With their stomachs full and the tension of survival momentarily replaced by satisfaction, the conversation slowly turned back to the grim reality they faced. Gorim was the first to speak.
"That was a damn fine meal," he said, leaning back with a satisfied sigh. "But let's not forget why we're here." He ran a hand through his thick beard, then tapped the wooden table with his knuckle. "We won the Azerite fair and square in that damned pok-ta-pok game. But it's still not enough."
The room fell quiet again, not out of hesitation, but because everyone knew he was right. They had risked everything to get what they could carry, but what they carried wasn't enough to forge weapons strong enough to kill an Elder Dragon.
"So we need more," Gorim continued, his voice steady. "And that means going back."
Rahotep, who had been reclining with his arms crossed, scoffed. "Going back? Through the Red Wastes? To the same bloodthirsty orcs we barely escaped from?" He shook his head. "Might as well slit our throats now and save us the trouble."
"Not necessarily," Khaltar said, wiping his hands clean on a cloth. "The Ashblood kept their word once. They honored the game. Maybe they'd be willing to trade."
Arianne frowned. "Trade with what? We don't have gold, and I doubt they'll accept a song and dance."
"We have something more valuable than gold," Jhon said, finally speaking. "We have Warm Oasis."
That caught their attention. The entire table turned toward him, eyes narrowing, waiting for him to explain.
Jhon leaned forward, his fingers drumming against the table. "The Ashblood might be the strongest force in the Red Wastes, but they're trapped there. They can't leave. No trade routes, no access to fresh water, no expansion beyond the wasteland. But what if we offered them something they can't take by force?"
Hadeefa raised an eyebrow. "And that would be?"
Jhon smirked. "A way out."
Silence fell over the group again, but this time, it wasn't the silence of hesitation. It was the silence of calculation, of possibility.
"If we offer them a deal," Jhon continued, "Safe passage through the desert, a way to trade with Warm Oasis, perhaps even a foothold outside of the Wastes… they might be willing to part with more Azerite."
Gorim grunted. "Or they might just take our heads and send them back as a message."
"That's the gamble," Jhon admitted. "But if we don't take it, then we'll have to fight them for the Azerite. And like I said before… we don't have the numbers for that."
Varnic, who had been silent until now, let out a dry chuckle before shaking his head. "That's a bold plan, Jhon," he said, his voice carrying the weight of experience. "But you're making one mistake. You assume the Ashblood want to leave the Red Wastes."
Jhon arched an eyebrow. "And why wouldn't they? It's a hellscape of sun and death."
Varnic exhaled sharply, folding his arms. "Baeric and Borgrim used to talk about this," he said, glancing at the other dwarves. "The Ashblood don't leave because they choose not to. To them, the Red Wastes are sacred. They believe Azerite is the blood of their gods, a holy metal born from the bones of the earth itself. They don't just forge weapons with it—they worship it."
Grumli, who had been tracing a pattern in the wood grain of the table, looked up. "And that's not all," he muttered. His voice had the kind of quiet that made everyone listen. "You're all thinking like men who only know one god, or none at all. But the desert…" He shuddered. "The desert has many."
The room grew colder despite the lingering heat of the meal. No one spoke as Grumli leaned forward, his voice lowering to a near whisper.
"They say the sands were shaped by seven gods, each one more terrifying than the last. And they are not forgotten."
He lifted a hand, ticking them off with his fingers. "First, there is Zaltan-Korr, the MawBeneath, god of the shifting sands. It is said that the dunes swallow men because they are hungry, and the sandstorms are his breath."
The wind outside seemed to howl at that moment, as if in agreement. "Then comes IsshiratheVeil, goddess of mirages and the lost. Those who wander too far see her illusions, walking in circles until they die of thirst."
Arianne tightened her grip on her goblet, her knuckles turning white.
"Third is Sol-HareshtheScorched, god of the burning sun, the one who cracks bones and dries flesh. He is why the Red Wastes have no mercy."
Rahotep snorted but said nothing. Even he knew better than to joke.
"Fourth, TzaraktheBleeding, the god of the deep stones, the Azerite veins. The Ashblood believe he is their patron, that his essence flows through their bodies, making them unbreakable."
Varnic nodded grimly. "That's why they revere the metal. It's not just steel to them—it's divine."
Grumli continued. "Then there's Selmuna, theHollowMother, goddess of bones. The scavengers feed in her name, and the ones who rot in the dunes are her children."
A shudder passed through the group.
"Sixth is VathistheSilent, the god of the unmarked graves. No one knows his face, but they say he walks behind lost travelers, waiting to claim them."
The air in the room felt stifling now. Jhon tapped his fingers on the table, trying to shake the chill creeping into his spine.
