The camp buzzed with the clatter of steel and the low murmur of voices. Men and women moved with purpose, sharpening blades, tightening armor, and preparing for the battle ahead. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and smoke, and the tension was palpable. Zane stood at the edge of the camp, his arms crossed, watching as Arthur—his adoptive father, his mentor—barked orders to the others.
Zane's mark, a swirling chain-like pattern etched into his skin, pulsed faintly under the sleeve of his tunic. It was the mark of the Librans, a symbol of their heritage and their connection to the wind. Around his neck hung a pendant—a small, intricately carved piece of silver shaped like a broken chain. It was the only thing he had left of his family, a relic from a life he could barely remember.
"Why can't I fight?" Zane demanded, stepping forward. His voice was sharp, cutting through the noise.
Arthur turned, his weathered face stern. "You're not ready, Zane."
"Not ready?" Zane shot back, his frustration boiling over. "I've trained harder than anyone here. I can handle myself in a fight. But you keep treating me like a child!"
Arthur's eyes softened, but his tone remained firm. "This isn't about your skill. It's about keeping you alive. You're my son, Zane. If something happens to you—"
"I'm not your son," Zane interrupted, his voice low. "Not by blood. And I'll never prove myself if you don't give me a chance."
Arthur sighed, running a hand through his graying hair. "You'll have your chance. But not today. Today, you and Kaelion will scout the opposite end of the camp. Make sure the Orks aren't trying to flank us."
Zane clenched his fists, the mark on his hand glowing faintly. He wanted to argue, to demand a place in the battle, but he knew it was pointless. Arthur's mind was made up.
---
The two boys moved silently through the rocky terrain, the wind at their backs. The battlefield stretched out before them, a grim tapestry of death and destruction. The ground was littered with broken weapons, shattered shields, and the bodies of the fallen. The air was thick with the stench of blood and smoke, and the cries of the wounded echoed in the distance.
Zane hated this—being sent to the edges of the battlefield while the others prepared for the real fight. He glanced at Kaelion, who walked beside him, his expression unreadable. Kaelion's mark, a swirling pattern like Zane's, glowed faintly under the sleeve of his tunic.
"This is a waste of time," Zane muttered, kicking a loose stone. "The Orks aren't going to flank us. They're too busy retreating."
Kaelion shrugged. "Father's just being cautious. You know how he is."
"Cautious?" Zane snorted. "He's treating me like I'm made of glass. I'm not a child, Kaelion."
Kaelion gave him a sidelong glance. "You're not exactly a seasoned warrior either."
Zane glared at him but didn't respond. He knew Kaelion was right, but that didn't make it any easier to swallow.
As they reached the edge of the camp, Zane stopped. The Iron Gate loomed in the distance, a massive structure of blackened steel and stone. It was the key to the Ork stronghold, and the Warden of the Hills had promised Arthur land and freedom for his people if they could capture it.
Zane's eyes narrowed. "We're not going to the opposite end of the camp."
Kaelion raised an eyebrow. "What are you talking about?"
"We're going to the Iron Gate," Zane said, his voice firm. "There's a tunnel that leads straight to it. If we can scout it, we'll have the advantage."
Kaelion hesitated. "Father told us to stay clear of the Gate."
"Father's not here," Zane shot back. "Are you with me or not?"
Kaelion sighed but nodded. "Fine. But if this goes wrong, it's on you."
---
The tunnel was dark and narrow, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and decay. The boys moved cautiously, their marks glowing faintly in the darkness. The wind whispered around them, guiding their steps.
As they neared the end of the tunnel, the ground began to tremble. A low rumble echoed through the earth, growing louder with each passing second. Zane froze, his heart pounding.
"What is that?" Kaelion whispered, his voice barely audible.
Before Zane could answer, a scream tore through the air—a sound so raw and full of agony that it seemed to claw at their very souls. The ground shook violently, and the walls of the tunnel seemed to close in around them. The scream echoed again, louder this time, a guttural, inhuman wail that made the air itself feel heavy.
Zane's breath caught in his throat. The sound wasn't just a scream—it was a warning.
Kaelion grabbed his arm, his face pale. "We need to go. Now."
But Zane couldn't move. The scream had rooted him to the spot, its echoes reverberating in his mind. The wind around them grew frantic, whipping at their clothes and hair as if trying to push them back.
"Zane!" Kaelion shouted, shaking him. "We can't stay here!"
Zane nodded, his body finally obeying. They turned to run, but as they did, the ground beneath them gave a final, violent shudder. The walls of the tunnel groaned, and dust rained down from above.
They burst out of the tunnel into a scene of chaos. The battlefield was in ruins, the ground littered with the bodies of the fallen. The Iron Gate stood in the distance, its surface scarred and blackened. And in the center of it all was a figure—a man, his body twisted and broken, his armor shattered and stained with blood.
Zane's breath caught in his throat. The man's mark, a swirling pattern like his own, was faint but unmistakable. A Libran.
The man's eyes fluttered open, and he reached out a trembling hand. "They… they're coming," he gasped, his voice barely a whisper.
"Who's coming?" Zane asked, kneeling beside him.
But the man didn't answer. His eyes went blank, and his hand fell to the ground.
Kaelion grabbed Zane's arm. "We need to go. Now."
Zane nodded, but before they could move, the wind shifted. It carried with it a new sound—the clang of steel, the growl of voices, and the unmistakable tread of heavy boots.
The Orks weren't retreating. They were regrouping. And they were heading straight for the camp.
---