The Prophet

The tyranny of the sun was merciless. Sweat glistened on their skin as they toiled beneath its unrelenting gaze, their hands sinking into the barren, sun-baked soil. To the Demon Lords, this land was a testament to their dominion—a reminder that nothing flourished without their blessing.

Above the horizon, the training grounds sprawled across a seemingly endless stretch of land. Stripped of its ominous undertones, one might even find the landscape peaceful. But beneath the serene facade, cruelty pulsed through the very air.

This was a lesson in humility. To teach goblins not to rely so much on their alchemical food rations. Pim was sick of it.

What was food to manufactured goblins other than fuel to survive? Yet the lords of the High Demon King decreed that they must cultivate and toil, as if their hunger was a moral failing.

For once, though, Tol was grateful. That sludge-fed filth would no longer be his only source of sustenance.

"How deep do we dig for this one, Tol?"

"Well, this particular root takes its strength from the deep earth. If it’s too close to the surface, it withers and dies. So we gotta dig."

"Oh, so they special seeds."

"Sorta, yeah. But all of them are unique in their own way. Like comparing an orc to a knight. They both serve the same lord, but they’re completely different creatures."

"Cool…"

They returned to their work, but Tol’s attention flickered toward the approaching figure. Even from the corner of his eye, he recognized that gait, the gleaming armor, the careful yet assured stride.

What did Grisnar want with him?

A gentle tap from Tol pulled Pimya from his daze. Both stood at attention, expecting the usual gruff reprimand. But when the towering Warlord of Shadowfang reached them, his presence carried something uncharacteristically subdued.

"Apologies for interrupting your work," Grisnar said, his voice level. Then, after a pause, his gaze flicked to Tol. "Exemplary technique, Tollia."

"T-Thank you, sir," Tol managed.

"But I have business with you," Grisnar continued.

Pim grinned, jabbing Tol playfully. "Well? Get going already!"

Tol exhaled, half-laughing. "Alright—I mean… yes, sir."

"Good lad."

\\

A sliver of anger bubbled beneath Tol’s carefully measured expression. He couldn't let it show. Not yet. But damn this man—reducing his every effort to divine providence was deeply insulting.

Did they really believe goblins were incapable of tactical thought unless blessed by the gods? The arrogance!

Yet, the more he listened, the more it all made sense. The brutal training regimens, the insistence that their successes were miracles, the refusal to acknowledge competence over fate.

It was never about strength. It was about control. The Demon Lords had built their empire on the idea that only the worthy were entitled to rule.

If goblins were succeeding, it must be divine intervention.

The realization burned like bile in his throat.

"So, tell me," Grisnar mused, his tone almost casual. "Are the visions true?"

Tol's heart stopped for a beat.

Grisnar, to his credit, was patient. He allowed the silence to settle before raising an eyebrow at Tol’s faraway stare.

Tol recovered quickly. He had to say something convincing enough to throw this man off his zealous high.

"Well," Tol started slowly, "I haven’t seen the gods appear in my dreams yet, sir."

Grisnar’s grin faded. A long sigh escaped him, curling like the wisps of a dying ember.

"Right…"

"But what you said is true," Tol added quickly, flashing his best diplomatic smile. "We are special, aren’t we? And I’d be willing to bet that a warlord like you could pull—"

His lack of tact caught up to him.

Grisnar’s demeanor shifted instantly, his voice dropping to a stern warning.

"Let’s be clear about one thing," he said. "This conversation? You and I speaking like this? It is one of the worst things I could be doing, short of defiling the temple halls."

Tol swallowed.

"I do not deny that your people require… different provisions," Grisnar continued. "But questioning the will of the Demon Lords is folly. They see further than either of us ever will."

Tol frowned. "Then why are we failing their expectations?"

Grisnar straightened, his broad shoulders commanding the space between them.

"When I was a boy, I thought like you," he admitted. "I was born to a seafaring house, our fortunes tied to the tides. We thought we didn’t need the gods. We toiled for our wealth, forged it with our own hands. And for a time, we flourished."

Tol stayed silent.

"Then, one day, a Prophet came to us. He warned us that the ocean would turn against us, that our family’s way of life was doomed. Naturally, we refused. We were stubborn, proud. But his words became true, day by day. The fish vanished. Our nets came back empty. The tides rejected us."

Grisnar exhaled, as if the memory physically pained him.

"And yet," he continued, "despite our arrogance, the Demon Lords granted us another path. They allowed us to serve in their holy cause, to become greater than we were."

Tol clenched his fists.

"They gave me a life greater than myself. I would not be here without them. No one could have seen what awaited us—except the Prophets. So whatever grievances you have now, whatever hardships you believe you face…" Grisnar’s gaze was piercing. "Trust me. It will be worth it in the end."

Holy Stockholm Syndrome, Batman.

Tol knew the Demon Lords had forcibly uplifted many of their followers, but this was something else. Grisnar was a true believer—so deeply entrenched in his faith that he never once considered the alternative.

Never stopped to question whether his kings had stolen from them first.

Still, Grisnar was no fool. He wasn’t cruel or mindlessly zealous like others in the order. He had suffered. He had struggled.

Maybe, just maybe… that was something Tol could use.

He squared his shoulders. This was his chance.

"But, sir… we need opportunity too."

Grisnar didn’t move.

"You know we can’t match the orcs in strength or the knights in speed. But we can be something else. We can be clever. We can be tactical." Tol inhaled sharply. "All I ask is that we get the training we need. Teach us to read. Teach us to write. Give us the chance to be better."

Grisnar frowned, deep in thought.

Got him.

"Perhaps…" he murmured.

His eyes closed, his body shifting as though he had just considered something he was not meant to.

A slow, careful nod.

"I will see what I can do," Grisnar said finally. "Better equipment is out of the question. But redesigning the course?" A pause. "That is not the most demanding thing in the world."

Tol felt light-headed.

"Thank you, sir. Seriously. Thank you."

"Don’t thank me yet," Grisnar warned. "For now, rejoin your kin. I will have to devise something… truly cunning."

As Tol stepped back onto the wet earth, a spring returned to his steps.

The sun seemed brighter. The wind cooler.

For the first time, he felt as if something had shifted.

Today was a good day.