In the deepest cavern of the fallen mountain, Vorlath stirred.
His dreams were full of fire. He did not think like mortals — no language, no morality. His mind was heat and hunger, movement and conquest. In the ancient time, the gods had crafted him from the primordial stone to act as a forge-keeper — a being who would regulate the core's flame.
But when he awoke to freedom, he saw only that his creators had left. The world was no longer theirs. It belonged to soft things. Things that feared heat.
He would teach them.
His molten eyes opened. Lava slithered around his frame. The cavern cracked open further. He sensed the Wardens far above — little insects. He would not chase them. Not yet.
First, he needed more.
He pressed his hand to the stone wall, and the rock shuddered. Crimson veins spread from his fingers like roots. Through those veins, his corruption would spread — into the soil, into the rivers, into the life above.
This was not an attack.
It was an infection.