Part XVII: The Long Dark Tea Time of the Soul
Chapter 9: The Tree of the Forsaken
Timeline: AO 326
Although it was spring in the valley there was still a biting chill, a constant reminder of how far from the warmth and safety of home Hacktor and his party had ventured. The road leading to the Blackwood Forest had grown rough, overgrown with weeds and choked by vines, as though the land itself sought to deter them from their destination. Hacktor rode in silence, his thoughts a storm of unresolved feelings, ancient memories, and grim anticipation of what awaited him upon The Tree.
As the gnarled branches of trees at the edge of Blackwood Forest loomed in the distance, Hacktor couldn’t shake the sense of foreboding that wrapped around his soul. He had once looked upon The Blackwood with ambition, seeing the vast groves as the future of his people, the key to unlocking a new era of prosperity. In fact this ‘black gold’ was the very reason that he’d urged his father Baldur to make war upon the Derkka and take control of this precious resource. Although his father died without ever attempting the feat, Hactor’s first act at the king was to start a war that included taking over the forest as one of his top priorities.
While he’d so far failed in his mission to exterminate the Derkka, he had succeeded in wresting control of The Blackwood from them. For the last two decades he and his army had taken more and more of the forest from the goblins until eventually he had it all. Blackwood was a resource so precious to his people that both his advisors and the common folk alike had initially hailed him as the savior of the Drokka. They spoke of golden eras and the end of scarcity—visions of easier lives and prosperity for all. Hacktor had believed it, too, and this provided him at least some solace to ease the frustration of his military goals remaining largely unfulfilled.
But the years had not been kind to Hacktor’s dreams regarding The Forest. He remembered, early on, how he’d ordered Monty Redstone to ensure that the guilds harvested the trees responsibly so that, with sustainable farming, they could ensure the Blackwood would last untold generations. But that plan faded as the war ground on, and the king’s focus shifted to fighting in new areas and against unexpected enemies (namely the Myz). Hacktor had left Monty in charge of managing the resource, trusting him to honor his wishes. How wrong he had been.
Now, as his small party rode deeper into what remained of the forest, Hacktor was forced to face the harsh reality of his neglect. He had heard the stories, of course—vague rumors about over-harvesting, unrest among the workers, and disputes over guild contracts. But those whispers had never held much weight in his mind for he never spent the time to investigate further. After all, The Coinmaster had assured him time and again that his new Forest Guild was managing everything. The resources were supposed to flow back to the Drokka people, fueling their war efforts, and providing prosperity for all.
But what Hacktor saw now bore no resemblance to the vision he once held.
The once-mighty Blackwood Forest had been reduced to a wasteland of stumps and charred underbrush, the blackened skeletons of ancient trees littering the ground like fallen titans. In the distance, towering smokestacks belched dark fumes into the sky, feeding the infernos of makeshift logging operations that scarred the landscape. The once-pristine air of Blackwood was thick with soot and ash, the sweet scent of trees replaced by the acrid stench of burning pitch and processed lumber. The earth itself had been ravaged, stripped of its life, leaving nothing but barren scars where the vibrant ecosystem had once thrived.
The road that wound through the forest was no longer shaded by towering blackwood trees, their dark, glossy bark shimmering in the sunlight. Instead, it was lined with decrepit wooden shacks and makeshift work camps. The ground beneath their feet was trampled and muddy, worn down by years of relentless foot traffic and cart wheels hauling away the precious wood to far-off cities in TerrVerde. The hooves of Hacktor’s pony sank into the grime, and each step his mount took felt like a betrayal of the forest’s past majesty.
It didn’t take long before Hacktor saw them—the workers.
