The night had already swallowed the kingdom by the time Borgo rode out with Aurun pressed tightly against his back, the torchlight behind them shrinking into a dying ember. The roads beyond the palace walls felt colder, lonelier, as though the land itself had withdrawn from the warmth of human presence. Crickets sang in broken rhythms; distant wolves muttered to one another across ravines. Even the moon hung lower than usual, weighted by a pall of mist vaporizing from the damp earth.
Borgo said little. Aurun—bruises still dark across the small ridges of his cheek—kept his arms locked around Borgo's waist, shivering not from the wind but from the ache of everything the day had carved into him. The night smelled of iron and old rain. The horse Munic snorted every few breaths, as if sensing something its riders could not yet perceive.
Ahead, the world seemed to darken unnaturally.
The border of the Crimson Forest.
No lantern ever lasted long inside. Light did not simply get swallowed—it was smothered, extinguished, as if the shadows themselves decided what may shine and what must die.
Aurun murmured, trying to sound brave but his voice wavered like a leaf in an eddy, "Borgo… is it really true that no one who enters comes back?"
"No one who was unworthy," Borgo answered, not unkindly. "But we are not here to fear stories, Aurun. Only to outrun time."
A pause.
"And to save my brother."
The last words were almost a whisper, dragged low by an unvoiced desperation.
The boy stiffened as though trying to absorb Borgo's resolve. "If you—if we die," Aurun muttered, "I hope it's at least not embarrassing."
Borgo smirked faintly. "Then don't scream like a goat when danger comes."
Aurun thumped weakly against Borgo's back in protest, and for a moment, the tension softened. But as Munic's hooves touched the soil of Crimson Forest, the ground seemed to breathe, exhaling a cold so sharp it sliced through skin.
Everything changed.
The trees rose like titans, thicker than castle pillars, their bark stained by the mineral-red soil. No birds. No wind. No rustling. Just silence— the kind of silence found in burial chambers, where even the dead refuse to stir.
Aurun clutched tighter. "Borgo… something's watching."
"It has been for hours," Borgo replied quietly.
Indeed, unseen eyes crawled across them like hot needles. The forest was alive in a way that felt old—ancient beyond kingdoms, even beyond the earliest myths whispered by priests around dying fires. Something here had lived long enough to grow patient with horror.
They rode deeper.
The moon threaded silver through the canopy, thin and trembling. Borgo's senses sharpened, every instinct screaming that the deeper they went, the more the forest weighed them, measured them, questioned their right to trespass.
Somewhere deeper within the forest…
She was bathing.
Not in water, but in moonlight.
The Orc Princess—last daughter of the Bloodroot clan—walked barefoot through crimson undergrowth, her red skin shimmering like lacquered wine beneath silver beams. Her silhouette, all curves and warrior's grace, moved with such dangerous beauty that even the shadows paused to witness her.
Men had gone to war for her.
Kings had lost their crowns for her.
Entire tribes had burned entire valleys simply to win a single night of her attention.
And she despised all of it.
Tonight, she was restless.
Something pulsed in the forest floor—like a heartbeat not her own.
It called to her.
She paused, long black hair whipping against her back in the cold wind. Her golden irises narrowed.
"An intruder," she whispered internally. "No. Two."
And something darker slithered beneath that sense.
Something ancient.
Something she hoped never to feel again.
The ground shook where he slept in the hollow of a petrified tree. The guardian of the Crimson Forest—scarred, colossal, towering—lifted his head as the intruders stepped deeper.
"Foul breath of foreign man-flesh…"
His voice rumbled through the soil, not in perfect speech, but in a snarled, broken tongue laced with guttural growls.
"I smell thee… I smell thy fear… and… him."
A growl deeper than thunder rolled out of him.
"He returns."
His claws dug into the bark.
The forest trembled.
The deeper they went, the thicker the air became—like soup, humid and metallic, carrying the unmistakable scent of blood long dried.
