.
"His very presence in this realm is proof that even the First Ones are not all-powerful," Zovaal continued, his tone absolute. "You will continue to train him. Soon, I shall send him on his first mission. Denathrius and his unseen spawn will use their means to part the Veil for him. He will be sent to Azeroth."
Raznal bowed his heavy head in submission. Internally, however, he struggled to comprehend why the Master would deploy this pawn to the mortal world so early. The true Mourneblades, the ultimate weapons the Mawsworn were currently trying to glean from the shattered psyche of the Primus, were not fully built just yet. Vorath was wielding a mere prototype.
As if sensing his servant's doubts, the Jailer turned his gaze back to the Painsmith.
"He does not need a perfected blade for this task," Zovaal proclaimed, his voice echoing with the weight of inevitable doom. "He will carve his presence into the very heart of Azeroth... to serve as the herald of my coming."
"He is reluctant to follow orders, my lord," Raznal ventured, even though he was fully aware that nothing escaped his Master's sight.
"He will have no choice but to serve." The Jailer's tone was absolute, and a heavy silence reigned inside the room.
Raznal nodded respectfully and exited the chamber without another word, leaving the chained god and his unseen shadow alone.
"Leave," the Jailer spoke to no one in particular. In the corner of the room, a shadow silently detached itself from the wall and slipped out the door.
"You wished to speak with me, brother?" an arrogant voice suddenly echoed through the Sanctum. Sire Denathrius's towering projection materialized in a swirling flash of crimson anima.
"You will ferry a soul to the mortal realm through your agents," Zovaal commanded flatly.
Denathrius smirked, tilting his head. "And how, pray tell, is this beneficial to me?"
Zovaal glared at his brother for a long instant, his hollow eyes narrowing.
"I agreed to aid you, brother, because we have grand designs to realize together," Denathrius continued smoothly, pacing leisurely around the Jailer's chained form. "But I am not one of your mindless pawns to be commanded like a gorm."
"I will ferry the soul nonetheless, do not fret. But next time, I expect some compensation for the risk my unseen little angels are going to take to ferry your precious pawn to whatever world you desire."
"Azeroth. I want him ferried to Azeroth."
Denathrius smirked at that. "That will cost you a bit more than a normal mortal plane. After all, none of my agents want to deal with a world ordered by the Titans."
"You will be compensated. Now begone, brother. I will alert you when the soul is ready to depart."
Denathrius's smirk never faded as his crimson projection dissolved into the shadows.
Zovaal let out a slow, heavy breath, his cold gaze lingering on the empty space where his brother had just stood.
This new soul had changed his plans for the better. He now possessed the perfect tool to mold into his most fearsome commander.
And soon, all of creation would be undone, and he would rule, just as it was meant to be from the very beginning.
–
A small chapter before I go with my family to some vacations.
Have a good week-end and stay safe