Book One – Chapter 14

It was a truth Salgier had never learned.

He had tried to save everyone, and in doing so, he had failed to save even himself. None of them had foreseen the scale of the ork resistance. None of them had spotted the orichs, nor the trap they had so meticulously laid. Their escape had been doomed before it began, their defiance a spark swiftly smothered.

The moment the voltera fell to the mighty ork warrior, Barbarthara had felt the battle’s weight shift, tilting irreversibly against them. Salgier, desperate and defiant, had summoned the last remnants of his strength to transform. His body had twisted, elongated, reshaped — a grotesque act of willpower as he became the grand avian beast. Barbarthara had not thought him capable of such a feat, not after the years of torment that had chiselled him into the gaunt shadow she had latched upon. He must have harboured this strength where even she had not reached, deep within the marrow of his being. Yet he had risen, wings cutting through the storm-laden skies, the fallen voltera clasped in his talons.

He could have fled. As the avian, he could have left the Albweiss behind, gliding down the frozen expanse of the mountains to whatever semblance of freedom lay beyond. But he had not. Instead, he had turned back and tried to gather the others. For one fragile, desperate moment, Barbarthara had dared to believe he would succeed — that he would save them all. She had seen him, towering and majestic, swooping low over the battle to pluck their broken forms from the snow. All of them — except Barbarthara.

It was then the orichs had struck. Silent shadows beneath the blizzard’s veil, they brought him down with ruthless precision. His grand form, his fleeting defiance, was torn from the air, dragging with him the last hope Barbarthara had dared to harbour.