2.13 The Fall of Makeb

The first light of dawn spilled over Makeb, bathing the city in hues of deep crimson. Merchants stretched their limbs as they unlatched their stalls, smiths stoked the embers of their forges, and the city watch took their first rounds along the cobbled streets. The city stirred with the familiar rhythms of morning—until the sky itself seemed to rebel against the dawn.

Above the Khan’s Palace, the clouds thickened unnaturally, coiling into a spiraling mass of darkness. The morning light fought against the encroaching storm, but the sun’s golden glow seemed to warp, its brightness swallowed by the thickening shroud. A vortex had formed, its swirling depths centered above the palace, descending slowly as though some unseen force was lowering it onto the seat of power itself.

Whispers spread through the streets, quiet at first, then growing into a chorus of unease. Eyes turned skyward, first in curiosity, then in dread. The clouds churned and then—without warning—parted.

What emerged was neither beast nor god, but something far worse—something that should not be. A mass of steel and flesh, oozing droplets of black liquid that evaporated before touching the ground. A massive, metallic surface gleamed under the fractured daylight, marred only by the perfectly symmetrical circle carved deep into its core. Its precision was unnatural, almost hypnotic, the edges too smooth, too deliberate to be the work of mortal hands.

Then the carving shifted.

From nothingness, flesh emerged, birthing thick, pulsating eyelids that sealed the circle shut. An unnatural silence fell over Makeb, the breath of thousands collectively held in frozen anticipation.

The eyelids parted. The eye revealed itself, black sclera surrounding a stark, glowing white slit—an iris of impossible brightness. It pulsed with a terrible knowing, radiating an awareness that slithered into the minds of all who dared gaze upon it. One by one, goblins, orcs, ogres, they all fell to their knees, their minds unraveling in silent surrender. Some merely stood in place, their eyes locked onto the entity above, their expressions devoid of thought or will. 

Those who still retained their senses staggered backward, terror rising in their throats. But even the most resistant among them could feel the weight of its gaze, pressing into their thoughts, clawing at the barriers of their sanity.

The massive object did not speak. He did not need to. For in the mere act of revealing himself, the city of Makeb had already begun to fall. Instead, countless mouths whispered his accursed name and turned on those who did not share the same praise to their new master.

The city watch, positioned along the great walls of Makeb, were among the first to sense the shift. When the monstrous object had stopped just above the palace, a deep, shivering horn blast echoed across the land, an unnatural resonance that sent chills through the spines of the hardened warriors.

Then, figures appeared on the horizon. At first, they seemed like any other travelers approaching the gates at dawn, but as the guards focused their eyes, an unsettling truth became clear. These were goblins—pale, sickly, their eyes transfixed upward at the floating, monstrous orb above the Khan’s Palace. They marched with eerie synchronicity, neither speaking nor acknowledging anything but the towering, otherworldly eye that loomed over the city. But they were not alone.

Among them, twisted creatures crawled and slithered in unnatural obedience. Hulking, misshapen beasts that once roamed the steppes in balance with nature now moved like puppets under some invisible command. Chitinous insects, their bodies bloated and contorted, scuttled forth, their many legs clicking against the earth in a ceaseless march. Birds with vacant eyes wheeled above the approaching throng, their beaks stretching open in noiseless screams. All of them drawn to the presence above the city, their very existence bent in reverence to him.

One of the guards, gripping his spear tightly, turned to his companion, his voice hoarse with dread. "Twin Sisters... what is this?"

Before an answer could come, a cacophony of sounds erupted within the city itself. Shouts of alarm rang out, mixing with the rising cries of agony and panic. From the streets, the guards could see the battle already beginning—citizens struggling against their own kin, friends turning upon each other with vacant, glassy stares. The enthralled had already spread among them, their vacant voices whispering the name of their master, chanting it like a sacred hymn:

Cy-cloth. Cy-cloth. Cy-cloth.

Shields clashed, steel rang, and the streets of Makeb were thrown into chaos. The city watchmen on the walls watched helplessly as their home—their people—fell to madness, the eye above gazing upon it all in silent satisfaction.

********

The air was thick with screams and smoke when the old goblin stirred. Light poured through the battered shutters of the inn near Makeb’s western wall, but it brought no comfort. Dawn had come, red as blood—and with it, a strange stillness that pressed against the chest like a stone.

