Inside the holding cell, the air was heavy with tension. Caldreth gripped the cold iron bars, pressing his face against the grate to peer into the main cavern. Two guards stood just outside the threshold, their halberds crossed. They didn't look at him; they stared into the central area of Ironclaw with their backs turned, acting as a living wall.

  "How long do we rot here?" Caldreth demanded, rattling the grate.

  "Until Vorzan commands otherwise," one guard rumbled, not turning his head. "Step back from the bars, or we'll gut you."

  Caldreth sneered before releasing the iron with a curse. He turned back to the gloom of the cell. Krim was waiting there, sitting on the damp straw mat.

  "Denied?" Krim asked, a smirk playing on his lips.

  "What do you think?" Caldreth snapped, lowering his voice. He leaned against the stone wall, putting his back to the guards. "We are prisoners, Krim."

  "Are you just realizing that?" Krim muttered, looking around their cell. "Look, Caldreth. Maybe we cut our losses. The Wastes are a powder keg. We have dug ourselves into a very deep hole. The infection is going to burn through this ecosystem."

  Krim gestured vaguely toward the ceiling, indicating the world above them.

  "We could head North. Cross the salt flats, get out of demon territory for good." The admission seemed to taste sour in his mouth.

  "We can both start over, anywhere. I made a mistake coming to the Infernal Wastes. I wanted to put distance between the Necropolis and traveled further than I should have." He cast a glare at the demon guards, his expression tightening.

  "Claiming corpses here is not worth the effort," he pushed himself off the floor and turned to face Caldreth, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper.

  "We don't need to go to Shatterdeep. Walking into their citadel seems like a complicated way to commit suicide. Do you realize we have told these angry creatures that we have a cure for this infection? Do you have one lying around? Because I do not."

  Caldreth didn't answer; he stood there deep in thought.

  "They killed you once already. You don't trust them. Why are you so obsessed with walking into their hive?"

  Heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor, drowning out the dripping water.

  Krim sat up, his hand drifting to where his dagger usually sat, only to grasp at empty air. "Here comes the verdict."

  The grate shuddered as a key turned in the lock. The door swung open.

  Thra-uk filled the frame. He looked tired. The dust of the Wastes still clinging to him, his eyes were hard.

  "You live," Thra-uk rumbled, stepping aside to let them pass.

  "A warm welcome," Krim muttered, dusting off his robes. "Your warlord has a charming hospitality."

  "He is cautious," Thra-uk corrected without hesitation. "He wanted your heads on pikes. I offered my own honor as collateral to buy you his time. Do not waste it."

  The demon leaned down, his face inches from Caldreth's. The heat radiating from him was intense.

  "Do not make me a fool. If you offer lies... I will not save you."

  Caldreth met the demon's gaze. The Tome pulsed in his back pocket, knowing better to keep itself hidden for the time being. A slow, rhythmic beat of caution. "We have the proof, Thra-uk. Just make sure he listens."

  "He will listen," Thra-uk grunted, turning to lead the way. "But do not expect him to like what he hears. Follow."

  Thra-uk turned and strode toward the rear of the cavern, past the training pits and the mess hall. They followed him through a heavy archway draped in thick cured skins, stepping into Vorzan's personal sanctum.

  It was a space carved for a king. The air here was warmer, heated by a natural thermal vent in the floor. A small, clear stream trickled down the rock face, feeding into a carved basin of smooth obsidian before disappearing back into the earth, fresh water, a luxury in the Wastes.

  The walls were lined with the history of Vorzan's violence. Skulls of beasts Caldreth didn't recognize peered down from iron mounts. Racks of weapons, flanged maces, serrated greatswords, and heavy axes gleamed in the light of oil lamps.

  But the centerpiece hung on the far wall: a suit of massive, articulated plate armor. It was black iron, reinforced with demon bone, the shoulders spiked like a mountain range. It looked less like clothing and more like a fortress one wore.

  Thra-uk led them past Vorzan's quarters into a smaller adjoining chamber dominated by a slab of polished stone.

  Vorzan was already there. He had spent the hour with Thra-uk stewing in rage. He stood on the far side of the stone slab, his hands gripping the edge of the table hard enough to turn his knuckles white. He looked up as they entered, his eyes tracking them with the lethality of a drawn bowstring.

  The warlord released the table and moved to the basin, his movements sharp and agitated.

  "Speak," Vorzan rumbled, pouring water from the basin into a rough clay cup with a splash that betrayed his waning patience. "And do not waste words."

  Thra-uk looked at Krim and nodded.

  The necromancer stepped back from the table. He snapped his fingers, a sharp, dry sound that echoed in the quiet room.

  From the hallway, a shuffling gait approached.

  Vorzan's hand went to his mace. "I told you to keep those things out of my sight."

  "You need to see this," Krim said.

  A thrall stepped into the light, holding its hands out. Hovering above its palms, wrapped in a violet sphere, was the severed head.

