Chapter 140 - Act I / Smoke on the Wind

The wind that swept across the stone plains west of the Shardspine Hills was thick with the scent of bloodroot and cold ash, its bite sharp enough to sting uncovered skin. Herd-beasts moved along the ridgelines in slow procession, their shaggy hides matted with dust, their hooves kicking up clouds that swirled into the wind as they followed ancient migratory paths worn deep into the earth. Their low bellows echoed faintly, swallowed by the vastness of the cracked plateau, where jagged spires of basalt loomed like the bones of forgotten giants.And deep within the crag-shadowed valley known as Braghar Vokh—the Broken-Tooth Hollow—Urrakh of the Red-Bind stood before a circle of stone and raised the axe high, its blade catching the pale light of a sun still low in the sky.It gleamed with a light his people had never known.Forged from a black metal that shimmered like oil and shadow, it was heavier than bone-iron and colder than the crude steel smelted in their pit-fires. The haft was wrapped in red leather, human-made, its texture too soft for orc hands accustomed to rough bone and sinew, but the edge… the edge had cleaved through tempered iron as if it were bark, leaving a gash so clean it seemed to mock the tools they knew. The blade's surface bore no scratches, no flaws—only a faint, dark sheen that seemed to drink the light rather than reflect it.The warriors gathered around him were silent, their broad shoulders tense, their eyes wide beneath heavy brows. No chants rose from their throats, no boasts echoed across the stones—just quiet awe and unease, a stillness broken only by the faint clatter of bone beads strung through braided hair and the rustle of hide cloaks shifting in the wind. Their weapons—spears tipped with flint, clubs studded with obsidian—rested at their sides, suddenly diminished in the axe's presence.They had never seen anything like it."The exile brought it east," Urrakh growled, his voice low but carrying across the circle, rough as the gravel underfoot. His tusks gleamed faintly, polished by years of ritual, and his eyes burned with a fire that was both challenge and warning. "From the humans.""The ash-walkers?" one of the younger warriors muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. His hide armor was patched with fresh stitches, and his hand tightened on the shaft of a spear, as if to ground himself. "I thought they were ghosts—stories to scare children.""Not ghosts," Urrakh said, lowering the axe slightly, his massive arm unyielding despite its weight. "But they ride like the storm, wear light steel that bends but does not break, and speak words we do not know. Their tracks vanish into the ash, and their fires burn hotter than ours."A rumble passed through the gathered orcs, a low murmur like stones shifting before a landslide. Some glanced toward the valley's rim, where the wind carved patterns in the dust, half-expecting to see riders crest the horizon."Did they challenge?" asked Rokh-Nor, a chieftain of a northern hold, stepping closer to the circle's edge. His tusks were chipped and yellowed, one broken jaggedly from a duel long past, and his cloak—stitched from the pelts of cliff-wolves—was heavy with dust. "Did they seek war?""No," Urrakh said, his gaze steady, unblinking. "They asked for nothing—no tribute, no blood. And yet, the exile tribe gave them shelter. Fire. Meat. And in return… they left this." He tilted the axe, letting the sunlight kiss its curved edge, scattering dark reflections over the stones like ripples on a shadowed pool."That is no gift," spat Dagrul the One-Eye, his voice sharp with disdain. He stood apart, war-painted in streaks of red clay, his single eye gleaming beneath a scarred brow. The empty socket was covered with a patch of blackened leather, and his hand rested on the hilt of a bone dagger, its blade nicked from years of use. "It is a message. An insult. They offer us metal we cannot make. They show us power we cannot match."Urrakh turned to face him, his bulk casting a shadow that swallowed Dagrul's. "And that is why we must decide." His words were deliberate, each one falling like a hammer on anvil, and he planted the axe into the ground before the council of clan-chiefs, its haft sinking deep into the red clay like a banner staking claim. The earth trembled faintly under the impact, a faint puff of dust rising around the blade."They come from the east," he said, his voice rising to reach every ear. "Beyond the black lands. The cursed soil where nothing grows, where the winds howl with the screams of the lost. We thought it dead. We were wrong.""And now?" asked another voice—softer, older, carrying the weight of years. It belonged to Makra-Veh, a blind elder draped in beads of bone and braided hair, his frame frail but unbowed. His face was hollow, cheeks sunken beneath sightless eyes that seemed to see more than most, and his hands rested on a staff carved with spiraling runes half-worn by time. "Do we greet them with blades? Or