Ghoraza walked beneath the sallow sky, his feet dragging against the rust-hued dust. It clung to his skin, to his robes, to the grooves of his scarred palms. He had seen the truth, and the truth was mortality. Mortality was no curse. It was the one divinity that all could grasp. Krug had saved all who lived now, and the shamanβs path was with him.
Ghoraza invoked the heart of the blackened shrine and the Spirit of Metal called to him. Its voice rang through the obsidian chamber, sharp as shattering steel, cold as a wintered blade. It did not whisper. It did not plead. It commanded.
THE SPIRIT OF METAL
Bind to me, King of Bone.
Take into your marrow the weight of the elemental.
Become more than crimson, more than ivory. Become as I am, and know POWER!
THE SPIRIT OF METAL
What is your mortality but slow failure? You clutch at death like a babe at its motherβs breast, thinking her gentle. Fool. Death is no caress. It is the bite of the axe, the hunger of rust, the final hush before oblivion. Bind to me, and I will make you more. More than flesh, more than breath, more than a thing that bleeds.
Ghorazaβs heart thundered against the cage of his ribs. His fingers curled into fists. He saw his kin in the dark of his mind. Uruks, proud and strong, shattered beneath the march of time. No glory waited in the soil. Only hollowed silence.
His breath came sharp and ragged. Power. The word was a curse, an allure, a hunger deep as the roots of the world. He felt the brand before he saw it, searing into his chest like a molten chain. He snarled, back arching, fingers clawing at the empty air. It did not burn like fire. It burned like frost, creeping and pitiless. The voice of the Spirit wrapped around him, lilting and cruel.
THE SPIRIT OF METAL
You have bound yourself in the links of the ages. No rust shall claim you. No rot shall hollow your bones. But know this, child of Krug. You kneel not before mortality, but before me. And I do not let go.