Chieftain Doomhand stood at the edge of the camp, his massive frame silhouetted against the dying light of the evening sun. As it reflects the light from his war armor.

  The air was thick with the scent of smoke and iron, a constant reminder of the ongoing war that consumed his people.

  His blackened gauntlets, from which he earned his name, clenched and unclenched as he gazed toward the distant horizon, deep in thought.

  The ground beneath his feet rumbled faintly, and a ripple of unease swept through the camp. His sharp, battle-worn eyes narrowed as he turned his gaze toward the source of the disturbance.

  From where he stood, he could see the jagged ruins of Guldar’s chambers in the distance, where the warlock had been conducting his vile experiments.

  A deafening explosion rocked the ground beneath him, and a column of bright light and debris shot up into the sky. Orcs around him scrambled to attention, murmuring in alarm, their weapons drawn as the shockwave of destruction reached the camp.

  Doomhand’s lips curled into a snarl. “What is this madness?” he growled, his deep, gravelly voice cutting through the noise around him.

  His lieutenants, already rallying the troops, turned toward him, awaiting his command.

  “Chieftain!” One of his scouts sprinted toward him, breathless, his face pale. “The warlock’s chambers—they’ve been destroyed!”

  Doomhand’s dark eyes flashed with anger. “Destroyed? By what?” His voice was laced with impatience. Guldar had promised power, dark knowledge that would grant the orc clan the upper hand in the war.

  But now, it seemed that whatever the warlock had been meddling with had gone horribly wrong.

  The scout hesitated, clearly struggling to find the words. “We… we don’t know. There was an explosion—massive. We think… the harpy, the one Guldar was experimenting on… he may be involved.”

  Doomhand’s expression darkened at the mention of the harpy. That pathetic, winged creature was supposed to be nothing more than a test subject, a means to an end in Guldar’s twisted magical experiments. Yet somehow, it had become a threat.

  “Send more scouts to the ruins,” Doomhand ordered, his voice cold and commanding. “I want answers. If that harpy is still alive, he won’t live for long.”

  The orc chieftain’s mind churned as he watched the smoke rise higher, twisting ominously into the sky.

  He had been a warrior all his life, rising to power through sheer brutality and cunning. But magic—especially the kind Guldar dealt in—was dangerous and unpredictable.

  It was not the way of the orcs, but Doomhand had allowed it, believing it could bring his people the strength they needed.

  But now it seemed that decision had backfired.

  One of his trusted lieutenants, Grash, stepped forward, his hulking frame nearly as large as Doomhand’s putting his hand on his chest saluting his bone claw made from the Hydra fangs after cutting one its heads from an encounter at the ready.

  “Shall we mobilize the warriors, Chieftain? If the harpy’s loose, it may be heading for the outskirts.”

  Doomhand clenched his gauntleted fist, his thoughts racing.

  He was no fool.

  Whatever Guldar had been playing with, it had clearly spiraled out of control. And if that harpy had somehow escaped with new powers, it could pose a threat to his leadership—especially if word spread among the clan of the warlock’s failure.

  “No,” Doomhand said, his voice low and measured. “Not yet. We’ll see what the scouts report. If the harpy’s still alive, I’ll deal with it myself.” His eyes gleamed with a mixture of fury and grim determination. “Guldar’s failure will not be tolerated.”

  The wind carried the distant echoes of the explosion, and Doomhand turned his back on the ruins, already formulating a plan.

  Whatever dark magic had been unleashed, it would not go unanswered. He would crush this threat before it had a chance to spread.

  Hours later, the scouts returned, dragging a wounded Guldar with them. The warlock’s robes were torn and singed, his face pale and drawn. He looked far from the confident, calculating figure he had once been. The orcs around the camp murmured in unease, their eyes darting between Guldar and their chieftain.

  Doomhand stepped forward, his massive frame towering over the wounded warlock. “Explain yourself,” he growled, his voice like the rumble of distant thunder.

  Guldar coughed, his voice weak but laced with defiance. “The harpy… he was stronger than I anticipated. He used some kind of light magic—divine energy. It overwhelmed my spells and destroyed the chamber.”

