The cavern hummed with dark energy. Shadows danced wildly across jagged walls, stretching and twisting as the crackling flames of the shaman’s fire grew stronger. The Yellow Goblin Shaman stood at the center, his clawed hands outstretched over the swirling embers, vibrant tattoos along his skin pulsing with a faint golden glow.

The returning scout crouched low, panting, its mossy green skin slick with sweat and grime. Its glowing yellow eyes darted nervously toward the shaman, whose towering form seemed to darken the cavern itself.

“Faz’tul narak…!” (Great Shaman…) the scout began, its voice hoarse and hesitant.

The shaman turned his head sharply, his elongated ears twitching. The markings on his skin blazed brighter as his fury crackled to the surface. “Speak! What did you see?”

The scout’s body trembled as it lifted its head. “Genosion… girl.” The words escaped in a hurried whisper. “Silver-haired child. She fought. She killed two of ours… and claimed them.”

The shaman’s head jerked up, his eyes narrowed into slits. “Claimed?” His voice rumbled, echoing against the cavern walls. “What do you mean—claimed? Speak!”

“She… she commands the shadow goblins now, master!” the scout cried, its voice a mixture of awe and terror. “She bound them with power I have never seen!”

“The silver-haired child—she took them! She turned the shadows! Made them hers!”

The room fell deathly still. The fire dimmed, as if the cavern itself had drawn a collective breath. The goblins scattered across the cave, sharpening weapons or whispering amongst themselves, froze mid-action. All eyes turned toward the throne.

“What?” The word came like a hiss of acid, dripping with disbelief.

“She fought—used light and thunder… then shadows obeyed her,” the scout stammered, its voice trembling. It dared to glance up, only to be met with the shaman’s burning glare.

The shaman rose slowly, his towering frame hunched under the weight of his power. The glow of his tattoos intensified, casting eerie green light over the trembling scout. “The girl took our own? She dared to turn my kin into her servants?”

The shaman’s claws flexed, the air around him growing thick, heavy, oppressive. Pebbles on the ground trembled and rolled away, drawn by the unseen force of his anger. “A Genosion child,” he spat, his voice low and venomous. “A child defiles our kin… mocks me with her insolence?”

The scout nodded frantically, pressing itself lower to the ground. “Yes, Sheshk’urak! The shadows obey her!”

The flames roared higher, almost unnaturally, as if feeding on his rage. The scout shrank back, the heat prickling against its skin. The cavern felt alive, as though the stone itself trembled beneath the weight of the shaman’s wrath.

“Describe her,” the shaman commanded, his voice cutting through the growing hum of magic.

The scout swallowed hard. “Veil over her eyes… silver hair… She moved like lightning, like a ghost. She wore shadows like armor.”

“Genosion worms!” he roared, his voice sharp and jagged. “First, they slaughter my kin in their filthy dungeons. Now they defile our bloodline with their cursed magic!”

He bared his jagged teeth, his face twisting with malice. “Silver-haired girl… shadow-user…” he hissed the words, each one dripping with venom. “She mocks us. She mocks me!”

The scout flinched as the shaman pointed a clawed finger toward it. “Where was this girl? Tell me!”

“The forest edge,” the scout replied quickly. “Near the Genosion village. The guards came—she escaped their notice. But master, she is strong…”

The shaman growled low, his fingers curling like talons. “A child dares defy me… a child steals from me…”

The shaman’s hands clenched into fists, his tattoos pulsing violently. He tilted his head back and released a guttural roar that echoed through the cavern, shaking dust loose from the ceiling. The other goblins, scattered in the darkness, froze mid-motion, their eyes wide as the sound rippled through them.

“She dares…” His voice dropped, deadly quiet now, the fury simmering just beneath. “She dares to take from me what is mine. My kin. My shadows.”

The scout cowered, claws digging into the stone, but it had to ask. “Great Shaman… what shall we do?”

The shaman’s eyes glowed brighter, like twin flames burning from within. “We will strike.” He stepped closer to the scout, his voice now a menacing whisper. “Summon them. All of them. Forest Goblins. Cave Goblins. Mountain Goblins. And…” He paused, his lips curling into a cruel grin. “The Shadows.”

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The scout’s eyes widened. “The Shadows?”

“Yes.” The shaman’s claws crackled with residual magic as he waved his hand over the fire. From the depths of the flames, shadowy figures writhed and screamed, clawing to escape. “They will haunt her. Tear her apart piece by piece. And when they bring her to me, I shall remind her—we do not forgive.”

The scout scrambled backward, hurriedly rising to its feet as it turned to carry out the shaman’s orders. “Y-Yes, Great Shaman!”

“Nar’shik doshmarr!” (We march at dawn!) the shaman roared, his voice shaking the air itself.

The other goblins hidden in the cavern—the Forest Goblins, their bodies cloaked in leaves and moss; the pale, wide-eyed Cave Goblins; and the hulking Mountain Goblins with their stone-like skin—emerged from the shadows. Their guttural growls and clattering weapons echoed through the space, like a building storm.

The shaman stepped back toward his fire, watching his kin gather. He raised his hands, chanting in an ancient tongue that reverberated off the cavern walls, making the shadows dance wildly. The fire flared and pulsed, its flickering light casting twisted reflections across the goblins’ snarling faces.

