As Reza led the women and children beyond the Black Ridge, the jagged cliffs loomed over them like the ribs of some ancient, long-dead beast. Beneath the rock, hidden within the shadows of time, lay the entrance to a forgotten world—the Ruins of Khal-Thuraz, once the grand capital of the Seven Dwarven Kingdoms.
Carved into the heart of the mountains, these tunnels bore witness to an age when dwarves thrived in peace, their forges burning with celestial fire, their halls ringing with laughter and song. But that era had long since passed. Now, the ruins were but a mausoleum to their lost glory.
The Seven Kings who once ruled these lands were mere echoes in history, their names now whispered only in forgotten prayers:
1. King Drogun Blackmaul – Clan Dûr-Khazad (The Stoneborn): A warrior-king whose anvil rang louder than any war drum. His people were master-smiths, known for forging weapons that never dulled.
2. King Baelgrimm Ironsoul – Clan Az-Thulun (The Iron Sons): The wisest of the Seven, he bound his people to ancient oaths. Their runes, etched deep into their flesh, granted them strength beyond mortal kin.
3. King Varrik Flamebeard – Clan Zor-Gharn (The Ember Keepers): His beard, touched by the sacred fire of the deep, marked him as the chosen of the forge-god. His people wielded flame as a craftsman wields steel.
4. King Thrumli Deepdelver – Clan Urd-Hazrak (The Hollow Seekers): A king of miners and explorers, he led his people into the deepest tunnels of the world, unearthing wonders—and horrors—long buried.
5. King Gildrak Stormbreaker – Clan Thrain-Kazul (The Thunder Lords): A lord of battle, his warhammer shattered mountains and his warriors fought like raging tempests. His clan's shields were unbreakable, their oaths unshakable.
6. King Kelbor Frostmantle – Clan Zul-Norrim (The Iceforged): A ruler of the high peaks, his people shaped armor from glaciers and wielded weapons that burned with cold fire.
7. King Modrin Doomfist – Clan Dorn-Vael (The Bloodbound): The last of the Seven, he led his kin in the final war against the nameless horror that ended their reign. His fist, rumored to be carved from obsidian, never knew defeat.
As Reza and her followers stepped into the vast cavern, they saw remnants of these lost kings—their statues standing like grim sentinels, their empty halls whispering with the voices of the past.
"This place is sacred," Reza murmured. "Let us hope it still holds enough ghosts to keep the orcs away."
As they ventured deeper into the ruined tunnels of Khal-Thuraz, the air grew heavy with an eerie stillness. Their torches flickered, casting long, trembling shadows across the ancient stonework. The deeper they went, the colder it became, as if the warmth of the world above had long abandoned this place. Then, the whispers began.
At first, it was nothing but a faint murmur, like the distant sigh of wind threading through unseen cracks. But as they descended further, the whispers grew sharper—urgent, unintelligible voices slithering through the dark.
Reza's heart pounded, but she remained composed. She turned to her people, her voice steady yet firm.
"Do not panic. It's only the wind finding its way through these tunnels," she said, though even she doubted her own words.
Yet, the whispers did not fade. They grew stronger, shifting from scattered murmurs to something more insidious. Some of the younger children clung to their mothers, eyes darting in fear. A few of the older men exchanged uneasy glances.
Then, one of the warriors halted, his face pale beneath the torchlight. "That's not the wind…" he whispered.
A cold shiver ran down Reza's spine. The echoes no longer seemed random. The voices… they were calling to them.
The ruined tunnels stretched endlessly, their arched ceilings held together by crumbling dwarven craftsmanship. Time had worn away the beauty of the ancient stonework, leaving behind jagged scars of collapse and decay. Dust coated the air, thick and suffocating, as the flickering torchlight revealed twisted reliefs carved into the walls—depictions of seven dwarven kings standing defiantly against an unseen foe, their names etched beneath their statues.
The Seven Kings who once ruled Khal-Thuraz, their legacies long buried beneath the ruin. Reza clenched her fists, pushing away thoughts of the past. The present was far grimmer.