Grumli exhaled before naming the last. "And finally, Zor-Khul, theCrimsonMaw, god of the great beasts—the ones who ruled before men, elves, or dwarves. They say the Elder Dragons are his children."
Silence. Heavy, suffocating silence. Jhon, always quick with words, found none. Even Rahotep had nothing to mock.
"So you see," Varnic finally said, breaking the quiet, "The Ashblood aren't just warriors. They are zealots. We aren't asking them to trade steel—we're asking them to part with their god's blood. And if you think that will come without a price…"
He let the thought hang, unfinished, but fully understood. Jhon sat in silence, his fingers tapping against the table as the weight of what Grumli had said settled in the room. The Ashblood weren't just warriors—they were zealots, bound to their gods, their land, and their sacred Azerite. Fighting them head-on would be suicide.
Then, after a long moment, Jhon smirked. "We don't need to fight them head-on," he said, his voice steady. "We just need to pull them out of the Red Wastes. Get them to fight on our ground."
The others listened intently as Jhon leaned forward. "The Ashblood are too many. If we rush in, they'll bury us in sheer numbers. But if we can lure them out gradually, we can bleed them dry before they realize they're being hunted."
His eyes gleamed with something sharp—cunning, ruthless strategy honed by years of war. "And let's hope orcs are the same no matter which clan they come from," he added, the smirk widening. "Their warlord won't ignore a challenge. Not if it's made the right way."
The room stirred, murmurs of understanding spreading among them. Jhon turned his gaze to Khaltar. "The question is," he said, his tone lighter but laced with expectation, "can you still use your mana?"
All eyes shifted to Khaltar. The air felt charged, waiting for his answer. Khaltar exhaled, then nodded. "Yes, I can still use my mana." His voice was firm, but there was no arrogance in it—only truth. "But I won't be enough alone. The Ashblood warlord… I could feel it. He has mana too. If I had resisted back then, if I had fought him instead of playing pok-ta-pok, we all would have died in that arena."
The room fell silent at his words. The Ashblood weren't just brute warriors—they had magic. That changed everything.
Jhon, however, only grinned. "Good," he said, his arms crossing over his chest. "Then I'll stand beside you."
His voice was calm, steady, as if the idea of facing a warlord who could wield mana didn't bother him in the slightest. "You won't fight him alone, Khaltar. If we're going to bring the Ashblood out of the Wastes, we do it together."
There was a flicker of something in Khaltar's eyes—surprise, perhaps, or understanding. Whatever it was, he nodded. "Then let's make sure we do it right."
Before Khaltar could respond, a voice from the kitchen cut through the tense atmosphere.
"Oh yes, Jhon can use his blastedfist to take down a hippo!" Safiya called out, her tone completely serious.
For a second, there was silence. Then, Rahotep choked on his drink. Gorim nearly fell off his chair. Grumli and Varnic burst into laughter so loud it rattled the windows. Even Nadra, usually composed, covered her mouth, failing to contain her giggles.
Jhon, however, looked absolutely horrified. "Safiya, for the love of the gods—" he groaned, running a hand down his face. "Not this again."
But Safiya was having none of it. She walked into the room, wiping her hands on a cloth, completely unfazed. "Oh, don't act so shy, KingJhon," she teased. "I still remember the first time you tried to show off your fancy fistwork and ended up punching a hippo so hard, it barely flinched before sending you flying into the river."
The room erupted.
"He punched a hippo?!" Khaltar gasped between laughs.
"And the hippo won?!" Rahotep wheezed.
"No wonder you don't fight Ashblood," Hadeefa cackled. "You can't even handle rivercattle!"
Jhon, now red-faced, threw his hands up. "It was one time! And that hippo was built like a damn boulder!"
"Unlike you," Gorim chuckled.
Jhon groaned again as the laughter continued, burying his face in his hands. ust smiled, shaking her head. "Blasted fist, my foot," she muttered as she returned to the kitchen. "You best eat well, Jhon. You'll need all the strength you can get."
Khaltar laughed even harder, slapping his knee as he wiped a tear from his eye. "By the gods, Jhon, you have grown up! Last time I saw you, you were just a scrappy deckhand. Now you're a hippoboxer! What a legend!"
The room burst into another wave of laughter, while Jhon just sighed, shaking his head in defeat.
At that moment, Safiya reappeared, carrying a tray with steaming cups of tea. She set them down gracefully before leaning over and planting a warm kiss on Jhon's cheek. "Relax, son," she said gently. "You have good friends. That's what matters."
Jhon, still a bit flustered, gave her a half-smile. "Just… try not to make jokes on them again, Ma."
Safiya smirked as she poured the tea. "Oh, no promises. Someone's gotta keep your head from getting too big, OasisKing."