  Doomhand’s eyes narrowed, his gauntleted hand twitching as if he wanted to strike the warlock down then and there. “You promised power, Guldar. You promised results. Instead, you’ve brought chaos and destruction to my camp.”

  Guldar’s gaze flickered, a hint of fear breaking through his usual arrogance. “I can still fix this. Give me one more chance. Let me hunt the harpy down. I’ll bring him back, alive or dead.”

  Doomhand’s lips curled into a sneer. “You’ve had your chance, warlock. And you’ve failed.” He turned to his lieutenants, his voice cold and final. “Take him away. Lock him up until I decide his fate.”

  The orcs moved to obey, but Guldar struggled against their grip, trying to salvage the situation. “Wait! I can still be of use! The harpy is dangerous—he has powers we don’t understand. Let me face him one last time."

  "If I fail, you can kill me yourself.”

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  Doomhand paused, his eyes narrowing as he considered the warlock’s words. The harpy was a threat, that much was clear. And if Guldar was willing to risk his life to rectify his failure, perhaps he could still be of use.

  “Very well,” Doomhand said, his voice low and dangerous. “You’ll have one last chance.

  Hunt the harpy down and bring him to me. But if you fail, Guldar, your life is forfeit. Do you understand?”

  Guldar nodded, his expression grim. “I understand.”

  Doomhand turned away, his mind already racing with plans. The harpy had escaped, but he wouldn’t remain free for long. And if Guldar failed, Doomhand would deal with the threat himself.

  The orc chieftain’s grip tightened on the hilt of his axe, his resolve unwavering.

  The harpy would learn the true meaning of fear. And Doomhand would make sure of it.

  <> ? <>

  Sora crouched behind the jagged rock, his golden eyes darting across the landscape as he assessed the situation.

  The orc scouts were spread out, their sharp eyes scanning the terrain for any sign of movement. They hadn’t spotted him yet, but it was only a matter of time.

  His heart pounded in his chest, the adrenaline surging through his veins as he forced himself to stay calm.

  Think, Sora. Think. He couldn’t afford to make a mistake now. Not when freedom was so close.

  The wind howled across the rocky plateau, carrying with it the faint scent of smoke and iron. Sora’s wings twitched, the feathers ruffling as he considered his options.

  He was exhausted, his body battered and bruised from the explosion and the warlock’s experiments. Fighting the orcs head-on wasn’t an option—not in his current state. He needed to be smart, to use the terrain to his advantage.

  He glanced down at his hands, the faint glow of Divine Light Manipulation still lingering beneath his skin. The skill had saved him once, and it might just save him again. But he couldn’t rely on it too heavily—his mana was already dangerously low, and he didn’t know how much longer he could sustain it.

  Taking a deep breath, Sora peered around the edge of the rock, his eyes locking onto the nearest orc scout.

  The creature was about fifty feet away, its back turned as it scanned the horizon. Sora’s mind raced as he formulated a plan.

  If I can take out that scout quietly, I might be able to slip past the others.

  He moved slowly, his talons scraping against the stone as he crept closer to the orc. His wings were folded tightly against his back, his movements deliberate and precise.

  Every step was calculated, every breath controlled. He couldn’t afford to make a sound.

  The orc scout shifted, its head turning slightly as if it had heard something. Sora froze, his heart pounding in his chest.

  For a moment, he thought he had been discovered, but the orc’s gaze swept past him, scanning the horizon once more.

  Sora exhaled slowly, his body tense as he prepared to strike. He closed the distance between himself and the orc, his talons flexing as he reached for the creature’s throat.

  With a swift, fluid motion, he grabbed the orc from behind, his hand clamping over its mouth to muffle any cries. The orc struggled, its eyes wide with panic, but Sora’s grip was firm. He channeled a small burst of Divine Light, the energy surging through his hand and into the orc’s body.

  The creature went limp, its lifeless form collapsing to the ground.

  Sora’s chest heaved as he released the orc, his golden eyes scanning the area for any signs of movement. The other scouts were still spread out, their attention focused on the horizon. They hadn’t noticed the death of their comrade—not yet.