silence?"Urrakh looked to the sky, where carrion birds rode the thermals in lazy spirals, their wings cutting sharp arcs against the pale dawn. Their distant cries were faint, almost lost in the wind, but they carried a warning of change—of carrion waiting to be claimed. "They will come again," he said. "Whether we speak or not. The exile tribe says they build strongholds—stone homes that touch the clouds, fire towers that breathe smoke, walls that don't bend under siege. They have beasts of burden that carry twice their weight, food stores for winters they do not feel.""We are not like them," Dagrul snarled, his hand tightening on his dagger, the leather grip creaking. "We take what we need. We move with the herds. We fight when the blood calls.""And we die," Urrakh snapped, his voice cracking like a whip, silencing the murmurs that had begun to rise. "You think they will fight like the blood-maddened east-clans, charging blind into our spears? These humans build, wait, and then strike when the stone is weakest. They do not waste strength—they wield it."The circle fell into silence once more, the wind's howl filling the void, stirring the dust at their feet. The stones around them—ancient, weathered, carved with faded symbols of hunts and wars—seemed to lean closer, listening.Makra-Veh's voice broke the quiet, soft but piercing. "Then you believe the old stories." It was not a question, but a statement, heavy with the weight of lore passed through generations."I do now," Urrakh said, his eyes narrowing as he looked toward the elder. "There was once an age when the world burned. The east was lost in fire and iron, cities swallowed by ash. The black winds came, and we thought only bones remained—scattered, forgotten.""But the bones rose," Makra-Veh whispered, his staff tapping the ground once, a faint thud that seemed to echo deeper than it should. "And now they walk again, carrying blades of shadow."Several of the younger warriors shifted uneasily, their hands tightening on spears and clubs, their eyes darting to the axe as if it might move on its own."The exile who brought the axe," Urrakh continued, his voice steadying, grounding the circle, "says the humans have no clans, only castes. Their leaders wear no tusks, no marks of battle—they rule through words, not strength. They make tools in fire-temples that burn day and night, and eat grain that grows in nothing-soil, fed by water they trap and bend. They write their laws in ink on skins thinner than a leaf, and build their tribes with coin—metal that buys loyalty.""It is weakness," Dagrul said, his voice low, almost a growl, his eye glinting with defiance."No," Urrakh said, stepping closer, his shadow falling across Dagrul's painted face. "It is danger. Not because of what they are—but because of what they do. They do not break—they build. They do not wander—they claim."He turned, looking at each chieftain in turn, his gaze a challenge and a plea. The circle was a mix of youth and age, scars and ambition—Rokh-Nor with his wolf-pelt cloak, Dagrul with his restless anger, Makra-Veh with his quiet wisdom, and a dozen others, their faces weathered by wind and war, their hands marked by the tools of survival."We must decide," Urrakh said. "Do we send scouts east and learn what walks the ash? Or do we wait, and let their silence become conquest?"There was no answer at first, only the wind's low moan and the distant bellow of a herd-beast crossing the ridge. The warriors stood still, their breaths visible in the morning chill, their eyes flickering between Urrakh and the axe buried in the clay.Then Rokh-Nor stepped forward, his boots crunching on the gravel, and placed a scarred hand on the axe's haft, his fingers tracing the red leather with a mixture of reverence and suspicion. "Send scouts," he said, his voice rough but firm. "Not many. Just enough to follow the ash-paths and see what grows. Eyes sharp, hands empty—no blood unless blood is drawn first."Makra-Veh nodded slowly, his beads clattering softly as he tilted his head. "And speak to no one. Let the bones walk past. But watch their stride—how they move, where they rest, what they leave behind." His staff tapped the ground again, sealing the words like a vow.Urrakh bowed his head, his braids falling forward, heavy with bone and iron rings. "Then it begins."He straightened, pulling the axe free from the clay with a soft scrape, the blade gleaming once more as he raised it to the sky. The warriors watched, their silence now a pact, their eyes burning with purpose.Behind him, the wind picked up again, stronger now, carrying the scent of bloodroot and ash across the valley. The dust scattered, swirling around the stones, catching in the crevices of ancient carvings—hunts, wars, promises made and broken.And somewhere far across the cracked stone of the Expanse, the Dominion continued to build—forges roaring, walls rising, roads stretching east under the weight of ambition.Unaware that it was already being watched, its shadow falling longer than it knew.