They had stopped in a wide, circular chamber, the remnants of an ancient dwarven hall. Here, the air hung thick with whispers—some faint as dying breath, others clawing at the edges of their sanity. The refugees, mostly women and children, huddled together, eyes darting into the dark, seeing things that were not there. There were only eight men to guard them. Eight warriors against the abyss.
Reza took a deep breath, her mind racing. If the orcs found them now, it would be over. She had heard of what became of captured women in orc hands—breeding stock for the next generation of monsters. No fate could be worse.
"We must split up," she commanded, voice unwavering. "Two will lead the women and children forward. The rest of us will stay behind and ensure no threat follows."
The men hesitated, knowing what it meant. Those who stayed behind were signing their death warrants.
A grizzled warrior named Dain stepped forward, his broad shoulders tense. "And if something already lurks in the dark?"
"Then we kill it," Reza said flatly.
The warriors exchanged grim nods. Jorrik and Varen would take the women and children ahead, ensuring they reached the hidden sanctum deep within Khal-Thuraz.
Dain, Reza, and the remaining five warriors would stay behind, ensuring nothing pursued them. If anything came, they would hold the line, no matter the cost.
Jorrik, a tall man with a scar running down his cheek, turned to Reza, eyes filled with both understanding and sorrow. "We'll get them there, I swear it."
Reza clasped his forearm. "Make sure you do."
With that, Jorrik and Varen guided the refugees forward, their torches vanishing into the winding tunnels. The remaining warriors watched them disappear into the abyss, knowing they would likely never see them again.
Then, the whispers stopped. A silence deeper than death settled over them. Dain turned, his hand gripping his sword—but it was too late. Something ripped him backward, into the shadows. He didn't even have time to scream.
The warriors barely had time to react before Dain's mangled body was thrown back into the torchlight—his throat torn out, his chest ripped open. His lifeless eyes stared blankly at the ceiling.
Reza drew her blade, heart hammering. "SHIELDS UP!"
Then, from the darkness, they came. Things that should not be. Twisted remnants of dwarves—hollow-eyed revenants, their flesh stretched tight over unnatural bone, their fingers elongated into clawed talons. Some still wore rusted remnants of armor, their beards woven with the dust of centuries past.
They had once been kings, warriors, lords. Now they were nothing but hunger. And they were coming.
"HOLD THE LINE!" The warriors clashed with the undead horrors. Blades met rotting flesh, severing limbs, splitting skulls. But they did not stop.
One of the creatures lunged onto a warrior, gnawing into his throat. He gurgled, blood spraying across the cavern walls. Another was dragged screaming into the dark, his torchlight vanishing into nothing.
Reza drove her sword through the skull of one revenant, twisting it, feeling the unnatural bone crack beneath her strength. But more kept coming. Endless. Numberless.
One warrior, Berek, fell, his chest ripped open. Another, Haldur, was torn apart, his screams echoing through the halls of the dead.
Blood painted the floor. And still they fought. Reza knew they could not win. But they could buy time. Her mind raced. They had to collapse the tunnel. "TO THE PILLARS!" she shouted.
The remaining warriors fought their way to the ancient dwarven supports. They hacked at the stone, breaking the foundations, sending cracks splintering up the walls.
The revenants came faster now. One grabbed Reza's arm—she sliced off its head. Another tackled a warrior to the ground—ripping out his intestines.
Only three remained. "KEEP GOING!" Reza roared. With a final strike, the supports gave way. The ceiling collapsed.
A thunderous roar filled the tunnels as tons of stone came crashing down, burying the horrors in an avalanche of ruin.
For a moment, all was still. Reza coughed, dust clogging her lungs. Only two warriors were left.
The cavern lay in ruin, dust still thick in the air from the collapse. Reza and the last two warriors sat against the cold stone, bodies aching, wounds throbbing. Their breathing was ragged, their minds reeling from the massacre they had just endured.
