The Ironwood Trial was still days away, yet far beyond the borders of the forest, the flames of suspicion and ambition were already stirring. While goblins, wolves, and ogres trained together under the banner of unity, the world outside whispered of heresy, power, and fear.
It was in the marble halls of Aranthium, the royal capital of the Valorian Kingdom, that the first sparks of war were struck.
---
The court was in session, sunlight streaming through vast stained-glass windows. At the throne's foot, a knight knelt — his armor black as a raven's wing, his face hidden beneath a scarred helm. This was **Sir Darius Blacksteel**, once a celebrated commander, now a man whispered of with fear for his merciless campaigns at the borders.
King Aldric Valorian, silver-haired and hawk-eyed, leaned forward, fingers tapping the lion-headed armrest of his throne. His voice was sharp as a drawn blade.
"Speak, Darius. You rode from the frontier with haste. What stirs in the beastlands?"
The knight's tone was calm, unflinching. "My king, a new power rises in the Great Forest. I saw with my own eyes: a slime, bearing the name **Luminus**, has bound goblins, wolves, and ogres beneath a pact. Oathfire was invoked — the ancient flame of beastman honor. The Redmane Clan bows to him. Goblin tribes kneel to him. Even wolves march under his banner."
Gasps rippled through the court.
"A slime?" one young noble scoffed, his jeweled rings flashing as he gestured mockingly. "Are we to tremble before pond-scum?"
Laughter followed, but it was nervous laughter, brittle as glass.
Another, older noble shook his head gravely. "You are a fool. Goblins are pests alone, yes — but united? And with ogres and wolves at their side? I remember the last time the tribes stirred. It took two legions to break them."
The king raised his hand, silencing the chamber. His sharp gaze locked onto Darius. "And you are certain this slime is their leader? That they obey willingly?"
"Yes, sire." The knight's voice did not waver. "Not from fear. From faith. They call him king. They say he offers them more than survival — he offers them a nation."
For a heartbeat, silence filled the chamber. Then, low murmurs began:
"A nation of monsters…"
"Blasphemy."
"Dangerous."
King Aldric rose, his crown gleaming under the colored light. His voice rang out.
"Send word to the Church. If creatures of filth now crown themselves, then the Holy Flame will burn away this heresy. Aranthium will not suffer monsters to think themselves men."
---
Far from the palace, in the spired cathedral of the **Luminous Faith**, bells tolled as robed acolytes whispered prayers. The holy halls glowed with warm firelight, yet behind that glow lurked something colder, sharper.
At the heart of it stood **Cardinal Seraphine**, tall and graceful, her robes of white and gold woven with runes of binding. Her golden eyes gleamed as she listened to the king's messengers recount the rise of the slime king.
"A slime crowned in the forest," she mused, voice soft, melodic. "And beastmen kneel willingly. How curious."
Behind her stood inquisitors in silver masks, their hands resting on staffs tipped with brands that burned faintly with divine flame. They did not speak — they never spoke in her presence without permission.
"Cardinal," one messenger ventured cautiously, "the king requests that the Church prepare its Inquisitors. He fears this… union… may inspire rebellion beyond the forest."
Seraphine's lips curved into a smile, but her eyes burned like coals. "Fears? He should fear. For this is not rebellion — it is heresy. Monsters do not build nations. They consume. They breed. They corrupt. And now, some false light dares kindle itself among them."
She raised her hand, and the inquisitors fell to their knees in unison, their whispers hissing like serpents:
*"Purge the heretic. Burn the impure. Cleanse the shadow."*
Seraphine turned back to the flame of the great brazier. Its golden fire flickered — then shifted, just for a moment, to violet. She did not flinch.
"Prepare the Inquisition," she commanded. "If the forest breeds false kings, we shall remind them that only the Goddess's light is sovereign."
---
That night, the king of Valoria summoned only his most trusted generals and spymasters.
Maps were unrolled across the table, the Great Forest sprawled out in ink and parchment. Pins and markers dotted the borders.
"The Church will send its Inquisitors," Aldric said. "But faith burns slowly. Steel is swifter. I will not wait for sermons to scour the forest. I want contingencies."
One general, an old veteran with scars down his jaw, pointed to the forest's edge. "The trees are too dense for legions. We'd bleed ourselves dry. But… small companies could strike deep. Burn villages. Poison supplies. Let them starve."
Another, younger, shook his head. "No. Better to bribe. The goblins are fickle. Offer them gold, weapons, a path to power, and they will turn on each other."
The king's gaze shifted to Sir Darius, silent until now. "And you, Black Knight. What would you do?"
Darius's helm tilted slightly. "Monsters understand strength. If this slime unites them by will alone, then cut off the head. Slay him, and their union rots."
