Texan waited patiently in the hall, surrounded by a mosaic of bodies and postures carved from different lives, different creeds, but all drawn to the same throne of ambition. The corridor was long and dimly lit, torches lining its rough-hewn stone walls, their flames flickering with impatience, as though aware of the tension that clung to every waiting soul.
orc-kind of all types filled the space—one broad-shouldered and stoic, a pet liger lounging beside him with its tail twitching like a metronome of boredom. Another, draped in a tattered hood, leaned silently against the wall, the faint glint of obsidian beads hinting at a cultish past. There was even the stereotypical barbarian—chest bare, scars like ink across his skin, chewing bone like it might offer courage. Despite their differences, one truth braided them all together:
None were here for honor.
None were loyal. Not truly.
Texan knew that. And so did they.
They were here to eat. To claw at something they didn't earn. And the proctors inside? They weren't looking for soldiers—they were measuring wolves.
"Hey, I heard the prince is the one actually proctoring for once?"
"Oh fuck really?!?"
"Oh yeahhh, I did hear that from one of the guards."
"Yup, the prince was walking in the lower floors for once checking shit out."
"That doesn't mean he's proctoring… right?"
The voices wove around Texan like drifting smoke. He kept still, still enough that the air around him seemed thinner. His eyes open, alert, but the rest of him… silent. Disconnected. A fisherman with his line deep in rumor-riddled waters.
He owed this stillness to his training under Thorrak—back in the smoldering depths of the Soul Smith's city. "If you can hear your blade whisper," Thorrak once told him, "you'll know when it screams." It was under the deafening rhythm of the forge that Texan learned to tune the world out—and listen.
Not with ears.
But with discipline.
So now, he sifted through the din like a hawk drifting through cloud cover. Beneath the torchlit crackle and hushed tension, he heard it—three voices in the room ahead.
Two questioned. One answered.
One voice was smooth, like polished stone worn by time. The other, raspy, like bark split under frost. A classic act—good orc, bad orc. But Texan saw through the curtain. It was no act. It was calculation.
Then came the third voice: hesitant. Young. The first question reached Texan's ear like a coin tossed into water.
"If I paid you double to betray me one day, would you take it?"
Texan nearly scoffed. Easy. The prince's army was known to be riddled with backstabbers. Surely this was a test of resolve—of blunt honesty, right?
"Of course not," the woman inside replied confidently. "My loyalty is for you, my prince."
Wrong.
She was dismissed. Not just rejected—expelled from the spire itself.
Texan's brow furrowed slightly. So loyalty isn't what they want? No… they want control. Calculated ambition, not obedience. Not lapdogs. He leaned in further, sharpening his inner ear.
The next candidate answered all three questions correctly:
"If I paid you double to betray me one day, would you take it?""What would you do if a comrade in my army slaps you in the face in front of a crowd?""You see me wounded and unconscious on the battlefield. No one is watching. What do you do?"
The woman then answered—
"If someone can pay me double to betray you, then someone can pay triple to betray them. I'd rather stay close to the source of wealth and power.""If I kill them, I lose your trust. If I do nothing, I lose respect. I'd laugh, say I owed them that one, and then settle it out of sight.""I'd drag you to safety—if you live, I live better. If you die, the next prince won't remember me anyway."
Texan smirked. Savvy bastard.
Now it was his turn.
The door creaked open and Texan stepped through. The sound was soft, but in the stillness of that room it might as well have been thunder.
The chamber beyond was carved directly from the stone—no windows, no tapestries, no warmth. Only torches, spaced too far apart, so their light left wide pools of darkness clinging to the edges like waiting predators. The air smelled of oil, sweat, and the metallic tang of weapons that had drawn blood and never been properly cleaned.
Two orcs sat at the far end behind a broad slab of blackened wood that served as a table. One was young—barely scarred, his tusks polished, his armor unblemished. His beauty was deliberate, sculpted, dangerous. The other was older, his armor pitted with dents and age, one eye milky, the other sharp and alive. His tusks were filed flat—too many battles, too many victories.
Texan's instinct braced for the gravelly voice of the elder. But instead—
"If I paid you double to betray me one day, would you take it?"
It came from the young one.
That alone was a trap. Roles reversed. The old one stared at the wall, silent as stone, while the young prince played interrogator.
Texan's mouth stayed neutral, though inside, his mind spun quick. So that's how we're playing this. He nodded slightly, then answered.
"No. I've seen betrayal myself. Each and every time it's happened, nothing good comes out of it."
