13

Along the shadowed coast of the island, far from the necropolis, a misty shoreline spread like a serpent's spine, dotted with rocks, twisted roots, and salt-coated bones of sea creatures long since forgotten. It was a place rarely visited by the living, the air heavy with decay and the pungent scent of brine. Waves slapped gently against the shore, but there was no calm here—only a haunting rhythm of something ancient breathing beneath the tides.

A collection of Murlocs rested along the beach in scattered clusters, their bodies layered like scaly sardines across the sand. They slept curled together like a grotesque family of fish, their gill plates pulsing with each breath. The tide pooled around them, soothing their mottled skins while near the center of the group, a strange sight unfolded.

Dozens of female Murlocs squatted by shallow pits filled with glistening eggs. Thin, leathery membranes shimmered over them like dew, and the air echoed with the soft gurgling croaks of instinct-driven caretaking.

Suddenly, the surface of the sea bubbled, and a sleek, eel-like creature slithered from the waters. Its body shimmered in hues of electric blue and shadowy black, slick and unnatural against the pale sand. It moved without sound until it rose upright on a spine-supported tail, revealing its mouth—a thin, grotesque smile full of needle-like teeth.

"Milark," it hissed.

A larger Murloc, his scales tinged with deep indigo and armor plating grown naturally from hardened carapace, turned toward the voice. His eyes were colder than the sea.

"Son of Grark, who was son of Slark the Nightcrawler," the worm continued. "The Therans have sent me. Your family has grown, thousands born each moon. When your numbers reach the millions, you are to lead them beyond this island—toward the nearby continent."

The creature's voice seemed to echo not through the air, but through the blood of those nearby. Some Murlocs shifted restlessly. Others gave soft hisses.

"The humans there are scattered pirates. Easy prey," the creature added. "Do not shame your grandfather's legacy. Slark once carved the tides crimson. The Therans expect your progress."

Without waiting for a response, the blue worm slithered back into the sea, disappearing beneath the waves like a phantom.

Milark stood unmoving, eyes narrowed at the horizon. He could see nothing now but memory and future. His family owed their survival to the Therans. If not for them, their kind would've been devoured by humans, carved into delicacies, and hung like trophies.

He turned to his horde, croaking with authority. Though most Murlocs lacked true intelligence, they obeyed instinctively. They knew Milark's scent, his blood. He was alpha. And he would make sure they remembered.

He stalked toward a fertile female, preparing to seed another clutch of eggs when a smaller Murloc darted toward him, panting and squeaking frantically.

"What?" Milark hissed, narrowing his eyes. "Humans? You saw humans here?"

The scout nodded violently, gesturing wildly with webbed claws.

A twisted smile formed on Milark's face.

"Just when the tide of meat ran low… the prey walks into our jaws. Prepare the spawn pits. Soon, we'll dine."

Meanwhile, back at the necropolis, the sun dipped low on the horizon, bathing the blackened spires of the undead mansion in twilight's glow. Shadows shifted unnaturally across the stone, the air still laced with distant echoes—the ever-present whisper of moaning souls from the building's eerie hum.

Haben and Ishlar burst through the necropolis gate, their cloaks torn, armor stained with ichor, and sweat clinging to their skin.

Vanthelis was in the middle of studying one of the runed glyphs engraved on the new obsidian walls when he turned to face them, his eyes narrowing.

"You're injured," he said calmly.

"I'll live," Ishlar muttered. "But something's happening. Something worse than we thought."

The two recounted every detail—Murlocs devouring a body, the ambush, the massive numbers, the unnatural aggression.

"Are you sure?" Vanthelis asked, more curious than surprised.

"Dead sure," Haben added. "They weren't just wandering beasts. They were organized. Intelligent."

Vanthelis folded his arms, his eyes drifting toward the sealed vault of the necropolis. "Then we may have a new player on the board. The Naga have returned… and that changes everything."

His gaze sharpened.

"This could go two ways. Either we find a way to speak to them—form an alliance in the shadows… or they will become our first true war."

And in that moment, a plan began to form.