IXQUITO | The Rise Of The Dark Lord

The dense canopy of Iron Hold Forest loomed ahead as Erin and Giselle rode their horses along the narrow, winding path. The scent of damp earth and decaying leaves filled the air, a stark contrast to the crisp breeze that had accompanied them on their journey from Dornhaven. The mission was simple: scout the forest and observe the movements of the orc forces. However, both knew that what they might find could change the course of the impending war.

As they rode, the conversation drifted toward the two strangers who had arrived in Dornhaven, seeking aid from King Thalvion.

"You know," Giselle mused, adjusting the strap of her leather armor. "That Aerion... there's something about him. He carries himself differently from most knights."

Erin scoffed. "You mean he's handsome."

Giselle chuckled. "That too. But he seems... honorable. Like the knights from the old tales. It's rare to find someone like that these days."

Erin smirked. "He may be good-looking, but not as handsome as me," he said confidently.

Giselle burst into laughter. "Oh, please, Erin. Your ego is going to get us killed one day."

Their lighthearted exchange was suddenly cut short when Erin spotted something in the distance. A thick column of black smoke rose above the treetops, curling toward the sky like a dark omen. He immediately pulled on the reins, bringing his horse to a halt.

"Smoke," he muttered.

Giselle followed his gaze, her expression turning serious. "That's not a good sign. It means they're close."

Erin nodded. "We need to be ready for anything."

Without hesitation, they dismounted and tied their horses to a sturdy tree at the edge of the forest. Moving carefully, they advanced on foot, weaving between trees and ducking behind a large boulder for cover. Erin peered over the rock first, his sharp eyes scanning the clearing ahead.

What he saw made his blood run cold.

Thousands of orcs stood in formation, lined up with precision that was uncharacteristic of their kind. They were not the usual chaotic, mindless brutes he had encountered in past skirmishes. These orcs stood tall, disciplined, their armor gleaming under the dim forest light. In the center of their ranks, a figure cloaked in dark robes paced between them, issuing commands in a guttural, authoritative tone.

"This..." Erin whispered in disbelief.

Giselle, sensing his unease, edged closer. "What is it?"

Erin turned to her, his face pale. "This isn't normal. Orcs don't organize themselves like this. They're savage creatures, driven by bloodlust and destruction. They fight in chaotic hordes, not like trained soldiers."

Giselle frowned. "Then someone is leading them. Someone who understands war."

Erin exhaled sharply. "The only one who has ever managed to control orcs like this was the Dark King Zordrak. But he was slain by the Albion Knights twenty-five years ago."

Giselle narrowed her eyes. "Then someone else has taken his place. And if that's true... then we have a traitor among us."

The realization sent a shiver down Erin's spine. If a human—or worse, someone from one of the ruling kingdoms—was behind this, then the war was already much more dire than they had imagined.

"We need to leave," he whispered urgently. "If we stay here too long, they'll sense us."

Giselle nodded, gripping the hilt of her dagger as they carefully backed away from the clearing. Within moments, they reached their horses and swiftly mounted them, spurring them into a gallop away from the forest.

As they rode, Erin turned to Giselle. "We have to report this to King Thalvion immediately. If he doesn't act now, things will only get worse."

Giselle tightened her grip on the reins. "Let's just hope we're not too late."

---

In Lorien Kingdom

Far from the looming threat in Iron Hold, in the grand halls of Lorien's castle, King Caedric sat at the head of a long, lavish table, engaged in a meeting with five of the ten corrupt council members who controlled the kingdom's affairs. These men were the architects of Aldric's downfall—the ones who had betrayed the rightful heir and ensured Caedric's grip on the throne.

Among them sat Karlor Ravenboor, a rotund man draped in fine silks, flanked by two beautiful concubines who fawned over him even as he stuffed his mouth with expensive delicacies. His wealth was unmatched, yet his gluttony knew no bounds.

Next to him, Galeick Valthorin, an aged noble whose ambition had not waned with time. His wrinkled hands rested on the table, fingers tapping rhythmically as he listened to the discussion, no doubt already calculating how to turn it to his advantage.

Vaelin Draegor, the youngest of the council members, sat with a smirk playing on his lips. His house had been torn apart by internal power struggles, but through ruthless cunning, he had managed to rise above his treacherous kin.

Marek Bloodvale was a man of brute force, his massive frame barely fitting in his ornate chair. His unkempt beard was stained with grease from the meal he devoured with little regard for decorum. Those who dared to insult his lack of refinement never lived to regret it.

And then there was Rhovan Dusk, the most enigmatic of them all. He rarely spoke, but when he did, his words carried weight. It was whispered that he commanded a vast network of mercenaries, assassins, and spies—his influence stretching far beyond the walls of Lorien's castle.

King Caedric leaned forward, his hands pressed firmly against the table, his piercing gaze scanning the faces of his council. A tense silence hung between them before he finally broke it.

"I have sent my most trusted man to uncover the whereabouts of the true heir to the throne," he declared. His voice was firm, laced with the determination of a man unwilling to yield.

The words sent a ripple of unease through the room.

Galeick Valthorin, the eldest among them, arched a skeptical brow. "And where, exactly, have you sent this... trusted man of yours?"