Munic halted abruptly.
Borgo frowned. "What is it?"
A rustle.
A whisper.
A sigh of wind that hadn't existed moments before.
And then—she stepped into view.
The Orc Princess.
Moonlight kissed her figure, tracing the red sheen of her skin, the sweeping arches of her hips, the warrior-toned lines of her thighs, the dangerous curve of her lips. Her long hair fell like a dark waterfall, catching streaks of silver light. Her eyes—piercing gold—held the kind of beauty that suffocated men, pulled armies into ruin, toppled dynasties.
Borgo froze.
Aurun's breath hitched. "B-Borgo… she's… she's…"
"Quiet," Borgo muttered, though even he struggled to draw breath.
She stared at them—no, at him. Her gaze locked on Borgo as though she had known him in another life. Curiosity, fear, hunger, and warning all braided together in her eyes.
She took one step forward.
The forest pulsed.
Then, suddenly, as though realizing something dreadful—something that made her breath falter—she stepped back, panic flickering across her face.
And she ran.
Like a streak of living flame, she vanished into the maze of trees.
Aurun swallowed. "Why did she run?"
But Borgo had no time to respond.
Because something else moved.
Something huge.
Something furious.
A shockwave of raw killing intent burst through the clearing. Birds that did not exist here cried out in silence. Even the moon seemed to recoil.
Aurun screamed. Borgo grabbed him by the collar and kicked Munic sharply—
But it was too late.
A monstrous shadow dropped from the trees with the force of a falling boulder. Bark exploded. Soil erupted. The creature landed with a roar that felt like iron splitting bone.
The Orc Lord.
His body was a fortress of muscle and scars, dark red skin knotted like ancient oak roots, tusks curved and chipped from battles long forgotten. His eyes glowed like molten ore.
He landed between them and the fleeing princess.
He spoke, voice warping the air:
"YOU TRESPASS,"
he growled in a twisted cadence, each syllable broken, primal.
"YOU WALK ON BLOOD-GROUND OF MY LORDSHIP, CREATURES. YOU SMELL OF HIM—THE DARK ONE WHO DEVOUR'D HALF MY MEN."
His gaze snapped to Borgo, nostrils flaring wide.
"THE MOON BEARS WITNESS—THOU REEK OF HIS MARK."
Borgo drew his sword. "I don't know what you—"
"FILTH-TONGUE!" the Orc Lord roared, lunging.
"LAST TIME HIS KIND CRAWL'D HERE, WE DIED BY SCORES. TONIGHT— I DRINK THY BLOOD!"
His claws slashed.
Borgo blocked—barely.
Steel screamed. Borgo was hurled back, crashing through a root thicker than a wall.
Aurun shrieked, "BORGO!"
The Orc Lord's head whipped toward the child.
He charged.
Aurun froze in terror, unable to move, unable to breathe.
Borgo reacted on instinct. Blood roared through his ears. He sprinted forward, grabbed Aurun by the robe, and flung him onto the horse.
"GO!" Borgo shouted. "NOW!"
But Munic panicked and reared. Aurun struggled to hold on—
And the Orc Lord was already airborne.
He crashed into Borgo mid-leap.
The impact shook the entire clearing.
Borgo's armor crumpled like tin under the monster's grip. A claw tore through the breastplate, shredding leather, cloth, and flesh. Warm blood sprayed across the roots.
Aurun screamed his lungs raw.
"BORGO!"
Borgo's vision blurred. The world spun. The Orc Lord seized his left arm and twisted.
Something snapped.
White-hot agony exploded.
The arm tore free.
Borgo staggered, collapsing to his knees as the forest tilted around him. Blood pooled beneath him, hot and thick. The world dimmed.
The Orc Lord lifted the severed arm and sniffed it with a low, savage snarl.
"Yes…"
His voice dripped with recognition and hate.
"This scent. This dark-blood. Thou art tied to HIM. Thou bring his curse."
