The world swam. Zeroth knelt on the cracked rubble, his head bowed, every muscle screaming in protest. The ground felt like it was tilting beneath him, a disorienting, nauseous sensation he fought to control. He could feel the warm, sticky trickle of blood running down his leg from the deep puncture wound in his thigh, and the sharp, stinging pain from the countless cuts Vrathax's jagged armor had inflicted during that final, desperate embrace.
"Gods, that was stupid", he thought, a wave of dizziness washing over him. "Said I wouldn't throw everything at them at once, then I go and nearly burn myself out on the first real threat. Brilliant, Zeroth. Absolutely brilliant."
He spat a glob of something that tasted like ash and metal onto the smoking rubble, then forced himself to lift his head, blinking against the lingering spots in his vision. The arena was still there, the roar of the divine audience a distant, muted hum. He needed to focus. He needed his team.
"Ardric!" he yelled, his voice raspy, weaker than he intended. "Ardric, where the hell are you? And Varic! Someone give me a sitrep!"
His call was answered not by words, but by a sudden, violent BOOM that echoed across the arena from the direction Varic had been fighting. A roiling cloud of inky black and sickly green shadow erupted, shot through with flashes of crimson. Then, with a sickening thud, Varic's form was hurled bodily from the dissipating cloud, tumbling through the air before slamming hard into the ground, skidding several feet until he crashed into a jagged outcrop of broken stone. He lay still, his dark cloak askew, the intricate green tattoos that usually swirled across his skin flickering erratically, threatening to vanish altogether.
A fresh jolt of adrenaline, cold and sharp, cut through Zeroth's exhaustion.
"Tingle! Ardric!" he roared, forcing himself to his feet, his wounded leg screaming in protest. "Get to Varic! Now! Pyronox, to me!"
Even as he shouted, Ardric was already moving, his radiant form a golden blur as he sprinted towards the fallen warlock. Tingle, his crystalline armor still crackling with contained power, zipped through the air after him, his small face tight with concern.
Zeroth turned his attention back to the dissipating cloud of magic Varic had been thrown from. Slowly, a figure emerged, drifting effortlessly through the lingering wisps of shadow and corrupted energy. The cloak that had previously obscured its form now hung in tatters, revealing a sickly pale female elf. Her long, lank black hair clung to her gaunt face, framing eyes that burned with an unnatural, blood-red intensity. One of her long, pointed ears was pristine, but the other was cruelly sheared off halfway, the ragged edge a stark, violent scar. A faint, almost predatory smile touched her thin lips as her crimson gaze fixed on Zeroth.
He felt a chill crawl down his spine that had nothing to do with his injuries. This wasn't just another champion. There was something deeply unsettling about her, an aura of ancient hunger and cold, calculated malice.
Pyronox landed beside Zeroth with a soft thud of molten rock, his fiery form radiating protective heat. "She's strong," Pyronox rumbled, his own molten eyes narrowed on the approaching elf. "Stronger than she looks."
"Yeah," Zeroth grunted, shifting his weight off his wounded leg. "Got that feeling too."
Zeroth winced, leaning heavily on Pyronox's offered support as he limped towards his fallen battle axe. Each step sent jolts of fire up his wounded leg, the necrotic drain from Vrathax's barb still a cold, insidious throb beneath the searing pain of his other injuries. He finally reached the weapon, his fingers closing around the familiar, superheated haft. It felt impossibly heavy.
"Varic should be okay!" Ardric's voice called out from across the rubble-strewn patch of arena, his golden aura flaring briefly as he knelt beside their fallen warlock. "Just knocked the wind out of him and drained him a bit! He's stirring!"
Zeroth grunted in relief, though the effort cost him. "Good to hear," he muttered to Pyronox, his voice strained. "Because I'm exhausted right now."
Pyronox's molten form flickered beside him. "Agreed. This… is not proceeding as smoothly as anticipated."
Before Pyronox could elaborate, a furious explosion ripped through the far side of the arena. A massive chunk of the rubble pile Ralgar had been perched on moments before disintegrated in a shower of stone and corrupted energy. The kobold's enraged screech tore through the air, high-pitched and venomous.
"ZELIRA! SCREW THAT WORTHLESS WARLOCK AND MASSACRE THAT DISGUSTING BALD DWARF!"