For a moment, there was only silence. Then, the earth began to tremble. It was subtle at first—a low, humming vibration beneath them. Then came the sound of skittering, chittering, like claws scraping against stone. Reza stiffened.
"Something's coming," one of the warriors murmured, gripping his blade. The ground beneath them cracked—then split open. From the holes they emerged.
Small, twisted humanoid creatures, their bodies covered in patches of sickly, mottled skin and rough, bony protrusions. Their eyes were milky white, their mouths lined with jagged, uneven teeth. Their limbs were too long, their fingers ending in razor-sharp talons. The Ghûn.
Ancient dwarven records spoke of them as the Cursed Spawn, remnants of a forgotten age when the Seven Kings still ruled. The Ghûn had once been dwarves themselves, but something in the depths of Khal-Thuraz had twisted them—corrupted them beyond recognition. And now, they attacked.
The first warrior never even had time to raise his sword. A dozen Ghûn swarmed him, their claws tearing into his flesh, their teeth ripping at his throat. He was dragged screaming into the darkness.
Reza lashed out, her blade cutting through several of the creatures. The remaining warrior, Varik, fought beside her, but the Ghûn were relentless. They were not just killing. They were violating.
Clawed hands grabbed at Reza, tearing at her armor, yanking her to the ground. They pinned her down, their foul breath hot against her skin.
She fought, but there were too many. A jagged-toothed mouth opened too close to her face. Then—Light exploded into the cavern.
Fire. Blinding, roaring, unrelenting fire. The very earth shook, the cavern walls cracking apart as an immense force surged through the ruins.
A towering figure emerged from the darkness, wreathed in flames and shadows, its form barely contained within the limits of the mortal world.
It was a being of fire and destruction, its presence alone warping the air around it. Smoke and cinders drifted from its skin, the scent of burning sulfur thick in the cavern. Two massive horns curved from its head, its eyes pits of smoldering ember.
Reza's eyes widened in horrified recognition. Iblis al-Nar. The Destroyer of Khal-Thuraz. The Demon of Shadow and Fire.
The very being responsible for the fall of the Seven Dwarven Kings. It had slumbered for centuries, buried beneath the ruins. Now, it was awake. And it hungered.
The Ghûn scattered, their grotesque forms skittering into the shadows, their twisted voices shrieking in primal fear. They feared nothing—except this.
Iblis al-Nar had no equal in terror. Yet even as they fled, some of the vile creatures dared one last depraved act.
Clawed hands groped at Reza, cracked lips pressed against her skin in twisted mockery of a kiss. Their laughter was a sickening mixture of cruelty and triumph, as if they knew they had already broken her more than any blade could. Then—they ran.
Reza did not move. She lay where they had left her, body trembling, stunned, her mind reeling from the horrors that had just transpired. The once-proud warrior, now a hollowed-out shell, stared at nothing, her breath shallow.
The cavern around her was no longer dark. It was ablaze. Iblis raised a single, clawed hand—and the fire obeyed.
Flames roared across the chamber, engulfing the fleeing Ghûn. Their screams echoed as their bodies writhed and contorted, flesh melting, bones cracking in the inferno.
One tried to escape, but a massive, burning fist crashed down upon it, splitting its skull like rotten fruit.
Another was lifted into the air by an invisible force, its limbs snapping one by one before it was torn apart, blood hissing as it evaporated in the heat.
One by one, the Ghûn perished, reduced to nothing but ash and bone. The stench of burning flesh filled the cavern.
Reza still could not move. Iblis turned to her, his eyes searing embers in the darkness. For a moment, there was silence.
Then, his voice—deep as the abyss, laced with ancient cruelty. "The Ghûn are filth," he said, stepping closer, the air itself quivering with each word. "They deserved no less."
Reza's lips parted, but no words came. The demon tilted his head, his fire-lit silhouette looming over her.
Then, in a voice that shook her soul, he asked "But tell me, warrior… did you deserve any better?"