He threw the limb aside and turned to Aurun.
The child trembled uncontrollably, tears running down his bruised cheeks.
The Orc Lord grabbed Aurun by the neck and hoisted him into the air.
The boy's legs kicked helplessly. His eyes rolled back. Breath failed him.
Borgo crawled, vision fracturing.
"No…" he rasped.
"Don't… touch… him…"
The Orc Lord lifted Aurun closer, sniffing his scent.
"SMALL ONE… FULL OF FEAR… A GIFT FOR MY LORD."
Aurun's consciousness flickered.
Borgo felt something inside him collapse—a dam breaking.
The forest darkened.
The air thickened.
The moon pulsed like a living heart.
And then—
Borgo vanished from the ground.
Not disappeared—moved.
Too fast for the eye, too violent for nature.
A whisper of feathers.
A crackling of bone.
A vibration that did not belong to the mortal world.
The Orc Lord stiffened.
He turned—
And something collided with him at the speed of a thunderbolt.
A dark silhouette.
Feathers.
Fangs.
Lightless eyes.
Something feral, monstrous, ancient.
Borgo—
but not Borgo.
A howl split the night, echoing through the forest like a storm hitting.
The transformation had begun…
"Ahhh…hhhhh" as scream prevailed in the fighting ground.
The Orc Lord's grip tightened around the unconscious boy's throat as he lifted him higher, the child's legs dangling like wilted branches. His tusked jaw flared with disgust as he sniffed the boy's skin again and again, searching for the scent that had struck him moments ago—a scent older than war, older than the forest, older than the line of kings.
But it was gone.
Only the child's fear remained.
He lowered his heavy brow and inhaled sharply once more—when suddenly the wind shifted. Every leaf in the Crimson Forest shivered. The branches above twisted as though instinctively bowing to something descending upon them. The Orc Lord's eyes rose to the sky.
The moon had dimmed.
No clouds.
No fog.
Just an unfamiliar shadow expanding, stretching, widening—like ink blooming across silver.
A rumble rolled through the treetops, deep enough to vibrate bone.
Then—footsteps.
Not from the ground.
From the air.
As if someone were walking down an invisible staircase carved into the night itself.
Step.
Step.
Step.
Each step grew heavier, more defined, until the Orc Lord finally saw it—saw him.
Borgo was descending out of the moonlight.
But it was not Borgo.
Not the boy with the sword.
Not the quiet prince with broken armor.
This creature was carved of shadow and hunger.
Black feathers rippled across his limbs like wildfire awakening, the wind hissing through them as if terrified to touch him. His spine arched forward, the bones lengthening, then snapping back into shape. His claws curled and uncurled with a wet, eager sound. His white hair, once soft, now stood like a crown of sharpened quills, each strand vibrating with feral energy.
From afar, the Orc Lord felt nothing.
No scent.
No spirit.
No soul.
Only pressure—like an ancient mountain was pressing against his chest.
He took one stumbling step back, still clutching the unconscious boy.
Borgo's wings unfurled.
Not wings of feathered grace—wings of a predator.
Black. Massive. Heavy.
The joints bent in unnatural directions before setting into place, the membrane shimmering with cold lunar sheen.
His hands… they glistened wet.
Bone-white talons sprouting where nails once were.
His chest rose and fell in a sickening rhythm—two voices breathing inside one body.
And then the Orc Lord heard it.
A double growl.
One voice was Borgo's.
The other… something ancient choking its way into the world through him.
The Orc Lord's fingers loosened around Aurun's throat without his permission. For the first time in decades, he felt the tremor of something older than fear—recognition.
He whispered, trembling:
"He returns…"
Before he could finish, Borgo vanished.
A single blink—and he was there, right in front of the Orc Lord, inches from his tusked face.
His eyes were no longer human.
Two irises—one silver, one pitch black—flickered like twin storms struggling to occupy the same sky.