Zeroth's head snapped up. Ralgar, hovering amidst the swirling dust and debris, was pointing a trembling, clawed finger directly at Ardric, his mutated face contorted in a mask of pure, unadulterated hatred. The grudge was personal.
As Ralgar shrieked his command, the pale elf, Zelira, who had been slowly advancing towards Zeroth and Pyronox, paused. Her blood-red eyes, which had been fixed on Zeroth, shifted, locking onto Ardric with chilling intensity. Then, her form began to waver, her pale skin dissolving into wisps of oily black shadow.
"Pyronox!" Zeroth barked, urgency sharpening his voice. "Keep an eye on that damned lizard! If he tries anything, blow him to ashes! I'm going to Ardric!"
He didn't wait for a reply. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Zeroth pushed off from Pyronox and forced his battered body into a desperate, lurching run towards his brother and Tingle, who were still tending to Varic. He could feel the thrum of Tingle's contained power nearby, a small comfort in the escalating chaos.
He was only a handful of steps away, close enough to see Ardric beginning to rise, his golden aura flaring defensively. But behind his brother, where nothing had been a second before, a new cloud of inky darkness swirled into existence, coalescing with terrifying speed.
"ARDRIC!" Zeroth bellowed, his voice cracking with desperation. "LOOK OUT! BEHIND YOU!"
Ardric started to turn, his golden eyes widening as they locked onto Zeroth's panicked expression. But it was too late. A wicked, curved blade, black as night and shimmering with malevolent energy, shot out from the heart of the shadowy cloud. It pierced through Ardric's divine armor with sickening ease, the metal screaming in protest, before slicing a wide, gruesome gash deep below his ribs.
Ardric cried out, a sharp, choked sound of agony, his golden aura flickering violently before collapsing inward. He staggered, clutching at his side, his face paling rapidly.
Somewhere in the swirling shadows, Zelira's cold, cruel cackle echoed across the arena, a soundtrack to their unfolding nightmare.
Zeroth's vision blurred, the world tilting sickeningly as he watched the scene unfold with a horrifying, dreamlike slowness. He saw the look of utter shock on Ardric's face twist into one of pure, unadulterated anguish. A massive flood of crimson blood, laced with shimmering golden threads of divine energy, poured from the gruesome wound below his ribs, staining the sand dark.
He stumbled, his own legs giving out, and fell forward heavily, crashing to his knees mere feet from his brother. Ardric swayed, his golden eyes, now dimming, locking onto Zeroth's for one terrible, final moment. He slowly shook his head, a silent, heartbreaking apology, then began to fall backward.
Tingle, with a cry of despair, lunged to the side, his small, armored form barely managing to catch Ardric before he hit the ground. The gnome gently lowered his friend, his tiny hands desperately trying to apply pressure to the gaping, bleeding wound, but Zeroth already knew. It was useless. Ardric had stopped breathing the second he shook his head. His light was gone.
Zeroth closed his eyes, a raw, keening sound tearing from his throat, lost in the distant roar of the divine audience. Why him? he thought, the question a jagged shard of ice in his soul. Why Ardric?
An image flashed in his mind of his battle axe, its obsidian surface gleaming.
But why? His thoughts screamed in protest. We were the good guys! We were supposed to win! Not… not be killed off like this, one by one!
Again, the image of his battle axe, this time engulfed in searing flames.
A choked whisper escaped Zeroth's lips, raw with dawning, unbearable guilt. "It's… it's my fault…"
His hand, caked in the dirt and grime of the coliseum, clenched into a fist so tight his knuckles threatened to crack. It was his fault for bringing the axe out of its prison, his fault for drawing them all into this divine slaughter. He forced his eyes open, looking up, up into the stands. His gaze, blurred by unshed tears and burning rage, locked onto Vulcanix. The fire god was no longer seated. He stood at the very edge of his designated area, as close to the arena barrier as divine law permitted, his massive molten form a raging inferno, a shimmering aura of intense heat coalescing around him, distorting the air.
Something imperceptible to anyone else, a silent, burning current, seemed to pass between the dwarf and the god. A spark of understanding? Of demand? Zeroth didn't know, but he saw Vulcanix's flames flare, brighter, hotter, almost violent.
"What?" Zeroth mouthed, his voice lost, his body trembling as he slowly, shakily, began to push himself off the ground. His legs felt like lead, his wounds screamed, but a different kind of fire was beginning to smolder within him, dark and terrible.