The king smiled thinly. "Pragmatic. Efficient." He tapped the map. "Then we will prepare all three. Inquisitors for faith, gold for the weak-willed, and assassins for the slime himself. Let them think themselves a kingdom. We shall remind them what kingdoms do to threats."
---
Within days, the kingdom stirred like a nest of hornets.
Messengers rode under cover of night, carrying sealed orders to mercenary bands and outlaw sorcerers. In taverns and guild halls, whispers spread of contracts heavy with gold. Silver-tipped arrows were commissioned, forged to pierce even enchanted hides.
Hunters from the frontier — men who knew how to track beasts through endless forest — found new work under the king's coin. Some scoffed at the idea of a slime king, but none turned down the pay.
In the cathedral, inquisitors prepared for holy war. Their silver masks were polished until they gleamed like mirrors. Their staffs were anointed in sacred oils, their brands kissed by flame.
And high in her spire, Cardinal Seraphine lit a violet candle at the feet of the Goddess's statue. The flame flickered strangely, as if alive. She whispered, almost lovingly:
"Come then, little slime. Let us see if your false light can stand against divinity."
---
In a smoky tavern near the river docks, mercenaries gathered.
"The pay's good," one scarred veteran grunted, tossing back ale. "Kill a few goblins, maybe roast an ogre or two. Easy coin."
A younger hunter shook his head. "You don't get it. They say this slime has a name. That the wolves follow him. Wolves don't follow unless there's power."
Another leaned in, voice low. "I heard worse. Heard the slime speaks like a man. Heard he walks with fire in his veins. What if it ain't just some monster? What if it's cursed magic?"
Silence fell for a moment. Then the veteran barked a laugh. "Cursed or not, gold spends the same. And if the Church is paying, then we'll be rich before the season turns."
Back in the Forest…
Far from the whispers of kings and cardinals, the forest thrummed with life. Goblins trained under the watchful eyes of ogres. Wolves ran drills with Redmane warriors, learning each other's rhythms. Fires burned at night, laughter and the clang of weapons filling the air.
At the center of it all stood Luminus, watching, his thoughts heavy. The Ironwood Trial loomed, a test not of strength alone, but of unity. If they failed, the fragile trust he had built might crumble.
He did not yet know of the kingdom's fear. He did not yet hear the Church's prayers for his burning. He did not yet see mercenaries sharpening their blades in shadow.
But the winds carried whispers. The forest's spirits shivered. Somewhere deep in his core, a chill stirred — as if fate itself had begun to move.
And above, unseen beyond the canopy, the stars burned cold.
---
The fire crackled low in the goblin camp. Most of the younglings had fallen asleep, but not all.
At the edge of the clearing, **Rugo**, the grey-furred wolf, sat on his haunches, his golden eyes fixed on the horizon beyond the trees. His ears twitched, restless, as though listening to voices only he could hear.
Gorath the ogre approached slowly, his massive frame casting a long shadow over the wolf. He carried a log on one shoulder, the weight effortless to him, but his brow was furrowed in thought.
"You watch the horizon again," Gorath rumbled, lowering the log beside the fire. "Do you see prey, or danger?"
Rugo did not answer at once. His tail flicked once, twice. Finally, he spoke, his voice low, guttural, but clear.
"The forest whispers of steel. Of smoke. Of fire that is not ours. Men are stirring, Gorath. I smell their fear already."
The ogre frowned, lowering himself to sit on the earth. He stared into the flames, their orange glow reflecting in his heavy eyes. "Men…" he muttered. "It has been many years since my clan faced them. My grandsire told me stories. He said men bring more than steel. They bring hunger. They take, and they take, and they call it rightful."
Rugo growled softly, ears flattening. "They will not accept Luminus. Not while he gives us hope. They will come. Perhaps not today. Perhaps not tomorrow. But they will come."
For a long while, the two sat in silence, the night sounds of the forest wrapping around them. Wolves howled in the distance, and goblins murmured in their sleep.
At last, Gorath clenched his fists, thick as boulders. His voice shook with both anger and resolve. "Then let them come. Let men bring their hunger. Let their priests bring their flames. We have a king now. A true one. If the Ironwood Trial proves us worthy, then we will not be prey."
Rugo turned his gaze from the horizon to the ogre's massive form. "You put much faith in him, Gorath."
The ogre's tusked grin was faint, but it was there. "Faith? No. Faith is for priests and cowards. I have seen him with my own eyes. I have seen how he binds us — not with chains, but with choice. That is stronger than faith."
The wolf tilted his head, ears perking. Then he rose, padding closer to the shadows.
"Still," Rugo whispered, "steel marches even against kings. And if the forest must bleed… I will stand at his side until the end."
The ogre said nothing, but his silence was heavy with agreement.
Above them, the stars wheeled slowly, indifferent to the fates below. Yet in the firelight, two warriors of fang and stone kept their vigil — guardians of a dream born in the wild, knowing the storm would come.