  He crouched low, his wings twitching as he prepared to move again. The exit was close—he could see the edge of the plateau, where the rocky terrain gave way to dense forest. If he could reach the trees, he might be able to lose the orcs in the underbrush.

  But as he took a step forward, a sharp pain shot through his side, forcing him to stifle a gasp. The wounds from the explosion and the warlock’s experiments were taking their toll, and his body was reaching its limit. He couldn’t afford to stop now, but he also couldn’t afford to collapse in the middle of the open.

  Just a little farther, he told himself, his talons digging into the rocky ground as he pushed forward. The wind whipped around him, carrying with it the faint sound of voices. The orcs were getting closer.

  Sora’s heart raced as he ducked behind another rock, his golden eyes scanning the area for any signs of movement. The orcs were closing in, their sharp eyes scanning the terrain for any sign of their missing scout.

  It was only a matter of time before they found him.

  He needed a distraction.

  Closing his eyes, Sora focused on the faint glow of Divine Light Manipulation within him. The skill was draining, but it was his only hope.

  He channeled a small burst of energy, shaping it into a radiant orb of light. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the orb soaring into the air, its brilliance illuminating the plateau like a miniature sun.

  The orcs shouted in alarm, their attention drawn to the sudden burst of light. Sora didn’t wait to see their reaction.

  He darted forward, his wings flaring as he sprinted toward the edge of the plateau. The forest was close—so close.

  But as he reached the edge, a sharp pain shot through his leg, forcing him to stumble. He glanced down, his golden eyes widening as he saw the arrow embedded in his thigh. The orcs had spotted him.

  “There it is!” one of the orcs shouted, his voice carrying over the wind. “Don’t let it escape!”

  Sora gritted his teeth, his talons digging into the ground as he forced himself to keep moving. The forest was just ahead—he could make it. He had to.

  With a final burst of energy, he leaped off the edge of the plateau, his wings spreading as he glided toward the trees below.

  The orcs’ shouts faded into the distance as he disappeared into the dense underbrush, his golden feathers blending with the shadows.

  He landed hard, his injured leg buckling beneath him as he collapsed to the forest floor. The pain was overwhelming, but he forced himself to stay conscious. He couldn’t afford to stop now.

  The forest was alive with the sounds of nature—the rustling of leaves, the chirping of birds, the distant calls of unseen creatures. It was a stark contrast to the cold, dark chamber he had escaped from, and for a moment, Sora allowed himself to feel a flicker of hope.

  But he knew the orcs wouldn’t give up so easily. They would come after him, and he needed to be ready.

  With a groan, Sora pushed himself to his feet, his talons digging into the soft earth as he limped deeper into the forest. The trees loomed overhead, their branches forming a canopy that blocked out the sun. The air was cool and damp, the scent of moss and earth filling his nostrils.

  Sora rounded a corner, his breath coming in ragged gasps, when I caught sight of something that made my blood run cold.

  There, in the distance, Sora saw a group of orcs—far larger and more menacing than any he had encountered before. Among them were two figures that stood out from the rest: One was the biggest orc he'd ever seen, his massive frame imposing even from afar, and the warlock, still alive and looking more menacing than ever.

  Sora crouched behind the debris, his golden eyes locked on the warlock as the orc approached. The air was thick with tension, the oppressive weight of dark magic pressing down on him like a physical force.

  His heart pounded in his chest, each beat a reminder of how precarious his situation was. The warlock’s eyes glowed with malevolent energy, his staff crackling with dark runes as he closed the distance between them.

  This is it, Sora thought, his talons digging into the ground as he prepared for the inevitable clash. The Divine Light hummed softly within him, a flicker of hope amidst the darkness. He couldn’t afford to hesitate—not now.

  The warlock stopped a few paces away, his gaze locking onto Sora’s. His lips curled into a cruel smile, his voice a low, menacing growl as he spoke in a language Sora couldn’t understand. But the intent was clear.

  The warlock was here to finish what he had started.

  Sora’s mind raced, his instincts screaming at him to act. He couldn’t outrun the warlock—not in his current state. His only chance was to fight, to use the power of the Divine Light to turn the tide.