At first glance, they appeared to be the foresters and laborers he had always imagined. They moved with the practiced motions of those who had learned to spend their lives cutting timber, collecting pitch pine, and tending to the forest. Their clothing was simple and worn, caked in dirt and sweat, but they worked with a mechanical rhythm, seemingly determined. The king had always assumed that these Drokka had willingly volunteered to earn their keep in The World Above because Monty and the Forest Guild had offered them a chance for higher wages they could then send back to their families inside the mountains. He’d imagined these workers functioned in a way much like his army – spend a season in work and then return home during the winter. It seemed a reasonable life to him and if the money was good it was surely a win-win for all.
But as Hacktor’s retinue ventured deeper, the truth became horrifyingly clear.
These workers were not the willing laborers he had always been told about. They were slaves! And worse yet, the men were a mix of Drokka dwarves and Derkka goblins alike – all shackled and beaten, working under the cruel eyes of overseers who wielded whips and cudgels with ruthless precision. The taskmasters, tall and brutish, were also a mix of races – Drokkas from the guilds and Babelonians – working together, their faces twisted with the same greed and malice that had consumed the war. They barked orders, driving the workers harder and harder, showing no mercy as they forced them to toil for the forest’s dwindling resources.
It was beyond belief! For twenty years Hacktor had been fighting to destroy his enemies, yet here, in this forest, the very people his army had fought for so long were secretly partnering with greedy Drokka to enslave their own people. So outlandish was the reality that the king refused to accept it.
As Mirkir and Malchoir rode in their carriage with the shades closed – ignoring the plight – Hacktor wondered how much the clerics knew – for they were both privy to the machinations of the elites. Meanwhile the king continue to look in morbid fascination as the road led them to another camp – here the slaves’ faces were gaunt, their bodies thin and malnourished. Many were covered in bruises and open sores, their eyes hollow from years of abuse. Some stumbled and fell under the weight of heavy blackwood logs, and when they did, the taskmasters were quick to lash at them, driving them back to their feet with curses and strikes.
Hacktor watched in silent horror as a young Drokka boy struggled to lift a bundle of pitch wood. His small frame buckled under the weight, and he collapsed to the ground, his hands trembling as he tried to get back up. A Babelonian overseer sneered and cracked his whip across the boy’s back. The boy cried out in pain, his tiny hands clutching the earth as blood seeped through his torn shirt.
“You useless runt!” the overseer growled. “Get up, or I’ll leave you here to rot.”
Hacktor’s jaw clenched, his fists tightening as he fought the urge to draw his axe. His blood boiled with rage, but he knew this was not the time. He was vastly outnumbered, and his mission was too important to risk now. He had to endure, for the moment.
The sad scene repeated itself again and again as they traveled towards the forest’s interior – ambling towards a location they were as yet unsure of. Meanwhile lines of slaves, heads bowed in defeat, marched with heavy chains shackled to their ankles. Some were tasked with felling what little remained of the trees, their axes striking the ancient wood with dull thuds that seemed to reverberate through the forest like a death knell. Others were forced to work the crude ‘factory machines’ – makeshift furnaces that burned blackwood logs or boiling vats of pitch. The heat from the areas was unbearable, and many of the workers’ faces were blistered and scarred from burns. The air around the camps was thick with ash, and Hacktor had to shield his mouth to avoid choking on it.
He turned his gaze away from the slave camps for a moment, looking toward the horizon where the forest once stretched as far as the eye could see. What he saw instead was devastation—vast, empty clearings where trees had stood for millennia, now stripped bare. The land was ravaged, with deep trenches cut through the earth where blackwood roots had once burrowed deep into the soil. Here and there, a few solitary trees remained, their branches twisted and gnarled, pitiful in their isolation.
This was not the Blackwood he had fought to control. This was not the future he had imagined for his people.
