"Finally," she hissed, her voice now a rough, raspy whisper, a stark contrast to Valeriana's melodic tones. "Months. Months of forced smiles, of enduring his crude scent, of listening to his tedious pronouncements about stone and the roar of the falls." She paced around the dying Shogun, her new form surprisingly agile. "The Iguanakin form, so limiting in its overt power, yet perfect for the infiltration, the deception. Who would suspect a delicate orc wife?"
Gorok watched her, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his lifeblood pooling around him. He saw the shift, the true face of his betrayer, and the dawning horror in his eyes was almost comical.
She stopped, her glowing eyes fixed on his fading ones. "And now, the true work begins. The Shogunate is mine."
Another ripple, another agonizing shift. Her scales receded, her snout blunted, her emerald skin fading to the coarse, leathery hide of an orc. Her form bulked, tusks sprouting from her jaw. The delicate hands transformed into massive, calloused fists. In moments, she stood over the dying Gorok, a perfect, albeit younger, replica of him.
"The Ironclad will welcome its new Shogun," she grunted, testing the unfamiliar depth of her new voice. "And none will be the wiser."
The Iguanakin, now fully shifted and radiating a cold triumph, regarded the cooling form of the former Shogun. Gorok’s once fearsome bulk was already losing its vitality, the light gone from his tusked maw. With a grunt that echoed strangely in the damp chamber, the Iguanakin hauled the orc’s corpse. Despite the size difference in their shifted forms, the Iguanakin possessed a surprising strength.
Dragging the heavy body towards the arched balcony, the Iguanakin left a smear of dark blood across the slick stone floor. The roar of the waterfall intensified as they neared the opening, the air growing thick with moisture and the scent of churning water. Beyond the arch, the world dissolved into a chaotic ballet of plunging water and swirling mist. Jagged rocks, slick with spray, were visible in fleeting glimpses through the dense white veil.
With a final heave, the Iguanakin positioned Gorok’s body at the edge of the balcony. The dead weight shifted, and with a guttural push, the corpse tumbled over the precipice.
For a moment, the Iguanakin watched. Gorok’s form plummeted, a dark shape against the blinding white of the falls. Then, swallowed by the dense mist and the sheer volume of water, he was gone. No splash could be discerned over the constant thunderous cascade. He was simply… erased by the raw power of Ironclad’s defining feature.
Turning back into the chamber, the Iguanakin allowed a low, satisfied hiss to escape its reptilian throat. "One less obstacle," it rasped, the sound swallowed almost immediately by the incessant roar. "Now, to solidify my claim."
The shoganate orc’s heavy, green skin felt strangely unfamiliar stretched over Saithe’s lithe iguanakin frame. The illusion, meticulously crafted, was perfect down to the dull gleam of the orcish iron rings on her oversized fingers. She knelt in the cool, damp earth of Ironclad, the Orc Capital built under a massive waterfall. The constant roar of the water was a deep thrum that vibrated through the very stone of the cavern, a sound that had just swallowed the real shoganate's body from the balcony above.
From a pouch concealed within the shoganate’s thick belt, she carefully withdrew a smooth, grey river stone, no larger than her thumb. It hummed faintly in her disguised grasp, a resonance only her true form could feel, a resonance that cut through the thunder of the waterfall and the magical camouflage.
She closed the shoganate’s heavy eyelids, focusing her will. The stone warmed, and the air around her seemed to thicken, drawing in the whispers of the cavern. A flickering, greenish light emanated from the stone, projecting a wavering image into her mind: a damp, echoing chamber, and the craggy face of an elder lizardfolk, their eyes narrowed in anticipation.
"Saithe?" the elder's voice crackled, not through the air, but directly into her thoughts, a familiar rasp of dry leaves.
"It is done," Saithe projected, her mental voice a clear counterpoint to the gruff orcish illusion. "The Shoganate Orc falls."
A slow smile spread across the elder's face, revealing rows of sharp, yellowed teeth. "Yo dwe kraze, witch," they hissed, a deep rumble of satisfaction that echoed in Saithe's mind, a compliment tinged with awe at her audacious infiltration.
Saithe, still cloaked in the shoganate’s form, allowed a flicker of her own triumphant grin to tighten the orcish lips. She repeated the phrase, her mental voice laced with dark amusement. "Yo dwe kraze, witch."
The greenish light from the stone dimmed, and the mental connection snapped, leaving Saithe alone once more in the thundering heart of Ironclad, the weight of her successful deception settling heavily, yet satisfyingly, upon her disguised shoulders.
The axe bit deep into the oak, splitting it with a satisfying crack. Nott grunted, the familiar rhythm of wood-chopping a balm to her restless spirit. Sunlight dappled through the leaves overhead, painting shifting patterns on the forest floor. It was a peaceful scene, a stark contrast to the chaos that still sometimes clawed at the edges of her memory.
Varashroova. The name alone was enough to make her hackles rise, a phantom scent of ash and blood filling her nostrils. It had been years, but the Final Battle was etched into her mind like a brand.
The air thrummed with raw magic, a symphony of destruction. Buildings crumbled around them, the market square reduced to a jagged maw of shattered stone and twisted metal. Queen Nyx, her eyes blazing with an unholy light, cackled, a sound that scraped against Nott's very soul. Fae magic, ancient and terrible, ripped through the air, tearing at the fabric of reality. Nott met it with her own, a primal surge of power that erupted from deep within her. She was a whirlwind of claw and fang, dodging bolts of pure energy, her own innate magic manifesting as searing waves of force. The ground shuddered with each impact, a testament to the colossal energies unleashed.
