Only you can raise the orcs again.
Let us shape a new dominion — together.”
Xaroth fell still.
The silence lengthened — not empty, but watching.
Then he spoke, low and bright with danger:
“So. Not salvation, then. Dominion. You reach far, shaman. But know this — the pact has its price.”
The shadow thickened — breathed in — and wrapped itself around Gorzod like smoke made flesh.
“You shall give all. Not only your soul, but the souls of many. It will take ten moon-turns before I rise in Fallgar. And in that time — you will feed me. When the hour comes, I shall claim this world. Do you accept?”
Though doubt gnawed at him, Gorzod raised his clenched fists.
“I am ready. Speak your demand — and I shall fulfill it.”
“There is a soul of purity. That shall be the first you bring me. And I shall aid you in taking it,” Xaroth hissed.
Gorzod’s breath faltered. “Whose soul, Master?” he asked softly.
“Queen Lythinda of Astinhod!” Xaroth’s voice rang out like a blow.
Gorzod’s heart raced.
What the demon demanded was near impossible. Queen Lythinda — the most powerful ruler in Wetherid. Her realm, Astinhod, lay far beyond Fallgar. Her army was vast. Her palace heavily guarded.