  "Bring it closer," Thra-uk commanded.

  The thrall lurched forward, placing the sphere on the polished stone table before stepping back into the shadows.

  Inside the stasis field, the head sat frozen in time. The black veins stood out against the grey skin. The mouth was twisted open, revealing rotted gums and jagged fangs.

  "This is what we fought," Thra-uk rumbled. "It bleeds rot, spreads through blood."

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Vorzan leaned over the table, his massive shadow falling over the grisly trophy. He didn't touch it, but he leaned close enough to see the unnatural mutations.

  "Krugar no longer watches the Western Ravines then," Vorzan murmured, his voice tight.

  "He is no longer Krugar," Krim said softly. "He is a vessel for the infection. We witnessed the change firsthand. It took seconds. He turned on his kin, sinking his fangs deep into his ally's neck before the grunt could even raise a guard."

  Vorzan looked up, his eyes hard. The skepticism was gone, replaced by a cold, simmering fury. He waved a hand dismissively at the thrall.

  Krim snapped his fingers again. The undead stepped forward, reclaimed the sphere, and shuffled back out of the room, taking the evidence with it.

  "An infection in the Wastes," Vorzan murmured, watching the creature leave. "Convenient timing after a necromancer is discovered roaming our lands."

  He turned his gaze on Krim, his hand drifting toward his weapon. "You traffic in the dead, necromancer. You bring me a head sealed in your own darkcraft. Who is to say you did not craft this sickness yourself to weaken us?"

  Krim scoffed. "If I wanted to kill demons, I wouldn't create a contagious sludge that risks infecting me," Krim countered. "It's not my work."

  Vorzan stared him down, looking for a lie. Finding none, he turned his massive head toward Caldreth.

  The large demon stepped closer, the heat of his body radiating like a furnace. Vorzan leaned down, his face inches from Caldreth's, smelling the air around him.

  He reached out, his clawed finger tracing the air inches from Caldreth's cheek, as if outlining a target for a blade.

  "And you," Vorzan rumbled, his lip curling in disgust. He studied the ashen skin and faint red rim around Caldreth's irises.

  "You remind me of them. The old lords. The Sangrathi."

  Caldreth felt the Tome shudder, a spike of cold, violent anger at the demon's proximity.

  "If Thra-uk hadn't sworn the wine stayed silent," Vorzan hissed, "I would have peeled this skin from your skull the moment you walked in. Just to see you bleed."

  Vorzan didn't pull back. A cruel smile touched his tusks. "I remember them," he whispered. "I remember the polished boots. The perfect silks that never seemed to catch the dust of the Wastes. They treated us like dirt beneath those boots."

  The memory seemed to snap something inside him.

  "Dirt!" Vorzan roared, the sound shaking the dust from the ceiling.

  He spun and drove his fist into the solid stone table. The impact was violent, splitting the corner of the polished slab with ease. A chunk of rock skittered across the floor to rest at Krim's feet.

  Krim took a subtle, wise half-step back.

  Vorzan stood panting for a second, his chest heaving as he stared at the broken stone. Then, the fire in his eyes settled back into that cold, predatory gleam. He turned; the violence contained no sooner than it erupted.

  "They hunted us for sport. Roving bands of Sangrathi riders, tireless and cruel. They would descend on our camps, cull the weak, and leave the bodies mutilated in the sand. Not for food. Not for territory. For pleasure."

  Vorzan's fist clenched.

  "They never fought with honor. They struck from the shadows and disappeared back into the Wastes before we could rally. We bled for decades."

  Vorzan leaned in, his voice dropping to a rumble of satisfaction.

  "But, they grew arrogant. Sloppy. We sacrificed a small band of traitors, watching from afar as they were slaughtered. The Sangrathi thought their hunt was successful and did not bother to cover their tracks. We trailed them for days across the Wastes, until finally, they went home. Nethervale."

  He circled Caldreth like a predator inspecting a trap.

  "I was there when we burned it all. It was one of the few times the tribes united before Dagrimor took the seat of Sovereign. We poured into that wretched city like a black tide. The fire... the screams as we dragged them from their high towers..."

  Vorzan inhaled with satisfaction, as if savoring a fine wine.

  "It was worth every drop of blood we lost. To see the fear in their perfect eyes. To hear them beg."

  Caldreth's expression didn't flicker, though his heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The Tome was screaming in his mind with a deafening roar of pure violence, flooding his veins with an urge to strike that terrified even him.

  Contain yourself, Caldreth whispered in the sanctuary of his own skull, clamping down on the urge with every ounce of his will. I am not Sangrathi. This monster is baiting a ghost. If I breathe wrong, he will cut me down without question.

  "I have been told I have a noble bearing," Caldreth said, his voice smooth, betraying nothing. "But I have no memory of your old lords. Or their screams."

  The Tome didn't listen. It showed him flashes of fire. It played the sound of shattering glass.

