The retreat from Bara was long and grueling. Kho led what remained of his army westward, toward Genom, their next assigned station. The shame of defeat weighed heavily on all of them, and the journey only deepened the tension between the giants and the Demi-Giants.
Among the giants, the whispers were venomous. “Cowards,” they muttered, glaring at the Demi-Giants. “Bara fell because of them. They should have stood their ground instead of running like frightened beasts.” Kesa, the fiercest of the giants, openly voiced her hatred, sparing no opportunity to lash out at the Demi-Giants with insults and threats.
Kho bore it all in silence, knowing he was their true target. His retreat, though necessary, had stained his name—and that of the Demi-Giants—indelibly.
One evening, as the army set up camp under a crescent moon, tensions reached a boiling point. A fight broke out between a group of Demi-Giants and giants near the supply wagons. Kho intervened, his voice thundering above the commotion, demanding order. Though the brawl ceased, the divide remained palpable, the camp heavy with resentment.
Later that night, Kho sat alone by his tent, staring into the flickering flames of a small campfire. The others had largely ignored him since the retreat. Only Kai, his ever-loyal lieutenant, stayed close, offering quiet words of reassurance. But Kho knew he had to address the growing discontent among his captains.
Summoning his courage, he called a meeting with his officers. Many arrived reluctantly, their faces stony and distant. Among them was Yholm, one of the most influential voices among the Demi-Giants. Yholm, known for his charisma and unwavering defiance of the giants, was someone many Demi-Giants followed without question.
As they gathered around the fire, Kho began to speak, his voice steady but tinged with weariness. “We cannot allow this defeat to define us,” he said, looking at each of them in turn. “I know the shame we carry, but we must endure. We have to prove ourselves—not just for the giants, but for the Demi-Giants. We have to earn honor so that one day, our people will be accepted.”
Yholm, who had been listening silently, suddenly rose to his feet, his eyes blazing with anger. “Accepted?” he spat, his voice dripping with disdain. “You still believe those monsters will ever accept us? That we’ll ever be more than their dogs to throw into battle?”
The others fell silent as Yholm stepped closer to Kho, his massive frame casting a shadow in the firelight. “I came here tonight because I respected you, Kho,” he said. “You didn’t let the giants do as they pleased. You stood up to them. But this... this nonsense about honor and acceptance? You’re deluded. The giants can go to hell for all I care. I won’t fight or die for them. And neither should you.”
Kho clenched his fists but said nothing, allowing Yholm to continue.
“The Demi-Giants will never have a place in Oosa,” Yholm said, his voice rising with conviction. “They’ll use us, mock us, and when we’re no longer useful, they’ll throw us away. You talk about honor, but honor means nothing if it’s for people who hate us. We should leave Oosa—build our own land, our own future. That’s the only way we’ll ever be free.”
A murmur of agreement rippled through the Demi-Giants present. Yholm’s words resonated with the bitterness and despair many of them felt.
Kho finally stood, meeting Yholm’s fiery gaze with his own. “And where would we go, Yholm?” he asked, his voice calm but firm. “Where would we build this land you dream of? Do you think the world beyond Oosa will welcome us with open arms? We are hated everywhere, not just here. Running won’t change that.”
Yholm’s expression hardened. “I’d rather die fighting for our freedom than live as a slave to the giants’ whims.”
The tension between the two was electric, their standoff casting a heavy silence over the group. Finally, Yholm turned and stormed away, his followers trailing behind him.
Kho remained by the fire, his shoulders slumping as the weight of leadership pressed down on him once more. Kai stepped closer, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You did what you could,” she said softly.
But Kho’s mind churned with doubt. He wondered if Yholm was right—if his dream of honor and acceptance for the Demi-Giants was nothing more than a fool’s hope.
As the camp settled into uneasy quiet, Kho stared into the dying flames, determined to find a way forward—if not for himself, then for those who still believed in him.
As the camp settled into uneasy silence, Kho resolved to speak with the remaining captains. The Demi-Giants Niger and Niga, twins who had remained quiet throughout the journey, were perched near their tent, sharing a loaf of bread.
Kho approached them, their identical faces tilting up as he neared. The two were stocky, with shaggy black hair and a look of perpetual calm. Unlike Yholm’s fiery rhetoric or Kai’s unyielding loyalty, Niger and Niga seemed to live on a different plane—untouched by the fervor that drove others.
“Niger, Niga,” Kho began, keeping his tone measured. “I need to understand where you stand. You’ve been quiet this entire march.”
The twins exchanged a glance before Niger broke the silence, chewing the last of his bread. “We stand where we’ve always stood,” he said with a shrug. “Alive. Eating. Breathing. That’s enough for us.”
“We don’t care about honor,” Niga added, his voice as even as his brother’s. “We don’t care about freedom. Or the giants.”