The young orc's eyes narrowed slightly—not disbelief, but measurement. The elder finally shifted, a single finger drumming the table once, twice, thrice. Then the next question came—not what Texan expected.
"Are you a siren?"
The suddenness of it punched air from his lungs. His jaw flexed before he managed:
"I… uh, yes?"
The young orc leaned back, taking a slow drag from a rolled cigarette. The ember painted his face in brief, ghostly red. When he exhaled, the smoke curled like whispering serpents.
"Good," he said finally, letting the word stretch. "We'll stop the questions here. You're in. And we've got a task for ya."
He stood in one smooth, practiced motion, and the older orc followed, boots scraping lightly against the floor. Together they performed a motion—odd, deliberate—like pulling back an invisible curtain in the air.
The far corner of the room rippled. The shadows moved like liquid, then solidified into shape.
A figure stepped out.
And every instinct Texan had screamed at once.
It was an orc. But nothing about him belonged to the mortal world. His form was built from symmetry too perfect, his features so precise they defied nature. His skin caught the torchlight like wet obsidian, and his eyes—gods, those eyes—were mirrors reflecting something far older than orc blood.
"Hmmhm," the figure said, his voice smooth and warm, but wrong, as if every word came pre-polished. "Greetings. I am the first prince—Illusorisch."
Texan froze. Even after seeing him, his mind refused to hold the image. It blurred like heat haze, too radiant, too exact. His stomach turned, instinct fighting comprehension.
Every predator he'd faced, every dungeon beast, every orc warlord—none of them carried this weight. The room bent around this prince, light and air trembling just to fill the space near him.
"Quiet," Illusorisch said, voice barely above a whisper. "Here I was hoping to hear your sweet voice, young siren."
The word siren slipped from his lips like both blessing and curse.
Then—he moved.
In a blink, he stood before Texan. One breath ago, he had been ten steps away. Now his eyes were inches from Texan's, scanning him with surgical precision. His gaze crawled—not lustful, but analytical—like a smith inspecting a flawed blade.
Texan's pulse slammed in his throat. His instincts screamed to move, to flee, to bow—anything. But he forced his hand upward instead, awkwardly extending it.
"Texan," he said, his voice too dry. "At your service. What can a siren like me do for ya?"
Illusorisch smiled—a shape of lips too even, too studied, the kind of smile sculptors never dare attempt because it turns uncanny.
"You seem capable… but you're weak. I like you."
He turned away, the motion fluid as smoke, his coat flowing like liquid obsidian. The fabric shimmered with silver-threaded runes, inscriptions that pulsed faintly with power—each one alive, whispering in the torchlight.
"But I need you to prove yourself," Illusorisch continued, his tone honeyed command. "Build your own portion of my army. Gather a few soldiers. Show me loyalty through strength, not words. Do that, and I'll give you reward beyond what the others even imagine."
He began walking toward the door, every step measured, every sound swallowed by the shadows themselves. Before turning the corner, he stopped, his profile catching a single sliver of torchlight.
"And don't forget your friend," he said. "His hand might be tired from milking my cows."
Then he was gone.
Gone without a sound, without air displacement, without trace—only the faint ripple in the torchlight remained.
Texan lunged for the door, heart pounding, but the hallway outside was empty, ordinary, utterly mundane.
He turned to a passing orc guard.
"Did you see a man in black clothing? Walked out just now?"
"Nah, man. Now move."
The shove snapped him back to motion.
No one else saw. No one else cared.
The world didn't slow for horror.
Texan drifted through the corridors of the Spire like a man half awake. The stone walls still hummed faintly in his ears, echoing the prince's voice—a resonance that clung like cold smoke. He couldn't shake it. The way that figure had looked through him rather than at him. The way his name sounded different when said by that mouth.
The deeper he walked, the less sense the palace made. Hallways curved into one another like veins. Lamps flickered in patterns that didn't line up with the turns. Once, he thought he passed a doorway that led back into the same hallway he'd just left. The architecture itself felt… recursive.
Finally, he caught sound—a low, rhythmic bleating, the splash of buckets, and the occasional irritated grunt.
He turned the corner and froze.
The room stretched wide, humid, and oddly pastoral. Rows upon rows of orc women in aprons tended to a small herd of horned cattle—massive beasts with pale hides and golden eyes. Infants cried from cradles lined against one wall, their wails mixing with the steady thrum of milk being poured into metal pails.
And there, of all people, was Himmel.
Armor off, sleeves rolled, forearms slick with sweat, sitting beside one of the creatures and working the rhythm of a practiced farmhand. He didn't look out of place—he looked focused. Grounded.
