“Extraordinary chances demand unrelenting choices,” Gorzod muttered, tightening his grip around the cold rim of the sacrificial bowl.
His jaw locked.
With a growl pulled from the gut, he cast the offerings into the flame — the charred heart of a black wolf, the bones of a fallen champion, and the blood of a Haldaki, a winged beast of the high skies.
Flames surged upward — wild, snapping — and a dense column of smoke coiled into the space above the altar.
Then — a voice.
Sharp. Deep. Like iron split in frost:
“Who dares summon me? What fool believes it can command the powers of the Abyss?”
Gorzod stepped back, the heat against his chest.
He did not flinch. He did not breathe. Then:
“I am Gorzod Greyswings, chieftain of the orcs of Raga Gur.
Servant of the ancient spirits.
I have called you, Xaroth — to open the way. That we may rule this world together.
I offer you a pact.”
A low laugh moved through the hall — slow, coiling.
From the heart of the smoke, a shape began to form — cloaked in shadow, flickering at the edges, vast and unfinished.
“A pact?” Xaroth’s voice cracked the dark.
“You know nothing of what you summon.
My power was not made for hands like yours.
And still you dare offer me a bargain — blind to what you’ve woken?”
Gorzod did not step back.
“I know what you are.