Chapter 15: The Weight of Past And The Future
Drakgar Firehand stood atop one of the few greenhouse platform, its glass walls stretching in beautiful dome, streaked with grime of ash. The greenhouse thrummed beneath his feet, gears grinding, the air thick with the acrid scent of metal and burnt ash. He surveyed the scene, a pitiful echo of what had once been a great force.
Only eight of the massive war platforms remained from the hundred they’d set out with. The mighty orc convoy that had once stretched for miles across the ashen dunes was now a broken line of stragglers, dragging themselves across the wasteland like the shattered remnants of a dream. Below, orcs and elves toiled side by side, lifting barrels of seeds with weary limbs, moving their precious cargo to the greenhouses. Both races, once at each other's throats, now bound by the shared trauma of survival.
Drakgar watched them, each face a mask of grief and exhaustion. His own mask was beginning to crack. His throat tightened, and his hands curled into fists. He wanted to be strong, to stand unbroken, to show his people that he was worthy to lead, even if he knew in his heart that he was not. He could only hold his tears back for so long. The weight of grief pressed against his chest like an iron band, and he turned away, walking to the far side of the greenhouse where he could be alone.
The cool glass of the greenhouse pressed against his back as he leaned into it, trembling. The panes whispered under his weight, and for a moment, he feared the fragile thing might shatter. A fitting metaphor, he thought bitterly. Even the sturdiest structures now felt so delicate, so easily broken.
He bit his lip until he tasted blood, but the tears came anyway, burning trails down his scarred cheeks. He let out a broken sob, his body shuddering with the pain he had fought so hard to contain. Images of his father, the great High Chief Garrok, flashed in his mind. Garrok, who had been a giant among orcs, a warrior whose laughter could shake mountains and whose fury could break armies. And now he was gone, crushed beneath the inexorable force of war, leaving Drakgar with a burden that felt too heavy to bear.
Silent tears traced a path down his cheeks, running over the fine scars that marked his face—souvenirs of past essence rituals, his attempts to make himself stronger. Each mark told a story, but none cut deeper than the fresh wounds of loss, of witnessing his father's demise. His heart clenched as the memories returned, each a dagger twisted anew.
Father, he thought, his tears dripping onto the ashen ground. You were supposed to be unbreakable. You were supposed to lead us through anything. How am I supposed to live up to you? He swallowed back the sobs that threatened to consume him, wishing for the thousandth time that he could be with his wife, Kora.
He imagined himself collapsing into his wife’s arms, feeling her fingers comb through his hair, soothing him, whispering words that could mend his fractured spirit. But no—he couldn’t afford that luxury. His people needed her, needed her expertise to keep the greenhouses functioning, to keep the seeds alive. He couldn't be selfish. Not now.
His sobs echoed in the tight space, swallowed by the sound of the grinding machinery and the low hum of essence engines. Pain clawed at his insides, a bitter, choking grief that refused to be swallowed.
Then, a hand, warm and steady, touched his shoulder.
Drakgar stiffened, hastily scrubbing his tears away. He turned to find the Elven Queen, Alira Starwind, standing beside him. Her once-pristine silver armor was marred with streaks of dried blood and ash, and even the moonlight seemed to cast shadows across the deep lines of exhaustion on her ageless face. Yet her eyes, ancient and knowing, held a light that could only belong to one who had seen centuries come and go. She leaned against the railing with an elegance that seemed at odds with the ruined world around them, her movement graceful.
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“We have won a great victory,” Alira said softly, her voice melodic. “but it has come at a cost that echoes beyond mortal lives. To rebuild what was lost will require strength—not the strength of the body, but of the heart.” Her eyes shifted to the horizon, where the first, fragile stars pierced the darkness. “I have seen empires rise and fall, Drakgar. I have seen heroes who thought themselves invincible crumble when they hid from their pain. You must be strong, but strength that refuses to bend will shatter like dry wood.”