Texan blinked twice. "You've gotta be shitting me."
One of the nurses turned, her expression sharp enough to cut steel. "You here to mock, or to help?"
"I'm—uh—just passing through."
"Then pass faster."
Texan raised his hands defensively, then stepped around a low pen until he reached Himmel. The orc didn't even glance up. His eyes stayed on the task, his expression neutral, his movements calm and even.
"You good?" Texan asked.
Himmel nodded once, finishing the bucket before standing to wash his hands in a shallow basin. "Did you find anything out?"
Texan hesitated. "Yeah. The prince is… not what I expected."
Himmel shot him a look. "Meaning?"
"Meaning he's terrifying."
He leaned against a wooden post, lowering his voice. "You ever look at someone and realize your instincts don't even know what they're supposed to feel? Like, your fight-or-flight just gives up?"
Himmel dried his hands on a rag. "That's what power feels like when it's unearned."
Texan smirked faintly. "You saying he's fake?"
"I'm saying he's dangerous." Himmel slipped his gloves back on, fastening the straps one by one. "Tell me everything."
So Texan did.
He described the interview—the reversed roles, the questions, the air that tasted of rust and dread. He told Himmel about the way the prince had appeared, how reality itself seemed to stutter when he entered the room. And finally, about the command: to build an army under the prince's banner.
When he was done, Himmel stood silent for a while, thinking. The lowing of cattle and the soft shuffle of feet filled the pause.
"You believe him?" Himmel finally asked.
"I don't think it matters whether I do," Texan said. "He believes himself. That's the dangerous part."
The corner of Himmel's mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close. "Let's leave. I smell like milk."
As they walked out, the door creaked shut behind them, sealing the humid air inside. The hallway beyond was mercifully cool. Texan could breathe again, though the memory of that room clung to him like damp cloth.
They didn't speak for a few corridors. Both men walked in step, silent but not companionably so—each trapped in thought. Himmel's stride was steady, measured, his eyes always scanning. Texan's was loose but coiled, like a spring pretending to be wire.
At last, Himmel said, "He mentioned me, didn't he?"
Texan stopped. "…Yeah."
"What did he say?"
Texan hesitated. The image of that smile flickered behind his eyes again—perfect, cold, unreadable. "Something about your hand being tired from milking his cows."
Himmel's brow furrowed slightly. "So he saw me. Even down there."
"Seems like he sees everything."
"Then we need to be careful."
They reached the outer doors of the Spire and stepped into the capital's evening. The air outside was fresher, though it carried the scent of smoke and roasted meat. The skyline burned orange under the setting sun, and the streets had begun to fill with people again—merchants closing stalls, guards lighting torches, children weaving between market carts.
They walked until the Spire's shadow no longer stretched across them. Himmel didn't say a word until they were deep into the Seventh Princess's territory, where banners of blue and silver hung from every window.
When they reached the border gate, two of her guards stepped aside instantly. Himmel nodded to one of them—an orc woman with half her tusk chipped—then turned to Texan.
"We should be safe here. His watchers won't follow this far."
Texan blinked. "Wait—you knew we were being followed?"
"You didn't?"
"I was busy, you know, being interrogated by the living embodiment of every nightmare I've ever had."
Himmel gave a low chuckle. "Fair enough."
Texan ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. "You're scary sometimes, you know that?"
"I just pay attention."
"Yeah, well, I can only do that when I'm fully focused."
They stopped outside a small tavern tucked between two narrow alleys. The lanterns glowed faint amber, and the smell of spiced broth and ale drifted out. Inside, the noise was low—comfortable, not raucous. They took a table in the corner, away from prying eyes.
Over mugs of thin beer, Texan finally said, "I think we play along. Build a squad under him. Then flip the board when it counts."
Himmel looked at him across the rim of his cup. "You think we can fool a man like that?"
"I think we can try. And trying's better than dying scared."
For a moment, the only sound between them was the crackle of the tavern fire. Then Himmel nodded once.
"Tomorrow, we start," he said.
Texan smiled—a tired smile, but real. "Tonight, we drink."
"Tonight," Himmel agreed.
They clinked mugs.
Outside, the city's night-song swelled: laughter, footsteps, the distant howl of some unseen beast in the outer districts. The Spire's silhouette still pierced the horizon, its windows faintly glowing like watchful eyes.
Neither of them looked back at it.
Because you don't dream inside the prince's shadow.You just learn how to live long enough to walk out of it.