In the distance, Hacktor spotted a familiar sigil—Monty Redstone’s guild emblem emblazoned on the tents and wagons scattered across the camps. This confirmed to the king what he already knew – The Forest Guild was indeed overseeing the destruction, pocketing the wealth that flowed from the desecrated forest. The workers were nothing but fodder to them, and the forest—once a sacred resource—was now a commodity to be sold to the highest bidder. Hacktor’s lip curled in disgust. Monty had lied to him, betrayed him, and sold the very soul of the forest to the greed of the elites. The commoners among the Drokka and Derkka alike were nothing more than tools in the hands of these manipulators, their lives spent and discarded for the sake of profit. [As it has always been among humans].
Anger churned in Hacktor’s gut, but he kept his expression controlled. This was not the time to act. He had to survive the ritual first, but once it was done, Monty and every one of these conspirators would pay. The money wasn’t going to the people; it was lining the pockets of the powerful on both sides of the war. The very war Hacktor had fought so hard to win had become nothing more than a cover for greed and exploitation. [Some things never change, eh?]
As Hacktor’s small party moved on, leaving the camp behind, the distant sound of axes and machinery faded into the forest. He looked ahead at the darkening forest, a twisted labyrinth of dying trees and poisoned soil. He had been a fool to trust them. He had been a fool to think the Blackwood Forest would change anything for the common people.
But it wasn’t too late.
He would make them pay for this. Monty. The Rukstinz. The Babelonian taskmasters. Every last one of them. They would know his wrath when the time came.
For now, Hacktor steeled himself for what lay ahead—the Tree of the Forsaken, the crucifixion, the ritual that would test his very soul. If he survived, he would become stronger than ever.
And then, there would be reckoning.
It took them a week and more to move towards the Blackwood’s center – where Mirkir assured Hacktor the would find The Tree. Although the work camps were behind them, the king’s heart filled with disgust – for the very essence of the Blackwood had been gutted, leaving only a few pitiful pockets of isolated glades in the interior. The forest here had been nearly depleted, and what was left was a fraction of its former majesty. Even now, Hacktor could feel the hollow ache of regret, but it was buried beneath his stubborn pride and the weight of the task ahead.
The deeper they ventured into the Blackwood, the more Hacktor’s mind was drawn to the ritual awaiting him. The Tree of the Forsaken. Ajax, the legendary king of old, had undergone the same trial, endured the same agony, and emerged victorious. Hacktor was determined to follow in his footsteps, to prove himself worthy. But now, staring at the pitiful remnants of the forest that had once been his pride, doubt crept in. Would this final trial redeem him in the eyes of Rhokki, or would it only serve to confirm his failures?
“Your majesty,” Mirkir’s rasping voice broke through Hacktor’s brooding. The high priest opened the shade of his window to talk to the king. “We near the sacred glade.”
Hacktor nodded but said nothing. His dislike for Mirkir gnawed at him like a festering wound. The old man had always wielded too much power, too much control. And yet, Hacktor needed him now. Mirkir had the knowledge, the rituals, and the connections to Rhokki’s divine will. Without him, Hacktor knew he would be lost.
As they moved forward the trees that remained grew darker, more twisted, their bark gnarled and blackened by centuries of something…evil? They eventually reached a large glade of trees that had somehow never been touched by Monty’s guild. When they entered the area, the canopy above seemed to close in, blocking out the pale light of the sun and casting the forest floor in shadow. There was an eerie stillness here, a silence that made Hacktor’s skin crawl.
“Is this where Ajax came?” Hacktor asked, his voice low.
Malchoir, now riding on a pony himself, answered. “No, your majesty. This part of the forest is different. The Kroniklz say the path Ajax walked is hidden, as it must be. But we are being guided to it. Mirkir has assured me that Rhokki will send us a sign, and we will find the very tree Ajax used. You will see.”
Hacktor frowned, unsure whether he trusted Malchoir’s cryptic assurances. His mind, however, was too weary to argue. As they pressed on, the forest seemed to shift around them, growing more oppressive. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of decay and damp earth. It felt as though the land itself were watching them, waiting for their arrival.