Groans echoed from the alley. Something scrabbled at the inn’s boarded windows. From the rooftop, a horn had blasted moments ago, deep and sharp, shaking the timbers of the old inn where a particular caravan was posted, and a confident caravan leader, an elder goblin, had slept peacefully until he did not.

The elder goblin stirred in his bedding, one hand instinctively gripping the bow resting against the wall beside him. He winced as a fresh throb of pain pulsed through his skull—sharp, nauseating. All around him, Tulag goblins stirred too, rubbing temples and blinking as if awoken from a long and punishing dream.

But none of them had fallen. None of them stood motionless, blank-eyed like the ones they'd seen through the windows.

The caravan leader frowned. Something was wrong with this city. Something vile. He could smell it in the dust and hear it in the wind.

He rose slowly, his knees creaking with age, but his movements remained practiced and sure.

"Elder, stay away from the windows!" the youth around him insisted, but he brushed them off with a simple wave of his hand.

 "Come on, come on," he said, gently, "You know how I was called back in my youth?"

"The Grey Fang—"

"The Grey Fang indeed!" he declared, jumping out of his bed. "The rhino-hunter of the Eastern Runs, the only goblin who had ever brought down a rampaging matron alone. Get behind me, kids. The burden and the honor of escorting Princess Mesui is mine to bear."

He would not let his people fall in some southern city, far from the sky and steppe.

“Wake them,” Grey Fang muttered to his second, who had already begun rousing his caravan guards in earnest. “Arm and seal the doors. Secure the boars in the stable and shut their gates too. Ah! Make sure that giant ram stays still, we don't want it to create unnecessary openings for whatever is going on out there."

Within moments, the inn was alive with motion. Shields clattered as they were lifted from packs. Curved blades flashed in the dim light. Spears were fitted with heads, bowstrings drawn taut and checked for wear. The Tulag were traders and travelers, yes—but they were warriors first. No son or daughter of the steppe would ever leave bow or blade behind, no matter how distant the road.

The caravan leader stepped into the center of the room, now filled with nearly two dozen of his kin. "The city burns with madness,” he said, voice low and grim. “This is why I always said us goblins are not made for cities, haven't I say that, Hurmag?”

The Hurmag in question frowned and nodded. “Every time we sleep here, elder."

"Where is the princess?” another goblin said whilst peering down the window. "How is she going to meet with us?"

“She’ll get out, I trust her and her retinue...” Grey Fang replied. His voice was iron, though his stomach twisted with worry. “She’s Tulag. And no ghost-eyed spell will break her. A better question, child, is how are we going to leave the city without dying or, worse, turning into those creeps.”

A sudden shriek from the alley silenced the room.

Shadows moved beyond the door. Claws scraped against stone. Something enormous scuttled across the stable roof.

The elder turned toward the windows. He saw them—pale shapes shifting through the mist. Some moved with the gait of goblins; others crawled low like insects, twitching and chittering. Mutated. Afflicted by some inner pain that defied their nature.

The door trembled under a blow.

The caravan leader unsheathed his blade.

“String up, hold formation,” he said. “Fire as they charge. Spears on second line. Keep the old ones and the children sheltered in the back.”

A few city folk who had found refuge within the inn watched in terrified awe as the Tulag moved as one, their formation tightening. The survivors held knives and broken furniture. One woman clutched a lantern like it was the last fire in the world.

The caravan leader took position by the shuttered window, eyes hard. His voice, when it rang out, was clear and proud.

“Tulag goblins! You are not cattle to be herded by cursed winds! You are the thunder that splits the plain! You are the arrow in the wind and the flame on the horizon! You are goblin riders! You are Tulag!”

His kin answered with a roar that made the rafters shudder.

Then the door cracked.

A dozen twisted silhouettes swarmed into the alley beyond.

Gray Fang raised his hand, fingers stiff with age but sure.

“Loose!”

Some arrows soared into the cracks as the Tulag rushed to block the entrance. As they thrust their spears and slashed their blades to keep the monsters and crazed people out, their war cry echoed over the chaos:

“For Mesui! For Tulag!”

"CYCLOTH!" roared the taken.