Drakgar let out a hollow laugh, the sound bitter and sharp. “Why does it matter if I’m strong or not?” He ran a hand through his hair, strands caked with ash. “Any decent dragon rider would defeat me in single combat and claim the mantle of High Chief. It’s only a matter of time.”
“You are right in that,” she said with a small, sorrowful smile. “Yet Garrok, for all his flaws, was no fool. He knew that power built upon tradition can buy you time. His decree has given you a year, one year where none may challenge you.” Her lips curved ever so slightly. “And, if need be, I could give you an egg of your own.”
Drakgar’s eyes narrowed, suspicion threading through his grief. “Why do you care so much about me being High Chief, Alira?” His voice cracked, and he hated how weak he sounded. “I won’t bond with a dragon. I’ve given my heart and soul to my wife, and I won’t break that promise. Not even for power.”
“Promises... a beautiful thing, are they not?” she mused, her gaze faraway, as though seeing a different time. “Your family has always been one of thoughtfulness, of patience. So few orcish chieftains have known how to pause and listen to the tales the stars sing.” Her voice grew soft, as if she was recalling a memory older than Drakgar’s bloodline. “It is a trait I have come to value. Wisdom as rare as moonlight on a stormy night.”
“Then enjoy the year you’ll get to work with me. It’s all I can offer. Perhaps it’ll be enough to secure a couple of harvests.”
“Or,” she murmured, “you could consider undergoing more essence rituals. Push your limits. Defy the boundaries others have set for you.”
Drakgar barked a harsh, joyless laugh. “Have I not suffered enough?” He flexed his fingers, feeling the ghostly ache of the eighth ritual, the one that had almost broken his mind. “I’m no Thorgar Ironhide, blessed by Kaelos to withstand seventeen. I barely survived eight.”
“Limits are but shadows,” Alira replied. “Ephemeral, made to be chased and broken. Look around you, Drakgar.” She gestured to the tattered remnants of their forces. “Do you believe the humans will let us be? Do you believe they will not come, to see us scattered and destroyed?”
Drakgar’s jaw clenched. “They’ll try, but the Burnt Sea belongs to the orcs. The humans wouldn’t dare venture into these wastelands.”
Alira’s laughter rang out, a sound like silver bells under a bitter sky. “Do you think that will stop them?” She stepped closer, her eyes piercing into him. “The humans and dwarves have grown clever. Their queens have nurtured their love for glory, guiding them to chase after it in youth, to build strength in service of their empires. Every human and dwarven child grows up dreaming of conquest, of songs sung in their honor. ”
Drakgar’s brow furrowed. “So they’ll be too busy squabbling among themselves.”
“Sometimes,” Alira admitted. “By the time they are old enough to wield true power, they have learned to serve, to be disciplined…. The humans have armies of them. All ready to march into the Burnt Sea if called upon. Ready to die for glory.”
Drakgar’s hands curled into fists. He tried to imagine it, but Alira didn’t give him the chance to dismiss her words.
“Close your eyes,” she commanded, and her voice held the authority of one who had sung to the stars.
Reluctantly, he obeyed.
“Imagine your wife,” Alira whispered, her voice a caress laced with poison. “Imagine her beautiful face twisted in pain, her body mutilated, human warriors standing over her corpse. Picture starving children, ash-caked and terrified, watching their parents run down and butchered by human knights.”
The images stabbed into his mind, vivid and relentless. He could almost smell the blood, feel the horror. His heart raced, and a fire kindled in his chest, a rage that felt like molten iron.
Alira leaned in, her voice now a melody woven from grief and fury. “Take that fire, Drakgar. Use it. Let it shape you. Push beyond the limits that bind you, or watch as these visions become reality.”
Drakgar’s eyes snapped open, blazing with fury. The grief remained, heavy and unrelenting, but now it was alloyed with purpose, hardening into something unbreakable. I won’t let that happen. No matter the cost.