Chapter 177: Shadows In The South
The lands south of Brassvale were never kind to anyone.
Red. Arid. Cracked like the withered skin of an ancient being deprived of water. By day, the heat could bake an egg upon a stone. By night, the cold bit deep into the bone. No trees grew here—only thorny thickets and stunted cacti that clung to life by some inexplicable means. This land was a graveyard for those not strong enough to endure. And now, it served as the stage for thousands of soldiers awaiting the command to kill.
General Azhar stood atop a small ridge, staring northward. His eyes, the color of glowing orange embers, narrowed as he tried to pierce through the heat haze dancing on the horizon. In the distance, he could barely discern the silhouettes of the mountains that formed the natural border between Ignis-Sol and Brassvale. Beyond those peaks lay Vorkund. The capital of Brassvale. The very heart of his enemy.
"How much longer?" he asked without turning.
A young officer stood several paces behind him. His face was clean, unscarred by battle—this was likely his first war. "Scout teams report the terrain ahead remains clear, General. No sign of Brassvale forces within a fifty-kilometer radius."
Azhar offered no reply, his gaze fixed to the north. Volco is no fool, he thought. He won’t station his men in the open like this. He’s waiting for us to commit, waiting for us to venture deeper before pincer-closing from both sides.
"Order the scouts to pull back," he said finally. "Not too far. We don’t need to know exactly where the enemy is. We only need to know the moment they move."
The young officer gave a sharp nod before turning to sprint down the hill. Azhar remained there alone, a solitary figure against the northern vista. A hot wind gusted, carrying red dust that clung to his cloak. He didn’t mind. He was a man born of dust, raised by the heat, the wind, and the violence of this land. He knew no other world.
Below the ridge, his army moved like a colony of ants. Tents were being pitched, campfires ignited, and warhorses tethered. The rhythmic ring of metal striking metal echoed from makeshift smithies as blacksmiths repaired gear damaged during the long march. Everyone was busy. Everyone was waiting.
Azhar turned and began his descent. His steps were heavy but sure. He was not a man of haste; at forty-three, he had learned that impatience was the mother of defeat. He had seen too many young commanders fall because they couldn’t wait. He would not repeat their mistakes.
In the center of the camp stood a massive command tent, deep crimson with the flame emblem of the Kingdom of Ignis-Sol. Inside, Azhar sat upon a thick rug, staring at a map spread before him. It was worn and tattered, covered in scrawls and marks that only he understood. His finger hovered over a point to the north.
"Vorkund," he whispered. "The enemy’s heart."
The tent flap opened, and a man entered without leave. He was tall and gaunt, with skin darker than most of the Ignis-Sol people. His eyes were solid black, devoid of whites—like two pits leading directly into the abyss. His name was Zafir, Azhar’s spiritual advisor and a fire priest rumored to see the future within the dancing flames.
"You should have knocked," Azhar said, not looking up.
Zafir didn’t respond. He walked closer, standing across from the map. His skeletal hand touched a point south of Vorkund. "There is something here."
Azhar raised his head. "What?"
"I do not know." Zafir stared at the map, his black eyes unblinking. "But the fire shows something. Not Brassvale. Not an army. Something... darker."
Azhar sighed. He loathed dealing with things he couldn’t comprehend. He was a soldier; he believed in the blade, in strategy, and in the strength he could see and touch. But Zafir—insufferable as he was—was rarely wrong. The fire spoke to him, and the fire never lied.
"We shall see," Azhar said at last. "Tomorrow, we send a team south. Small. Discreet. I want to know what it is you see there."
Zafir gave a slow nod and slipped out of the tent without another word. Azhar stared at the closed flap, then back at the map. Something darker. The words echoed in his mind. He didn’t like it. Not one bit.
Three days later, the scout team sent south returned.
They did not return with a report. They returned with pallid faces, hollow eyes, and trembling hands. One of them—a young soldier named Karim—couldn’t even speak. He simply sat in the corner of the tent, clutching his knees and muttering incoherently.