Kho frowned, feeling a pang of frustration. “So you’re content to just exist? To let others decide your fate?”
“Fate’s got nothing to do with it,” Niger replied, pulling a piece of dried meat from his pouch and splitting it with Niga. “We do what we have to, General. That’s all. No more, no less.”
Niga nodded. “But don’t get us wrong, Kho. We don’t hate you. In fact, we appreciated the retreat. It showed us that you’re not the kind of leader who’ll waste our lives for some foolish ideal.”
Kho hesitated, unsure how to respond. Their blunt honesty was disarming, their simplicity alien to him. “And if the Demi-Giants could have more? Respect? A place in society?”
“Then that’s a bonus,” Niger said, his tone dismissive. “But we’re not losing sleep over it.”
Niga smiled faintly. “We’re not like Yholm or Kai, Kho. We’re just... simple folk. As long as we have food in our bellies and a place to sleep, we’re fine.”
Kho gave a small nod, unsure if he felt relieved or defeated by their indifference. “Thank you for your honesty,” he said, turning to leave.
The twins returned to their quiet meal without another word.
----------------------------------------
Exhausted, Kho finally allowed himself to sit by his tent. The night was cold, the distant crackle of campfires blending with the faint murmurs of his soldiers settling in. He closed his eyes briefly, letting the tension ease from his shoulders.
He barely noticed Kai until she sat down beside him. “You look tired,” she said softly, her voice breaking the silence.
“I am,” Kho admitted, glancing at her.
For a moment, they sat in companionable quiet, the flickering fire casting shadows across their faces. Finally, Kai spoke again, her tone contemplative. “You know, when I was a child, my mother died protecting me. My father... he didn’t care. He killed her to get rid of me, and when that didn’t work, he abandoned me.”
Kho turned to her, surprised by the rawness in her voice.
Kai reached for the small necklace around her neck, a simple chain with a modest pendant. “This is all I have left of her,” she said, her fingers brushing the pendant gently. “She gave it to me before... before everything fell apart.”
“I’m sorry,” Kho said quietly.
Kai shrugged, though her eyes betrayed the weight of her pain. “I was alone after that. Starving. Barely surviving. Some dwarfs took pity on me, gave me work. It wasn’t much, but it kept me alive.” She paused, her gaze turning to Kho. “You grew up in a palace, didn’t you?”
Kho nodded. “Yes. My father... Goan. He wanted me dead too. I spent years trying to stay one step ahead of him.”
Kai’s eyes narrowed slightly, her voice tinged with a bitter edge. “You had luxury while I had nothing. And yet, here we are. I still believe the giants can accept us. Maybe that makes me a fool, but I refuse to give up on that hope.”
Kho studied her for a moment, the firelight catching the resolve in her eyes. “I share your ideals,” he said firmly. “No matter how hard it gets, I won’t let anyone stand in my way. I will make sure the Demi-Giants have a place in Oosa. A place of value.”
Kai smiled faintly. “You’ve got more faith than I expected, General.”
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
She hesitated, her fingers brushing the pendant again. “I like the emperor. Rogg. He gave us a chance to be something more. He gave me a chance to be more.”
Kho nodded. “Rogg’s decisions haven’t been perfect, but he gave us a path. And that’s more than anyone else has done.”
Their conversation drifted to other topics—small fragments of their pasts, their fears, their hopes. The weight of their shared experiences brought a subtle shift, an unspoken understanding growing between them.
As the fire dwindled, Kho found himself glancing at her necklace again. “It’s beautiful,” he said softly.
Kai blushed slightly, a rare vulnerability showing in her expression. “Thank you,” she murmured.
Finally, she stood, brushing the dust from her armor. “I should get some rest.”
Kho watched her go, a strange warmth settling in his chest as she disappeared into her tent. For the first time in a long while, he felt a flicker of something beyond duty—a feeling he couldn’t quite name but didn’t want to ignore.
Far away...
The demons advanced again, the memory of their previous hesitation replaced by Dagon’s thunderous commands.
“March, you spineless mongrels!” Dagon barked, his booming voice shaking the ground. His fiery breath illuminated the darkness, casting long, monstrous shadows across the terrain. The massive demon bulldog snarled as he led his legions, refusing to let fear take root among his soldiers. “We do not fear shadows or whispers. We are the darkness!”
The demons roared in unison, their confidence bolstered by Dagon’s indomitable presence. His twisted humor and gruff demeanor often masked his cunning, but today, he would show his strength in battle. The wall of Elim loomed in the distance, a silent sentinel daring them to come closer.
As the demon forces approached, the air grew heavier, as if the land itself resisted their advance. Unseen forces pressed against them, slowing their march. The wind carried strange, haunting melodies, indistinct whispers that grew louder with every step.
“Do not falter!” Dagon roared, though even his voice wavered slightly. He clenched his massive claws, his fiery breath scorching the earth beneath him. The demons pressed on, their numbers stretching far beyond the horizon.