Caedric's eyes darkened. "Into the Forbidden Forest."

A murmur of disbelief swept through the council. Vaelin Draegor, usually one to observe before speaking, abruptly rose from his seat. His sharp features twisted in an expression of incredulity.

"Impossible," he said firmly. "No one—no matter how skilled—has ever returned from that accursed place alive. Even our best soldiers would be walking to their graves."

Marek Bloodvale, who had been idly gnawing on a roasted leg of lamb, slammed his greasy fist onto the table. "You're a damn fool, Caedric," he growled, his voice thick with irritation. "You've let your obsession blind you. Even if the boy were alive, after twenty-two years, do you truly believe he would have the strength to dethrone you?"

The disdain in Marek's voice was unmistakable, but Caedric was unfazed.

"You don't understand," the king hissed, his patience thinning. "As long as that boy breathes, my throne is not secure. I will not risk him one day returning to claim what is rightfully mine." His fingers dug into the table's surface, his knuckles turning white. "I will not allow it."

Marek scoffed, crossing his arms over his massive chest. "Your paranoia is going to get us all killed. We have far greater matters to deal with than chasing ghosts."

He leaned forward, his gaze hardening. "The orcs are on the move. They march from the south, heading straight for Blackmoor and Dornhaven. This is our opportunity. While Dornhaven is weak, we should be focusing our efforts on taking their kingdom, not chasing after some lost prince."

Caedric's expression darkened. In a flash of rage, he slammed both fists against the table with such force that the goblets rattled, sending droplets of wine spilling onto the polished wood.

"You think you can dictate my priorities?" he snarled, his voice dangerously low. "You think I care about Dornhaven more than I care about erasing the last trace of that wretched lineage?" His gaze swept across the table, filled with unrelenting fury. "Nothing—nothing—matters more to me than eliminating the last heir. And if any of you stand in my way, I will have you removed. Permanently."

A silence heavier than iron filled the chamber.

Then, Rhovan Dusk, who had remained silent for most of the discussion, finally spoke.

"You've spent twenty-two years searching, and still, you have nothing," he said, his voice smooth and unshaken. His cold, calculating gaze met Caedric's. "Your obsession is a fool's errand. And worse, it has made you reckless. You have ignored the council's true agenda in favor of a personal vendetta. We gave you this throne, and yet you squander your position chasing ghosts."

Caedric's jaw clenched. In a sudden, violent motion, he grabbed his iron goblet and hurled it across the room, aiming directly at Rhovan's face.

But Rhovan did not flinch.

With a swift movement, his right hand shot up, catching the goblet just inches from his face. The impact sent a dull clang echoing through the chamber. Slowly, he lowered his hand, placing the goblet onto the table without a trace of emotion.

"One day, you will regret this," he said coolly. "You have ignored the kingdom's instability for too long. And when your enemies come for you, we will not save you."

The weight of his words hung in the air. Caedric glared at him, his teeth clenched in rage, but he said nothing. Instead, with a furious sweep of his cloak, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the chamber, his boots echoing against the marble floors.

The five council members watched him go, waiting until the grand doors slammed shut behind him.

Then, at last, Vaelin exhaled and leaned back in his chair. "Now that the mad king is gone, let's speak of real matters."

The others turned their attention back to the table.

Vaelin tapped his fingers against the wooden surface, a calculating glint in his eyes. "The orcs have begun their march. They move south, toward Blackmoor and Dornhaven." He paused, letting the words sink in. "This is our chance."

Karlor Ravenboor's face lit up with excitement. "If Dornhaven falls, it will be a great victory. The kingdom's position is perfect for trade and expansion."

Marek wiped his greasy mouth and grunted. "And how do you propose we take it? Dornhaven will be too busy dealing with the orcs to focus on us, but that doesn't mean they will simply crumble overnight."

Vaelin smirked. "That is precisely why we must strike when they are weakest. The moment the battle between Dornhaven and the orcs ends, we launch our attack. We give them no time to recover."

Marek frowned. "And where did you come up with this little plan?"

Vaelin hesitated for a moment before answering. "Someone suggested it to me."

Rhovan's sharp eyes narrowed. "Who?"

Vaelin's smirk faded slightly. "I do not know his name. He was cloaked in black, his face obscured. But his voice... it was familiar. I feel as though I have heard it before."

A brief silence followed his words.

"Does it matter?" Vaelin finally said, waving a hand dismissively. "Whoever he was, he had the right idea. If we delay, we risk Dornhaven regaining its strength. We must gather 10,000 men and prepare them to march within five days."

Rhovan stood, his gaze sweeping across the others. "Then it is decided. Lorien will gather its forces. When the battle between Dornhaven and the orcs ends, we will strike. King Thalvion will be removed from his throne, and Lorien will extend its rule over the realm."

Karlor raised his goblet, grinning. "To the future of Lorien."

One by one, the others followed suit, their glasses clinking together in a silent toast.

Laughter echoed through the chamber as the councilmen drank deep, reveling in their anticipated victory.

But outside the walls of the castle, in the darkened corridors of the kingdom, shadows moved unseen. The fate of Dornhaven—and perhaps all the realms—was already being decided, not through battle, but through the whispers of men who played war like a game of chess.

And the pieces were already in motion.