Whispers in the Dark
While the three chained strangers languished in the bowels of Greymoor Castle, the village outside was alive with fear and firelight.
The tavern, usually filled with drunken laughter and bad lute music, had become a war council of terrified peasants. Torches smoked in the streets, children cried in their mothers' arms, and every man and woman with a mouth was running it.
"They fell from the sky, I tell you," old Barl slurred again, waving his clay jug for the fiftieth time that night. "I saw it with me own eyes! A star, on fire, crashing into the forest like the gods pissed it out!"
"You were drunk," muttered his neighbor, a toothless woman stirring a pot of stew.
"I'm always drunk," Barl shot back, pounding the table. "But I know what I fuckin' saw! Three demons crawled out of the fire, tall as giants, eyes glowing with hellfire!"
"That's not what the guards said," another villager interrupted. "My cousin's brother's sister's uncle—he's a gatekeeper at the castle. He swears the strangers bled like men. They ain't demons. They're gods. Flesh and bone, but not of this world."
The tavern went quiet. Then erupted in shouting.
"Gods!"
"Demons!"
"Foreign spies!"
"Shut the fuck up, all of you!"
At the far end of the table, old Granny Ulfa slammed her cane against the floor. Her eyes were milky with age, her voice a raspy growl. "I've seen omens before. When the Red Comet burned the skies, the Demon King rose. When the Moon split in half, the Elves began their wars. Now fire falls from the heavens again. It means blood. Always blood."
The villagers crossed themselves, muttering prayers. Even the drunks sobered at her words.
Outside, the streets buzzed with torchlight and rumor. Merchants whispered about the value of the strangers' "sky-metal," already imagining ways to melt it down for coin. Priests preached from steps, warning of divine punishment if the lord failed to appease the gods. Soldiers gathered at gates, sharpening their swords more from nerves than duty.
And somewhere in the crowd, spies of rival houses slipped like shadows, already carrying word of the "sky demons" back to their masters.
Greymoor was a backwater domain, but tonight, it had become the center of the fucking universe.
Meanwhile, in the castle kitchens, the servants were no less terrified. A scullery boy whispered while scrubbing a pot:
"They say one of the sky demons laughed when a dozen knights tried to beat him down."
"Aye," said a maid, shivering. "And another one spoke with the calm of a noble, like he weren't afraid at all. As if he were the lord himself."
"I heard," the cook grunted, chopping onions, "that the third one—he carried fire in his hands. Lit men ablaze just by touching them."
The maid crossed herself. "Devils. All of them."
"Or gods." The boy's eyes glimmered. "Maybe they'll burn Lord Halbrecht for his sins and lift us all up instead."
The cook slapped him with a greasy hand. "Shut your mouth before someone hears you. Gods or demons, it makes no difference. They'll bring war to Greymoor. Mark my words."
High above, in the castle tower, Lord Halbrecht himself watched the village torches flicker like fireflies. His fat fingers drummed against the stone windowsill as he muttered to his steward.
"Fear is good. Fear makes men obey. But if these strangers truly are omens…" His eyes narrowed. "Then I must tame them before the other Houses hear. If word spreads, every greedy bastard from here to the High Crown will march on my lands."
The steward bowed nervously. "And if they cannot be tamed, my lord?"
Halbrecht's lips curved into a piggish smile. "Then I will feed their corpses to the crows and claim the heavens themselves sent me the victory."
The bells of Greymoor tolled midnight. The whispers did not stop.
And in the dungeons below, three men from another world listened to the faint echoes of those bells, each of them already plotting in their own way.
Damian's cold mind ticked like a clock, calculating.
Kael's head throbbed with questions of magic, physics, and survival.
Riven just grinned in the dark, waiting for the chance to break free and paint the walls red.
The New World thought they had captured omens.
They had no idea they had just chained three opportunistic assholes.
The Great Thrones Whisper
Rumors were the true currency of the New World. By the time the bells of Greymoor tolled dawn, whispers of the "sky demons" had already traveled far beyond the backwater lord's crumbling castle walls.
Messengers, spies, merchants, and priests carried the tale like wildfire. By the time the sun rose, the Ten Great Houses—the apex predators of the world's feudal jungle—were stirring.
The Elven Courts
In the moonlit halls of silver and crystal, Lord Aired Vastina of the High Elves listened to the report in silence. His hair was pale as moonlight, his robes shimmering with enchantments older than human history.
"Strangers who fall from the heavens," his spymaster whispered. "Clad in strange garb. Speaking tongues unknown. Captured by a human pig-lord in Greymoor."