Suddenly, the first arrow came.
It wasn’t seen—it was felt. A blinding streak of light pierced the chest of a demon lieutenant, who disintegrated instantly, his howl of pain lost to the wind. Another arrow followed, then another, each one landing with pinpoint accuracy. The demons fell in droves, unable to see where the attack originated.
“Shields up!” bellowed a commander, but their defenses were futile. The arrows didn’t merely pierce armor—they shattered it, as though made of celestial fire. Each arrow carried a chilling sense of finality, as if the very essence of the demons was being unmade.
Dagon growled, his fiery eyes scanning the horizon. “Show yourselves, cowards!” he barked, spitting molten saliva. “Face me in battle!”
The response was silence. Then, from the shadows, a new horror emerged.
A great wind swept across the battlefield, carrying with it a deep, resonant hum. The ground trembled, and the air grew impossibly cold. The demons, so used to spreading fear, now found themselves quaking as an unseen force gripped their hearts.
And then it appeared.
From the great wall ahead came a figure, cloaked in silver light, its presence impossibly vast yet utterly silent. The figure raised a hand, and the land itself answered. Vines as sharp as blades erupted from the ground, entangling and eviscerating the front lines of Dagon’s army. Crystalline arrows rained from above, striking with unerring precision.
Panic broke out among the demons.
“Fall back!” one of Dagon’s lieutenants screamed, but Dagon roared over him.
“Hold your ground! We are demons! We do not run!” His fury blazed as he leaped forward, smashing his claws into the earth. The ground erupted in fire, a surge of molten energy racing toward the figure.
The silver-cloaked being did not flinch. With a simple gesture, the fire froze mid-air, its heat extinguished as if it had never existed.
Dagon faltered. For the first time in centuries, the great demon felt something unfamiliar—helplessness.
The figure raised its other hand, and the winds intensified, howling with the force of a hurricane. The demons were swept away like leaves, their massive bodies torn apart by the gale. Even Dagon, with all his strength, could not resist its pull.
When the winds finally died, the battlefield was silent. The demon army lay in ruin, their twisted forms scattered like debris. Dagon himself lay battered, his once-proud figure reduced to a crumpled heap.
Chains of pure light descended from the sky, binding the defeated demon. He struggled against them, snarling and snapping, but the chains tightened, forcing him to his knees. The silver-cloaked figure approached, its presence overwhelming.
“You dared to trespass here,” the figure said, its voice resonating like a thousand bells. “Let this be a lesson to all who threaten Elim.”
Dagon growled, his pride refusing to yield even as he knelt. “You’ve only delayed the inevitable,” he spat. “More will come. Stronger than me.”
The figure tilted its head, as if considering the words. “Let them try,” it said simply.
And with that, the great demon Dagon was dragged away, his chains glowing brighter as they pulled him into the depths of the unknown.
The land of Elim remained quiet once more, its power unchallenged, its mysteries intact.
The once-great capital of Memoheim lay in ruins. Its towering stone spires, once gleaming with dwarven pride and craftsmanship, were now jagged shards protruding from the earth like broken teeth. Fires smoldered in the rubble, filling the air with acrid smoke, and the cries of the wounded and dying echoed faintly through the devastated streets.
At the heart of this desolation sat Stolas, the Demon King. His enormous owl-like form loomed over the remains of the dwarven royal hall, where he had made himself a throne from the shattered debris of its once-magnificent walls. His eyes, glowing like two baleful suns, scanned the destruction with malevolent satisfaction.
The blood of Memo Popak, King of the Dwarfs, stained the stones beneath the throne. His lifeless body and those of his family lay scattered amidst the ruins, their proud lineage extinguished in a single, merciless stroke. Stolas’s massive talons drummed rhythmically on the arm of his makeshift throne, a low, guttural chuckle escaping his beak as he relished the taste of his conquest.
"Pitiful creatures," Stolas muttered, his voice deep and resonant, carrying an unsettling blend of mirth and disdain. "You built your kingdom upon stone and steel, and yet you fell like brittle glass. Such fragile lives."
Around him, his demonic generals stood in silence, their forms monstrous and grotesque, watching their master savor his triumph. The dwarven resistance had been crushed utterly, their defenses overwhelmed by dark magic and sheer brutality. Golems lay in heaps, their ancient enchantments broken. The intricate machinery that once hummed with magical energy now sat lifeless, tangled in the wreckage like forgotten relics.
Meanwhile, in the south, the dwarfs of Oosa sent desperate pleas for aid to the Empire of Giants. Letters and envoys begged Emperor Rogg to fulfill the alliance and send reinforcements to reclaim their homeland. But their cries fell on deaf ears.
