Far to the north, while Stoneheart still reveled in its festivities, the clownâs Orc avatar was being devoured by its opponent. At that very moment, a young insectoid, drawn by the bait the clown had laid, stepped into the trap.
"Mentor, Iâve made my decision. I will practice The Art of Aetherial Shaping you have bestowed upon me."
The clown turned. His current avatar was a perfect replica of an insectoid, though it radiated a pressure and power that dwarfed Lokiviriaâs by an order of magnitude.
"Are you certain?" the clown asked, his voice a low thrum. "One misstep on this path, and all your work will simply pave the way for anotherâs rise."
He studied the insectoid before him. Young, brimming with potential, and shackled by the weight of a blood feud.
A perfect vessel,
he thought.
A perfect sacrifice.
Drawing on the lessons learned from the Torin fiasco, the clown adopted a new, more refined approach to his little toys.
"Iâm certain, mentor," Lokiviria said, his head held high. "A path this dangerous is the only one that could give me the power I need to avenge my father." The two antennae atop his head twitched, the signature mark of his lineage. His blood came from his father; his very name came from his father. He would have his revenge. He would make the name Lokiviria mean something again.
"Remember your words today, Lokiviria," the clown said, his tone dripping with a feigned concern that masked a deep, simmering amusement. "You came here for yourself. For vengeance. Whatever happens from this point on, you can have no regrets."
The young Lokiviria was deaf to the mockery. Had his mother been there, perhaps her experience would have allowed her to see through the facade.
And so, under the clownâs guidance, Lokiviria began a new Chapter in his training.
It was three days before he finally returned to his tribe.
When he reappeared, his eyes burned with a newfound confidence, a fanatical, arrogant gleam that his mother, Rowena, saw instantly. She had been waiting at the entrance to their dwelling for all three days.
The hardships Rowena had endured to raise her son were beyond his comprehension. To give him even a marginally better environment to grow up in, she had even humbled herself before another, all to ensure Lokiviria could mature safely.
"Mother!"
CRACK!
Before Lokiviria could offer an explanation, Rowenaâs hand struck his face.
"Mom..." he began, his voice low, but the words of defense died on his lips.
"Lokiviria, you were gone for THREE DAYS. Do you have any idea how terrified I was?" she demanded, her voice trembling with a mixture of rage and fear. "I searched every inch of the Tribeâs lands. I thought youâd been eaten by a beast, or captured by slavers. Donât you know that youâre my hope? Youâre the hope of all our people!"
Rowenaâs face was a mask of raw emotionâanxiety, fury, and a bitter disappointment in her sonâs recklessness. She may not have realized it, but her love for Lokiviria had become a suffocating, extreme thing. She wanted him safe, to grow up under her watchful eye, yet she also knew he carried the blood of his father, a Legendary-level warrior.
She held two impossible expectations. One, for him to remain the child she could protect. Two, for him to grow strong enough, quickly enough, to shoulder the burden of vengeance that was crushing her. She was trying to raise a hothouse flower and expecting it to bloom in a blizzard.
"You went to see that outsider, didnât you?" Her tirade finally spent, her breathing slowed, though her eyes remained hard.
"Mother, he is my mentor!"
Lokiviriaâs defense only made Rowenaâs expression darken. "Are you truly incapable of understanding my words, Lokiviria? In these early stages of your growth, the only ones you can trust, the only ones you can rely on, are your own kind. Not some outsider!"
She had seen the clownâs avatar. Her instincts, honed by years of survival, screamed that he was a source of ruin. Even if the avatar was an insectoid, he was not one of them. The former glory of the Lokiviria was long gone. The Tribe she now lived in was composed of the descendants of those who had followed and protected her. She knew, with absolute certainty, that the only people she and her son could depend on were right here.
And yet, her sonâthe boy who had perfectly inherited his fatherâs blood and nameâseemed to place his faith in a stranger.
"Mother, my mentor has treated me well. Heâs taught me a new method of training," Lokiviria argued, a desperate need to be understood in his voice. "He told me that if I work hard enough, I could reach Legendary level in less than ten years." The training he had received these past three days was profound, esoteric. He knew it was knowledge an ordinary person could never hope to obtain.
"Then," he continued, his eyes gleaming with that fanatical light, "we can march south to reclaim our territory, to take back the ancestral lands of the Lokiviria race. Mother, please, you have to believe me. We can be like him. We can rise from this frozen wasteland in the north and build an empire."
A sad, weary smile touched Rowenaâs lips. The man Lokiviria spoke of was Orion. She had raised her son on stories of Orion, holding him up as both an exemplar of what was possible and the face of their most hated enemy.
Lokiviria wanted to imitate Orionâs success, but he failed to grasp the foundation of it. As Orion rose to power, his most trusted allies, his unshakable core, were the giants of his tribe. There had never been a whisper of betrayal from within Orionâs inner circle.
Rowena stared at her son and felt, with a sudden, crushing weight, that all her years of teaching had been for nothing.
Her hand drifted instinctively to her belly. She could feel the new life stirring within. It was the child of the Tribeâs current Alphaâa compromise she had made, a price she had paid to keep Lokiviria safe.
Now, looking at the son she could no longer reach, a new resolve hardened within her.
"Come inside," she said, her voice flat. She had given up on trying to convince him.
Rowena turned and walked into their dwelling. After Lokiviria followed, she sealed the door behind them. From a hidden compartment, she retrieved a box she had treasured for years, its existence a secret to all but her.
"This was your fatherâs," she said, handing it to him. "Now, itâs yours."
Lokiviria took the box and opened it.
"This is..."
"Itâs a Lordâs Stone. The only thing your father left for you."