Aired's lips curved into a faint, cruel smile. "Humans always stumble into treasures they do not deserve. If the heavens truly sent omens, they belong to the Elves. Not to dirt-eaters."
In the forests far to the south, Lady Ashera Wysarona of the Dark Elves read the same news from a blood-stained scroll. Her crimson eyes narrowed. "Omens from the heavens? If they are gods, then we shall worship them. If they are demons, we shall enslave them. Either way…" She licked her lips. "…they will be ours."
The Human Thrones
Across the plains, Lord Nicholas Claybrook—a hardened warlord whose banners had crushed a dozen rivals—slammed his gauntleted fist against the table. "If Greymoor holds power from the heavens, then war is inevitable. The Houses will march. And I will march first."
In the gilded salons of the West, Lady Stéphanie de Courvoisier sipped her wine and laughed at the news. "Three men fell from the sky? Oh, how deliciously absurd. But absurdity has value. If Greymoor is foolish enough to think it can hoard omens, we shall strip it bare… and perhaps steal these sky-men for our collection."
Meanwhile, in the imperial heartlands, Lord Benno von und zu Austerlitz—a man born in armor and raised on blood—read the report with cold precision. "If they are weapons, I will wield them. If they are threats, I will crush them. Greymoor is weak. They cannot hold such prizes."
The Dwarven Holds
Deep in the mountains, the dwarves stirred.
Lord Hadmoick Blackborn, scarred by a hundred forges and battles, bellowed to his council. "Metal that falls from the heavens! A machine that burns the sky! Bring me its wreck, and I will build an empire the gods themselves will envy!"
Far to the east, Lady Gomnorra de Wyvernhand sharpened her axe, smiling grimly. "Demons or gods, they bleed. If they bleed, we can use them."
And in the Strauss stronghold, Lady Gokririka von und zu Strauss, adorned in gold and sapphires, sneered at the reports. "Fools chase omens. I chase wealth. But if these strangers can make me richer than the crown itself… then I will have them."
The Beasts
In a palace of silk and shadow, Lady Helena de' Ballesteros, matriarch of the Nekojin, purred as she read the scroll. Her feline ears twitched with amusement. "Three men from the sky. How… entertaining. Perhaps they will make good pets. Or husbands."
Meanwhile, in the rabbitfolk domains, Lord Kelemen László frowned. His long ears twitched nervously. "The heavens send omens before wars. If these men are weapons, then war is coming. I will prepare my people."
The Whisper Spreads
Across the lands, the Ten Great Thrones stirred. Some saw opportunity. Some saw danger. All saw war.
And at the center of it all, the backwater domain of Greymoor now sat like a fat pig with a golden crown—too stupid to realize every wolf in the world was already licking its lips.
Lord Halbrecht believed he had captured omens.
But in truth, he had lit a signal fire that would set the entire world ablaze.
The Trial of Omens
The morning sun broke over Greymoor in a haze of smoke and fear. The castle courtyard, usually a place for drills and livestock trades, had been cleared for spectacle. A wooden stage was built overnight, hastily hammered together by servants, with an executioner's block ominously placed at its center.
The villagers gathered in droves, murmuring prayers and curses in equal measure. Children sat on their fathers' shoulders, wide-eyed with awe. Merchants hawked roasted meat and watered-down ale because in this world, even impending divine judgment was an excuse to make coin.
Above them, on his oaken chair, Lord Halbrecht sat fat and smug, his jowls quivering with excitement. He had declared to his people that today the "sky demons" would be tested. If they were gods, they would endure. If they were men, they would break. If they were demons, their heads would roll.
The three CEOs were dragged in chains onto the stage. The crowd gasped.
Riven staggered forward, bloodied but grinning, chains rattling like trophies. He spat into the dirt and bellowed, "Morning, peasants! Who wants autographs?"
The crowd recoiled. Some crossed themselves. Others shouted curses.
Kael, pale and furious, muttered under his breath. "I swear to god, I will kill someone if I don't get coffee soon."
Damian, as always, was silent, his cold eyes scanning the crowd. Not a word wasted, not a motion unnecessary. His mere stillness unsettled people more than Riven's chaos.
Halbrecht stood, raising a pudgy hand. "People of Greymoor! You see before you the strangers who fell from the sky! Last night, they mocked our guards, spat at our priests, and defied my authority. Today, they will face the judgment of gods and men alike."
The crowd roared.
The test began.