He swore Vulcanix flared again in response, a silent, insistent urging, similar to the nonverbal communication he and Pyronox had shared.
The fragile dam of Zeroth's control finally broke. "I'M FUCKING TAPPED OUT, YOU FLAMING OAF!" he roared, the sound raw and broken, as he finally staggered to his full, dwarven height.
Then, out of nowhere, Vulcanix's grating, furious voice exploded in his mind, not a whisper, not a suggestion, but a full-throated, divine command that shook him to his very core.
"YOU ARE THE CHOSEN CHAMPION OF VULCANIX SULPHYRION, GOD OF LAVA, THE EMBERHEART! YOU WIELD MY POWER, MY VERY ESSENCE! IF YOU SCREW THIS UP, IF YOU LET MY BROTHER'S SACRIFICE BE FOR NAUGHT, I WILL RESURRECT YOU AS MY PERSONAL TRAINING DUMMY! I WILL MASSACRE YOU MYSELF! NOW DIG DEEP, DWARF! FIND THE FIRE! AND USE MY POWER TO OBLITERATE THESE FOOLS!"
Zeroth gasped, the last of Vulcanix's furious words reverberating through his mind like a physical blow. The threat, the raw desperation in the god's mental roar, struck a chord deep within him. "My brother's sacrifice…" The words echoed, twisting the knife of guilt already buried in his heart. He had to win. For Ardric. For all of them. There would be time later to feel the pain, the grief, the crushing weight of it all. But not now. Now, there was only the fight.
As those thoughts solidified, something within him, some deeply buried instinct for self-preservation, for control, simply… let go. He gave himself up to it, to the overwhelming tide of Vulcanix's influence, to the searing, boundless power that had always been just beneath the surface. He stopped trying to retain his own unique godform, that blend of dwarf and deity. He stopped fighting the change. He just… allowed it to happen.
He looked down, watching as the familiar red flames, Vulcanix's true fire, began to flow not from within him, but from the battle axe itself, licking up its haft, then onto his hands, his arms, slowly, inexorably enveloping him. He closed his eyes, surrendering to the transformation, and felt himself grow. Not just in size, but in power, in essence. This was different. Before, it had been a struggle, a forced amplification of his own being. Now, it felt… contained, yet unfathomably powerful. A perfect, terrible alignment.
After a few heartbeats that stretched into an eternity, Zeroth opened his eyes. He looked down at his arms and flinched, almost imperceptibly. They were no longer the lava-streaked limbs of his previous godform. These were more skeletal, yet undeniably molten, the bone-like structure beneath the flowing magma stark and terrifying. Identical to Vulcanix's. He slowly pivoted his battle axe, catching his reflection in the polished, obsidian-like surface of the blade. His head… it was no longer his own. A large, flaming skull stared back at him, its empty sockets burning with an infernal light.
A sigh, like the rush of air from a bellows, escaped his lipless maw. With a chilling sense of acceptance, he acknowledged the truth. Like this, he was, in every way that mattered, Vulcanix.
Instincts he never knew he possessed, ancient and predatory, surged to the forefront. He slowly scanned the area, his movements fluid, powerful, alien. His gaze fell upon Tingle, the gnome staring up at him in open, horrified disbelief, still crouched beside Ardric's lifeless form, his small hands stained with his friend's cooling blood. Further away, Varic had pushed himself into a sitting position, his bleary, exhausted eyes wide with a similar, dawning horror as he took in Zeroth's complete transformation.
But their reactions barely registered. His new senses, Vulcanix's senses, were screaming at him. He could feel Zelira's disgusting, tainted power hovering nearby, a cloying miasma of shadow and corruption. She was close, likely assuming herself intangible, safe in her shadowy state, watching him, perhaps even gloating.
He shook his massive, flaming skull, a sound like grinding stone accompanying the movement. A voice, a strange, unsettling mesh of his own gruff dwarven tones and Vulcanix's deep, gravelly rumble, muttered, "This… will be annoying."
With a slow, deliberate motion, he swung his battle axe–their battle axe–onto his shoulder. The weapon felt like an extension of his own being, perfectly balanced, humming with contained devastation. Then, with a predatory grace that belied his new, colossal form, he began to walk, not towards Tingle or Varic, but directly towards the lingering signature of Zelira's foul energy.