********

Akrumei stood seething before a broken shrine choked with vines and stagnant water. The stone walls trembled faintly with the distant echoes of battle nearby—Samina’s fall had thundered through the caverns like a dying star. Gritting his teeth, His hand curled around the edge of a rusted altar, warping the metal with a screech. Behind him, Mesui, Narwa, and the cubs stood bound in chains, guarded by Cycloth's silent thralls.

“She was a weapon carved from desire,” he muttered, half to himself. “And they broke her.”

He turned sharply, the folds of his cloak trailing like oil. A company of ogres stood nearby—standing idly while grunting and moaning, as if the black veins filling their faces and arms were a cause of pain. Akrumei’s voice cut through the damp air like a blade. The heavy frame of Jarad stood firmly in front of them, awaiting Akrumei's instructions.

“Go. Track down Ronai and the red human. Stop them—kill them if they won’t kneel.”

Jarad bowed stiffly, the others mirroring him with mechanical precision. “We serve… Cycloth.”

Akrumei’s gaze narrowed as he gestured toward a dark corner in the ceiling of that hall, where several legs held on to the walls silently, with black ooze drooling like a water leak from the rain.

"You go to, and if they won't relent to Cycloth's touch, then make sure the ogres finish the job."

The legs pushed forward and revealed the giant spider, which proceeded to leave through a hole in the wall.

He turned away before the ogres approached, his breath shallow and sharp. Above, the city burned with rebellion. Below, he marched deeper into shadow, preparing for the next move in his grand betrayal.

Outside the hall was his retinue—gaunt figures with cracked skin and glazed eyes, once proud citizens of Makeb, now enthralled and hollow. They moved like puppets, obedient and unseeing, forming ranks with unnatural discipline. The Khan’s Chosen flanked their general, armored in emerald plate leather, each carrying the insignia of the ruling house but twisted with the mark of Cycloth's white eye now etched into their helms.

"We leave for the city," he said to one of them. "Signal the army."

Bound and bruised, the prisoners stumbled forward, prodded by the Chosen’s spears. Mesui stumbled and fell to her knees right behind Akrumei. She coped with the pain before letting a small giggle.

“You run like a jackal in heat,” she spat, her voice cutting through the march. “Fleeing under your god’s shadow instead of facing Arsec and Ronai... Who knew you were actually a coward...”

The general did not stop to even look at her. His voice came leveled and steady, echoing oddly in the saturated air.

“Coward? No, Princess. I have simply recognized the turning of the world. While others claw for meaning in a dying city, I walk toward rebirth, and no pair of warriors will distract me from it.”

He turned then, just slightly, enough for Mesui to see the faint shimmer in his eyes—like a reflection of Cycloth’s terrible gaze.

“Makeb is his now,” he continued, arms lifting slightly as if gesturing to the city swallowed in flame and cries. “Cycloth has accepted my offering. The vortex has opened. And with it… my ascension draws near.”

“Shut up already,” Narwa said under her cracked mask, "the last person who said that now lies beneath the earth, killed by our hands."

"Hmm? You mean that sorry-looking rodentman, we never stood in the same light."

Mesui's eyes widened with a sudden rage, "You let that monster afflict our land, warp my father's mind, your friend? You knew about it and did not warn us?"

"Why would I, hmm? It was all according to plan. I was aware Lord Cycloth called upon those suitable to serve him."

"You're mad!"  Mesui roared.

Akrumei smiled.

“Perhaps. But madness is the domain of prophets and kings. And I still hold the leash of tools that will break your friends when they arrive, red cloak and ogre both.”

He turned toward a passageway leading to the sewers and raised his arm. A shrill, metallic screech rang out. The enthralled masses that had gathered at the edge of the courtyard bowed in unison.

Without another word, Akrumei led them forth, marching through the broken streets toward the exit, where the city now crowned in stormclouds and a single glaring eye lay.

Behind him, the tide of afflicted followed—silent, endless, and obedient.

The city was a cacophony of fighting and an incessant chant to Cycloth, who hovered over the city of many tapestries and walls of mud and limestone. The Khan's city fell under the gaze of the monstrous white eye that seemed to focus on all souls in there, while seeming discerning enough to entrance individual minds at the same time.