Then, a sickening lurch in her stomach. A moment of pure, blinding rage. Nyx, for all her power, had overextended, leaving an opening. Nott didn't hesitate. She lunged, her axe a blur of steel. The queen's manic laughter choked off, replaced by a gurgle. The weight of the axe, the sickening crunch…
Nott gasped, the sharp scent of pine filling her lungs, dragging her back to the present. She stumbled backward, dropping the axe with a clang. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat in the quiet woods.
The ground before her was no longer just dirt and fallen leaves. A jagged scar-like hole, several feet deep, marred the earth where she'd been standing, radiating outwards like shattered glass. And the massive oak she'd been chopping? It lay prone, cleanly felled, its upper branches entangled with a smaller maple. She hadn't even been aiming for it. Her magic… it had flared, uncontrolled, just like that terrible day.
She shivered, despite the warmth of the sun. Even in this secluded spot, miles from the city, the echoes of Varashroova found her. She bent down, retrieving her axe, her hands trembling slightly.
Would the quiet ever truly settle in her soul?
Nott stared at the felled oak, a cold dread seeping into her bones. The tremor in her hands hadn't subsided. She forced herself to pick up the axe, her grip tight, knuckles white. The cottage was close, just beyond the thicket of pines, a small haven in the vast wilderness. She started walking, the familiar path a blur through her unfocused gaze.
Each step was heavy, dragging, as if an invisible weight pressed down on her. The peaceful sounds of the forest, once a comfort, now felt distant, muffled by the rising tide of fear within her. She could still feel it, the raw power that had erupted from her, the sheer destructive force. Ten years. Ten years since the battle, ten years since she’d purposefully used her primordial magic. She’d suppressed it, buried it deep, terrified of the harm she could unleash, the control she might lose.
Suddenly, her legs gave out. She crashed to the ground, the axe skittering away into the undergrowth. Her breath hitched, catching in her throat as a wave of icy panic washed over her. The trees around her seemed to press in, their shadows elongating, twisting into monstrous shapes. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the images were there, vivid and horrifying: the crumbling buildings of Varashroova, the screams, Nyx's contorted face, and the sickening sensation of her own magic tearing through the world.
A choked sob escaped her lips, then another, and another, until she was curled on the forest floor, shuddering, tears streaming down her face. The air grew tight, making it impossible to draw a full breath. She clutched at her chest, a desperate, animal sound escaping her as the panic tightened its grip. Ten years, and it still ate at her, a relentless gnawing at her soul. The trauma was a living thing, a coiled serpent within her, and today, it had struck. She was back in that shattered city, wielding a power she both craved and utterly feared, and the realization was enough to shatter her. The only sounds in the quiet woods were Nott's ragged sobs, a stark testament to the wounds that refused to heal.
A twig snapped nearby, cutting through Nott’s ragged sobs. She flinched, tensing, but before she could scramble away, a familiar, grounding presence settled beside her. A soft hand, cool against her tear-streaked cheek, gently turned her head.
“Nott,” a low, resonant voice rumbled, though it was little more than a whisper. Stransa.
The shadow primordial woman knelt, her dark cloak seeming to absorb the harsh edges of Nott’s panic. Stransa's own form was muted, a testament to her inherent quietude, yet her touch was firm and steady. Nott’s silent cries continued to rack her body, a helpless, guttural sound trapped in her chest. Stransa didn't press, didn't demand an explanation. She simply gathered Nott into her arms, pulling her close.
Held against Stransa’s surprisingly warm embrace, Nott’s shaking slowly began to subside. It wasn't a quick fix, but the sheer, unwavering support was a balm. Stransa’s hand stroked Nott's hair, a rhythmic, comforting motion.
“The echoes… they always find us,” Stransa murmured, her voice a deep hum that vibrated through Nott’s trembling form. “Even after the fires die, and the dust settles. The war… it leaves its marks, deep within.”
Nott’s mute sobs continued, but they were softer now, less frantic. Stransa understood. She had seen the raw, visceral terror of battle. She had witnessed the depths of cruelty, the utter annihilation that primordial magic could unleash. Her own experiences had carved their own scars, though they were hidden beneath her placid exterior.
“You fought for what was right, little wolf. You saved us,” Stransa continued, her words a gentle wave of reassurance. “The power… it’s a part of you. A terrible beauty. It’s hard to carry such a burden, I know.”
Nott clung to Stransa, burying her face in the soft fabric of her cloak. For a long time, only the rustling leaves and Stransa’s quiet breathing filled the air. Slowly, painstakingly, the knot of fear in Nott’s chest began to loosen. She was still terrified, still haunted, but in Stransa’s arms, she wasn’t alone. She was held, understood, and for the first time since the morning’s harrowing flashback, a fragile sense of peace began to settle over her.
Nott pulled back, her tears finally subsided, leaving her face streaked and her eyes swollen. Stransa’s arms remained around her, a comforting anchor. Nott shifted, her hands moving, fluid and expressive, signing a question.
How… you… cope? she signed, her gaze earnest, pleading for understanding. Her hands then formed a more complex thought, the anguish evident in every gesture. Fae… purged… primordials. You… saw… over… over… again?