The shaman’s glare softened into something darker—cold, calculating. “The Genosions think they own the forest,” he muttered, his voice carrying over the gathering crowd. “But they have forgotten. This land was ours first. And it will be ours again.”

He turned toward the entrance of the cavern, staring out into the endless night. Somewhere in the depths of the forest, he knew the silver-haired girl was out there, unaware of what was to come.

“She will regret crossing me,” he whispered, his voice like a promise.

The forest outside grew still, the creatures of the night silencing themselves as though sensing the coming storm. In the distance, an ominous howl cut through the air, low and chilling, as the shaman’s forces began to stir.

The shadows, it seemed, were preparing for war.

——————————————————

A dense, unnatural stillness fell over the heart of Dura Forest, where shadows hung like a suffocating blanket among the ancient trees. At its center stood a figure—a monstrous silhouette cloaked in tattered black robes, its form blurred by tendrils of darkness that slithered like living smoke.

The figure’s skeletal face, sharp and unyielding like death itself, peeked from beneath its hood. Hollow sockets burned with an unearthly blue fire as it loomed over a glowing yellow sigil etched into the ground. The sigil pulsed, radiating an ominous light that twisted the air into a hazy mirage. The earth around it trembled, groaning as though unwilling to host such wickedness.

A voice—cold and resonant, like the creaking of an ancient crypt—rolled from the figure’s unmoving jaw. “Losing the first ingredient… regrettable,” it muttered, its tone devoid of emotion. “But in the end, it does not matter. This will still work.”

The dark figure raised its bony hands, palms outstretched. Hovering between them were the components of S-tier magic—artifacts bathed in energy so potent the air itself hissed and sparked. A radiant blue crystal pulsated at the center, its glow cascading in violent ripples, as though it wanted nothing more than to escape its fate. Runes carved into enchanted stones spun around it, creating patterns that distorted and dissolved into the sigil’s light. Threads of raw magic weaved through the air like cracks of lightning, coalescing into the dungeon’s foundation.

The figure moved with deliberate, otherworldly precision, infusing its dark essence into the structure. Shadows twisted and expanded, bending reality until the space rippled like disturbed water. The light of the sigil flared brighter—sickly yellow lines surging outward like roots spreading through the earth. A deep, guttural hum began, vibrating through the forest, unsettling even the oldest trees that had stood for centuries.

The air around the sigil turned sharp, brittle. Frost spread across the ground, creeping up the trunks of trees in delicate yet foreboding webs. Birds fell silent. Creatures of the woods fled, their instincts screaming of a darkness they could not name.

Then, it happened.

A tremor rocked the clearing as a rupture split the center of the sigil, releasing a cacophony of shrieking winds and raw magic. From the darkness, a hulking form emerged, its arrival heralded by a blast of icy air so cold the ground cracked and splintered into jagged shards.

The Frostmaw Ravager stepped forward.

The beast towered nearly twenty feet tall, its monstrous frame wrapped in thick, shaggy white fur that seemed to drink the light around it. The fur rippled with every movement, a deceptive softness that belied the raw power coiled beneath. Its head turned slowly, a jagged maw filled with serrated black fangs parting to release a soundless snarl. Freezing saliva dripped from its teeth, sizzling against the frostbitten earth and flash-freezing patches of dirt and roots where it fell.

The Frostmaw’s eyes were its most unsettling feature—two pale, glowing shards of ice that burned with hunger and intelligence, piercing the gloom like frozen lanterns. It could see through the darkness, through the snowstorms that would soon envelop its prey.

Long, curved claws, onyx-black and sharp enough to rend enchanted steel, extended from its massive paws. When it flexed its limbs, the sound was like grinding stone as its muscles shifted beneath its dense fur. A whip-like tail, lined with frost-tipped fur, swished behind it, sweeping a fallen tree into splinters with a single lash.

The ground groaned beneath the creature’s weight as it took another step, frost radiating out with every movement. It was power incarnate—born of ice, hunger, and death.

The figure—the reaper in black—watched the Frostmaw Ravager with something akin to satisfaction. “Perfect.” The word drifted into the air like a death knell.

It tilted its head slightly, raising one skeletal hand in command. “Go now, my masterpiece. Head north.” The glow in its sockets flared brighter as the figure’s voice deepened. “Feast until your heart's content. Devour all that stands in your path. Leave none alive.”

The Frostmaw Ravager raised its elongated head, sniffing the air as if catching the scent of distant prey. Then, with a burst of motion that seemed impossible for its massive size, it moved.

The earth trembled beneath its thunderous strides as it vanished into the depths of the forest, a frigid wind trailing in its wake. The temperature dropped sharply, frost creeping out in long, deliberate patterns as though the forest itself mourned what had been unleashed.

The dark figure lowered its hands, the sigil at its feet now a fading shadow of its former brilliance. With a final, silent glance at the destruction left behind, the figure turned and melted into the shadows, its work complete.

In the distance, the faint echoes of the Frostmaw’s movements reverberated through the night like the footfalls of a looming storm.

And the Dura Forest, once teeming with life, now stood silent—its heart claimed by something ancient, monstrous, and ravenous.