Azhar stood before them, arms crossed over his chest. "Speak."
The leader of the scouts, a battle-hardened veteran named Rashid, raised his head. His face, usually stone-cold and fearless, looked ten years older. "General... we found a village."
"What village?"
"We don’t know. No name, no signs. Just... a small hamlet. Perhaps fifty houses." Rashid swallowed hard. "Every single inhabitant is dead."
Azhar frowned. "Slaughtered? By Brassvale?"
"No." Rashid shook his head, his voice quivering. "Their... their skin turned black, General. As if they burned from the inside out. But there was no fire. No wounds. They were just... dead. All of them. Men, women, children. Even their livestock."
Silence fell. The air inside the tent suddenly turned frigid, despite the scorching sun baking the earth outside.
Azhar studied Rashid for a long moment, searching for a sign of a lie or exaggeration. He found none. Only terror. Pure, unadulterated fear.
"Anything else?" he asked quietly.
Rashid nodded. "In the center of the village... there was a tree. A massive thing, centuries old." He paused, gathering his courage. "Beneath that tree, we found... something."
"What?"
"We don’t know, General. It looked like... roots. But not from the tree. They were pitch black, writhing as if they were alive. And..." Rashid swallowed again. "There was writing. Carved into the bark with something sharp."
Azhar waited. "What did it say?"
Rashid looked at him with eyes full of dread. "One word, General. Wabil."
The name hung in the air like black smoke. Azhar didn’t recognize it. He had never heard it before. Yet, inexplicably, hearing it made the hair on his neck stand on end. There was something in the way Rashid spoke it—as if the name itself were a curse.
Zafir, who had been standing in the corner of the tent, finally spoke. "Wabil of Plague."
All eyes turned toward him. The fire priest stared blankly ahead, his black eyes void of emotion. "One of the Seven Harbingers. The Bringer of Pestilence. The Destroyer of Order. He who topples kingdoms not with the blade, but with disease."
Azhar stared at him. "You know of this?"
"I have read the texts. The fire showed me its shadow days ago, though I was not certain until now." Zafir looked at Azhar. "He has risen, General. Or he is rising. And he is in the south."
Azhar fell silent, his mind racing. He had come here to wage war against Brassvale, to conquer Vorkund, and to expand the borders of Ignis-Sol. That was his mission. Those were the Sultan’s orders. But now... now there was something else. Something darker. Something he didn’t even understand.
"What should we do?" Rashid asked, his voice still shaking.
Azhar didn’t answer immediately. He walked to the tent’s opening and stared out. His army was still busy preparing for war. They had no idea what he had just heard. They didn’t know that to the south, there was something far more dangerous than the entire Brassvale military.
"We report this to the Sultan," he said finally. "This is no longer just our concern. If the Harbingers truly rise... all of Aethera is in peril."
He turned to Zafir. "You. Send a message to the capital. Immediately. Use the fire if you must. The Sultan must know."
Zafir nodded and vanished from the tent. Azhar looked back at the map. Vorkund to the north. The dead village to the south. Two directions. Two threats. One he understood. One he did not.
Volco is trapped between Ignis-Sol and the Maiden, he thought. And now Azhar is trapped between Brassvale and Wabil.
He clenched his fist. "Damn it."
In the distance, further south than Azhar’s eyes could reach, the dead village remained. Silent. Empty. The corpses with blackened skin still lay in the streets, inside houses, and in the fields. No one buried them. No one dared approach.
In the center of the village, beneath the ancient tree whose roots were now black and writhing like snakes, something pulsed. Slow. Rhythmic. Like a heartbeat that shouldn’t exist.
And upon the bark of the tree, the gashes that formed the word—WABIL—began to seep a thick, black ichor. The liquid dripped slowly, soaking into the soil, and wherever it touched, the grass withered instantly.
Wabil of Plague was rising.
And he was hungry.