Part II — Adodeme
Dawn bleeds through the peaks like fire through a wound.
From the terrace of the Bloodfang fortress, Adodeme watches mist crawl through the valley below. Her warriors stand ready—lines of black-steel armor and beast sigils glowing faintly against their skin. The smell of forge smoke and rain fills the air.
She tightens the straps on her gauntlets as Rukhar, her Ember Lion, pads beside her, molten eyes bright. Velith, her Shadow Panther, prowls in and out of the light, tail cutting the air like a blade.
"Scouts report the humans are on the move," says her second, a broad-shouldered orc named Druak. "They've brought the eastern legions."
"So it begins," Adodeme murmurs. Her voice carries no fear—only weariness. Every generation fights the same war, and every generation swears it will be the last.
Her father's orders still ring in her ears:
"Hold the ridge. No retreat. Let the humans remember who owns these mountains."
She looks toward the shrine banners that hang above the fortress gates—the flames painted there seem to flicker as if alive. For the briefest instant, she feels a pulse in her chest that isn't hers, like a second heartbeat answering across the wind.
"Druak," she says quietly, "when you fight, listen to the ground. Something stirs beneath it."
He frowns. "Magic?"
"Fate," she says before she can stop herself.
Then the war horn sounds from below. She mounts the stone steps to the front line, raising both axes high. Her beasts roar—Rukhar's fire streaming upward, Velith's shadow curling around it until flame and night twist into a single pillar. The Bloodfang warriors cheer.
"Today," Adodeme shouts, "we fight not for hatred—but for the mountain that remembers our names!"
The answering cry shakes the valley.