Rogg sat in his grand hall in Oosa, the towering throne of the Giants dwarfing even the tallest of his court. His expression was as unyielding as the mountains surrounding the empire. "Why should we bleed for them?" he declared coldly to his advisors. "Their kingdom falls because they were weak. Weakness is death, and death is not my concern."
To ensure his indifference was known, Rogg issued a decree: no dwarf residing in Oosa would be permitted to return to Memoheim. "Let them rot with their stone idols if they wish," he scoffed. Any dwarf caught attempting to leave the empire would face exile—or worse.
The dwarfs in Oosa were in turmoil. Bound by their allegiance to their homeland, they yearned to join the fight. Yet, under Rogg’s harsh rule, they found themselves powerless, mere spectators to the destruction of their kin. Resentment festered among them, a silent fury that bubbled beneath their outward submission.
In the shadows of the ruined capital, small groups of dwarven survivors gathered, hiding from the roaming demon patrols. They whispered of vengeance, of reclaiming their kingdom, but their words were tinged with despair. For now, their only hope lay in survival.
Back on his debris-throne, Stolas raised a clawed hand and traced the air, summoning a sphere of dark energy. Within it, he glimpsed the faint outline of new prey—other lands ripe for conquest, other kingdoms to reduce to ash. A cruel grin spread across his beak as he prepared for the next step in his campaign of annihilation.
"Let them come," Stolas murmured, his voice carrying across the silent ruins. "Their gods are silent, their allies are cowards, and their strength is gone. Memoheim is mine, and the rest will follow."
The once-proud kingdom of the dwarfs was no more, its legacy reduced to rubble beneath the talons of the Demon King.
The throne of ruin creaked under Stolas’s massive weight as he leaned back, surveying the demonic hordes gathered before him. His luminous eyes glowed with cruel delight, the destruction of Memoheim a masterpiece of carnage and despair. Yet, despite his triumph, a restless boredom gnawed at him.
“What is conquest,” he muttered to himself, his deep, resonant voice echoing in the hollowed remains of the dwarven capital, “if there is no challenge? No risk?”
Stolas raised a taloned hand, summoning his generals to his presence. One by one, they appeared, towering figures of dread and destruction. Ob, the ventriloquist demon with a hunched form and a mask of false civility, stood at the forefront. Behind him, Marada, the rebellious and insolent corrupter, oozed malice as her gaze wandered, disinterested yet eager for chaos. Raizzen, the lupine monstrosity, prowled in the shadows, his massive frame exuding raw, predatory power.
Stolas’s gaze swept over them with satisfaction, his grin widening. “It is time to spread my will across Arche,” he declared, his voice brimming with malevolence. “Together, we are unstoppable, but that only dulls the pleasure of our victories. It bores me.”
He gestured sharply at Ob, the motion crackling with dark energy. “Ob, take your legions to Xavu, Dalmask, and Rajina. Those little human nations have lingered too long, pretending to matter. Tear them apart, one by one, and let their screams echo across the plains.”
Ob nodded with a grotesque grin, his raspy voice barely audible. “As you wish, my king. I will ensure they see the futility of their existence.” Without another word, the ventriloquist demon vanished, already setting his forces into motion.
Stolas turned to Marada, who yawned theatrically as if unimpressed by the spectacle of Memoheim’s destruction. “Marada,” Stolas said, his tone laced with condescension, “I know your... methods will suit Roma perfectly. Go. Corrupt their precious kingdom. Twist their loyalty, their faith, their fragile unity. Break them from within.”
Marada’s lips curled into a sinister smile. “Ah, Roma... such fragile little minds. It will be a delight, my king.” She turned on her heel, her form dissolving into a cloud of inky smoke.
Finally, Stolas fixed his gaze on Raizzen, the beast whose primal fury had shattered countless armies. “Raizzen,” he commanded, “you will take the wolves and crush Oosa. The giants grow complacent in their arrogance, and their strength must be tested. Remind them of the cost of defiance.”
Raizzen let out a low growl, his fangs gleaming in the dim light of the ruins. “Oosa will burn, my king. I will feast on their flesh.”
With his orders dispatched, Stolas reclined on his throne of rubble, his satisfaction tempered by his own restlessness. “Go,” he commanded, waving them away like insects. “Conquer, destroy, amuse me.”
As his generals departed, Stolas gazed out over the charred remnants of the Dwarven capital, the silent ruins his kingdom for now. He had no intention of moving from this spot. From here, he would watch his forces spread chaos and death across Arche. But in the depths of his wicked heart, he nurtured a secret hope.
“I wonder,” he murmured to himself, his grin returning, sharper than ever. “Will one of you fall? Will one of my mighty generals meet their end? That would be... amusing.”
His laughter echoed across the ruins, a chilling sound that seemed to mock the very world. For Stolas, the game had begun, and from his perch on the ruins of Memoheim, he would savor every moment of the destruction to come.