  Vorzan's words triggered a phantom pain in his chest, a hollow, aching pressure that felt like his heart was being squeezed.

  What is this? Caldreth thought, his mental shields buckling. An aching, hollow grief for a city I have never heard of.

  He forced the alien sorrow down, locking it behind a wall of cold logic.

  He wants a reaction. Do not give it to him.

  Vorzan stopped circling. He turned, moving with a speed that belied his bulk.

  His hand shot out, seizing Caldreth by the throat.

  The grip was iron-hard, bruising the skin. Vorzan lifted him with ease. Caldreth's boots left the floor, his breath hitching as the massive demon suspended him in the air like a ragdoll.

  He wrenched Caldreth's head up, forcing his mouth open with a dirty, clawed thumb.

  "Thra-uk says you are clean," Vorzan hissed, leaning in until Caldreth could smell the stale blood on his breath. "Let's see."

  He scraped his thumb against Caldreth's teeth, checking for the fangs of a Sangrathi. The movement was rough and degrading, inspecting him like livestock.

  Krim folded his arms across his chest with a deliberate, slow grace that drew Thra-uk's narrowing gaze.

  "Careful with the throat, Warlord," he said, his voice a dry rasp that carried no fear."I need him alive. Dead things are notoriously bad at providing assistance."

  Thra-uk released a low vibrating rumble from deep in his chest, warning Krim to stay his tongue. He watched Vorzan with an expectant, cynical tilt of his head.

  Vorzan ignored the comment, his focus entirely on his prey.

  The Tome burned in Caldreth's back pocket. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, trembling. He had to use every ounce of willpower to keep his arms down while suspended in the warlord's grip.

  Be still, Caldreth told himself. Do not react.

  Vorzan wasn't done. He shoved Caldreth's face to the side, his rough fingers brushing back the hair at Caldreth's temples. He was looking for the telltale taper of the Highborn.

  He found nothing but the round, dull curve of a human ear. Vorzan threw Caldreth against the wall with a sneer. Caldreth gasped for air, rubbing his bruised throat.

  "Blunt teeth," he spat, wiping his thumb on his hip. "Round ears. You are soft."

  He turned his glare to Thra-uk. "Iron-wine detects blood, but eyes detect weakness. He is no lord, only prey."

  Vorzan pulled back, though his eyes remained suspicious. He looked at the map sprawled across the table, his jaw set.

  "They are cattle, Thra-uk. Keep your pets on a tight leash. If they get in my way, I will butcher them myself. Now get them out of my sight."

  "Come," Thra-uk commanded, breaking the heavy silence that had followed Vorzan's dismissal.

  The Iron-Born led them out of Vorzan's sanctum, back to their cell.

  Caldreth hesitated, bristling at the command, but Krim ushered him forward. "Better a cell than a shallow grave, Caldreth. Get in."

  Thra-uk slammed the grate shut, the lock engaging with a sound like a hammer strike.

  The moment the demon rounded the corner, Caldreth gasped before collapsing against the rough stone wall. His knees buckled, sending him sliding down to the floor.

  "Caldreth?" Krim's voice was sharp.

  Caldreth's hands clawed at his chest, tearing at his tunic as if it were suffocating him. The Tome radiated an intense heat from its leather cover. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the darkness behind his lids was washed in violent crimson. Veins of glowing red light spiderwebbed across his neck and up his jaw, pulsing in time with the frantic beat of the book.

  Krim put himself between the bars, and Caldreth, his back turned, eyes fixed on the empty hallway to ensure no guards were returning.

  "Get yourself under control, Caldreth," Krim snapped his voice a sharp whisper.

  "I can't," Caldreth choked out, his voice warping into a guttural growl. "When he spoke of them, the Sangrathi..."

  He slammed his fist against the stone floor.

  "I was so... angry. I wanted to peel the skin from Vorzan's bones."

  Krim turned, his expression filled with cold irritation. He moved to stand over Caldreth, looking down at the glowing veins as if they were a nuisance.

  "Look at me," Krim commanded.

  Caldrethlook up at him, his chest heaving.

  "Vorzan is already looking for a reason to butcher us both. We are on thin ice, and you're currently a glowing beacon of treason. If Thra-uk sees that power, or if a guard sees those eyes, we won't be leaving this cage. Pull it in."

  Krim reached down to grab Caldreth's wrist in a cold, dead grip. He squeezed hard, the chill of his necromancy biting into Caldreth's feverish skin.

  "Breathe. Stifle it. Lock it inside whatever box that rage belongs in."

  Slowly, the red light in his eyes dimmed. The glowing veins on his neck faded back to pale blue. The searing heat of the Tome cooled, settling back into a sullen, rhythmic thrum.

  Caldreth slumped forward, bracing himself on his hands, sweat dripping from his nose.

  The fortress lurched. Dust rained from the ceiling as a shockwave slammed through the stone. Somewhere in the distance, horns began to sound.