The Orc Lord tried to raise his arm in defense, but Borgo's talons were already buried deep into his shoulder. The creature's wings slashed outward, the wind pressure alone knocking Aurun's limp body several feet away into a bed of leaves.
The Orc Lord roared, shaking the ancient trees—
But Borgo roared back.
Not with one throat.
With two.
A layered scream—one savage, one hollow—clashed with the forest, shaking the very ground. The ancient trunks groaned under the vibration, and birds sleeping miles away shot into the sky in terror.
The Orc Lord stumbled as Borgo drove a knee into his ribs, cracking bone. He swung his massive fist toward Borgo's skull—only for Borgo to disappear again, reappearing behind him, raking his spine with those raw, newborn claws.
Blood splattered the roots of the crimson trees.
The Orc Lord dropped to one knee, gasping.
He had fought beasts—dragons—wraiths.
But this…
This was something that should not exist.
He lifted his head slowly—just in time to see Borgo step in front of him, head tilted, studying him with detached curiosity, like a creature examining prey it had never tasted before.
The Orc Lord spat blood and attempted a final charge.
But Borgo caught his face mid-leap—one hand gripping the skull, talons digging into bone. The Orc Lord screamed as Borgo's fingers clawed deeper, crushing cartilage, splintering ridge.
Then Borgo's other hand struck—straight into the Orc Lord's chest.
Bones split.
Flesh tore.
His hand slid into the cavity with a sickening, wet sound.
The Orc Lord's howl shook the forest—until it abruptly cut off.
Because Borgo closed his fist.
And crushed the heart.
Silence rippled through the forest like an echo finally finding its end.
The massive body fell backward, shaking the earth, blood pooling around the roots like dark sap.
But Borgo…
did not stop.
Whatever had awakened inside him refused the kill.
It wanted more.
He fell upon the corpse like a starving wolf, ripping into flesh with teeth that had lengthened beyond human shape. The black feathers on his shoulders trembled with each shuddering, uncontrolled breath.
He tore through skin—
through tendon—
through sinew—
his mouth dripping crimson as he devoured with animal desperation.
From a distance, hidden behind a broken trunk, the Orc Princess watched—her red skin shimmering faintly in the moonlight, tears streaking her cheeks. She trembled, one hand pressed over her mouth to smother her sobs.
This was her brother.
The Guardian of the Crimson Forest.
Slain.
Desecrated.
Consumed.
Yet when Borgo lunged to tear deeper into the corpse, something inside her—love, grief, duty—forced her forward.
She stepped out.
Her shadow flickered in the moonlight.
Her presence—feminine, soft, heartbreakingly vulnerable—cut through the frenzy.
Borgo froze mid-tear, chest rising in chaotic breaths, blood streaming down his chin.
He turned toward her.
The double voice inside him snarled.
The Orc Princess lowered her gaze, exposing the delicate curve of her nape—a gesture sacred among her kind.
An offering.
A plea.
A command.
She trembled, whispering not in words but in posture:
Spare him. Spare his rest. Spare his honor. Take mine instead.
Borgo's pupils dilated.
The monster's instinct latched onto her blood—her warmth—her pulse.
He pounced.
She did not flinch.
His fangs sank into her skin—
and she gasped, a single tear sliding down her cheek.
Black feathers trembled violently.
The double voice screamed in conflict.
The silver eye fought the black one.
The wings convulsed.
And slowly—slowly—
the feathers receded.
The claws shrank.
The hair softened.
The second voice faded.
Until Borgo collapsed against her shoulder—
human again—
mouth stained with the blood of her sacrifice.
She pushed him away, trembling, and fled into the forest, her sobs echoing like shattered bells through the night.
Borgo lay motionless.
Aurun lay beside him, unconscious but breathing.
The Orc Lord lay heavy and still, the forest mourning its fallen guardian.
And the moon—
once bright—
dimmed into an uneasy hush,
as though uncertain whether it had just witnessed a birth…
or an omen.