The Burrows had never been so alive.
Once a network of dark tunnels and narrow caverns, now they roared like a living city.
Drums thundered through the stone. The forges glowed red. Goblins ran in disciplined packs carrying obsidian weapons, their voices raised in chants of the Red Maw.
At the heart of it all, in the great hall carved from a fallen stalactite, the Fanglord sat upon his black throne cloak pooling like smoke, eyes glinting with firelight.
One by one, his new emissaries returned from the corners of the world.
It was amusing to the Fanglord how quickly the army had begun to recover, and while they licked their wounds he would listen to his emissaries with rapt attention from his seat. A clawed hand running through Skara’s furred head.
The first to arrive came from the southern wastes.
The Blight-Tusks marched in ranks of twos, their skin cracked and oozing, their tusks slick with disease. The stench of rot preceded them like a herald. Each bore ritual scars carved into their flesh in the shape of flies, maggots, and spreading wounds. Behind them trailed wagons piled high with bones and half-rotten meat their offering and their curse.
At their head walked a massive boar-man with tusks black as pitch and a voice like thunder.
He dropped to one knee before Maggra.
“We come,” he bellowed, “to kneel before the Prophet of Decay She-Who-Sheds-All Flesh. You showed us that rot is only another kind of rebirth. We would spread your sickness, Mother of the Wasting.”
The air grew thick with the hum of flies. Maggra’s dual heads smiled, one whispering, the other laughing.
“You understand,” she said. “The world dies only to be born again uglier, stronger, honest.”
The Blight-Tusks thumped their chests in unison, a wet, meaty sound.
“Then give us land to fester!” they cried.
Vris rose, considering their strength and their hunger.
“You’ll have it. Take the southern border. Guard it with your lives. Feed as you must, but do not touch my forges or my foragers. If you hunger beyond that…”
He leaned forward, eyes glinting.
“…turn your appetites on the Radiant faithful.”
They roared approval, shaking the very stone.
As they withdrew to claim their new territory, the Fanglord turned to Maggra.
“You’ve inherited followers,” he said.
“No,” she hissed. “I’ve inherited plague. But plague spreads. You should be pleased.”
He was.
Two nights later, the tunnels shook again this time not from chanting, but from hammering.
The Stone-Eaters had arrived.
They came draped in tattered remnants of noble dwarven attire, their armor pieced together from scavenged ore and rust. Their eyes shone faintly with metallic light, their teeth glittering with flecks of silver and gold. Each bore heavy chisels as weapons, belts filled with chunks of raw metal which they chewed as they marched.
Their leader, Foreman Hadrik Veinborn, stood before the Fanglord and struck his chest with a hand that left streaks of iron dust.
“We are the disowned of Harrowhall,” he rasped. “They cast us into the deep tunnels to die when the sickness took our blood. We ate stone and survived. Now we hunger for vengeance.”
He raised a chunk of ore, biting it in half with a crunch.
“Swear that when your red fang banners march upon Harrowhall, you’ll give us back our forges and we’ll build you machines to crush gods.”
The hall murmured. Even Dunzok looked impressed.
Vris descended the throne, stopping inches from the dwarf’s molten eyes.
“You’ll have your forges,” he said. “And in return, you’ll build me walls to outlast heaven.”
Hadrik bowed his head. “Then the Deep sings for you, Fanglord.”
Within a week, the Stone-Eaters began carving new structures from the cavern walls fortifications, tunnels, and vast workshops powered by veins of molten ore.
They became the architects of the Red Maw.
On the seventh night, the torches flickered.
One by one, the flames went out.
When the last torch died, the Burrow filled with a faint hum soft at first, then layered, then unbearable. Goblins clutched their heads, moaning. Ogres fell to their knees.
From the darkness above descended the Moonless Choir.
Dozens of harpies pale as moonlight, their eyes covered with silver veils, feathers streaked black and gray. Their mouths were sewn shut, yet they spoke directly into the minds of all who heard them.
We are the last echo of the hymns men forgot.
We sing in the spaces where light cannot follow.
We come, Fanglord, to silence the songs of your enemies.
Vris rose, claws flexing. “You will sing for me?”
We will unmake the voices of the faithful. Our song twists the divine tongue, severs faith, cracks holy seals. But you must keep us fed.
“Fed on what?” Maggra’s left head asked, almost intrigued.
Belief.
The Fanglord smiled. “You’ll feast well, then.”
The Choir spread their wings, drifting upward into the dark. Their psychic whispers faded to a low, soothing hum. The goblins who had been clutching their ears now swayed like sleepwalkers, whispering prayers not to gods but to Vris.
When the hall emptied, Vris remained alone by the fire pit.
The Red Maw had grown vast a web of tribes, species, and monsters, all bound by his word and his shadow.
He could feel it pressing against him a living weight, hungry and restless.
Maz approached quietly, the firelight painting her crimson skin in gold.
“You’ve built a kingdom,” she said softly.
“A kingdom made of teeth,” he replied.
She smiled faintly. “Teeth that can bite gods.”
Vris looked toward the maps carved into the cavern floor the coasts, the woods, the mountains. Beyond them all, the glimmer of Fairehaven.
“They’ll come again,” he said. “This time with their saints and their champions. When they do, I want the world to tremble before their prayers reach heaven.”
Maz tilted her head, studying him. “And when there are no more gods left to kill?”
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then:
“Then I’ll finally rest.”
She didn’t believe him, and neither did he.
For a moment, they simply stood there the fires red glow reflecting in their eyes. The tension hung like a drawn blade between them.
Then Vris stepped back, breaking the spell. “Not yet,” he said, voice steady again. “There’s too much left to conquer.”
Maz studied him for a long time, her expression unreadable. Then she smiled slow, almost predatory.
“Conquer everything you want, Fanglord. But when there’s nothing left standing, you’ll still have to face me.”
She turned and walked away, her silhouette outlined in firelight.
Vris watched her go, the echo of her words lingering like smoke.
When she disappeared into the tunnels, he looked down at the Heartfang and for the first time since he’d claimed it, the sword felt heavier than before.
Later, alone, he stood before the molten chasm again.
He could still feel the ghost of her warmth on his skin and hated how much it steadied him.
“If I let you in,” he whispered to the empty forge, “What will I become?”
The mountain answered in silence save for the quiet hiss of molten rock, pulsing like a heartbeat.