Then, as they rounded a bend in the trail, the forest opened up into a glade. A single tree stood in the center, tall and ancient, its black bark gleaming faintly in the dim light. There was something different about this tree. Even at a distance, Hacktor could feel its presence. It was as though the tree itself was alive, not in the way a tree should be, but something more—something aware.
Mirkir looked out from his carriage, his eyes wide. as he whispered reverently, “The Tree of the Forsaken.”
There was no mistaking this was The Tree.
When Hacktor saw it a chill run down his spine. This tree was massive, its twisted branches stretching skyward like the arms of some ancient god, its bark so dark it seemed to absorb the light around it. It was the very essence, the <Form> of Gaia’s designs for a Blackwood Tree.
After overcoming his awe, Hacktor noticed an unusual mark, etched into the bark near the base of the trunk. The cleric’s saw it too.
“Ajax was here,” Mirkir said, his voice trembling, as he leaned on his staff, his attendants close by for support.
“The ancient texts are true.” Malchior gasped, as he approached The Tree. “My Lord, this is the mark of Ajax! We’ve found it – the very same tree our first king use to complete the ritual.”
Hacktor stood by Malchoir, staring at the symbol with mixture of awe and dread. It couldn’t be coincidence. The Kroniklz said Ajax had found a tree deep within the Blackwood, one that had been different from the others. None of the Drokka who tried the ritual after him had used this tree – and all had failed. But now, standing before the same tree Ajax had used, Hacktor felt the weight of destiny pressing down on him.
He glanced at Mirkir, whose eyes gleamed with something that bordered on hunger. “How did we find this tree?” Hacktor asked, suspicion creeping into his voice. “Why now, after all this time?”
Mirkir’s smile widened, but there was no warmth in it. “Rhôkki wills it.”
“You are the chosen one.” Malchoir laid a hand on the king’s shoulder. “This is your time, sire.”
But even as priests spoke, Hacktor felt something else—a presence, lurking just beyond the edge of perception. It was as though the shadows themselves were watching, waiting for him to take the first step toward the tree. Deep down, I’m sure he knew there was more to this than just luck. Something—or someone—was guiding him, and Hacktor knew it wasn’t Rhokki. The name of Shedu Mazai surely whispered through his thoughts – granted it was there like a foul breeze, but he knew I was guiding him.
“The ritual will begin at dawn on the morrow.” Malchior’s words brought Hacktor back to the present.
The king steeled himself – there would be no turning back now.
That night was unnaturally still as Hacktor knelt before the Tree of the Forsaken, his breath rising in misty plumes against the unseasonably cold air that spring. The forest had fallen silent, as though the world itself held its breath in anticipation of what was about to come. The twisted branches of the ancient tree loomed over him like skeletal fingers, casting long, eerie shadows across the glade. Each beat of Hacktor’s heart thundered in his ears, the only sound in the oppressive silence.
The ground beneath him was soft, damp with the rot of fallen leaves and centuries of decay, but he barely noticed. His mind was consumed with what lay ahead—the ritual that would either transform him into a Kon-Herr destined for eternal glory or shatter him completely, leaving nothing but a broken husk.
Behind him, Mirkir the Wyze and Malchoir The First Servant chanted softly in the ancient tongue of the Drokka priests, theirs voice a low drone that seemed to blend with the rustling of the leaves. The words were ancient, powerful, and heavy with meaning, but to Hacktor they felt distant, almost irrelevant. All that mattered now was the Tree and what it demanded from him.
As the clerics continued to speak, the shadows in the glade seemed to thicken, as if drawn toward the dark bark of the tree. Hacktor could feel the presence of something vast and ancient in the air around him, a power that both terrified and exhilarated him. Was it Rhôkki, watching, waiting to see if Hacktor was worthy. Or was it something else, something darker? He did not know – perhaps didn’t want to know – and so the uncertainty gnawed at him.
It seemed as if that night passed by in a blink, for the next thing Hacktor knew Mirkir’s voice cut through the haze and he realized it was dawn.
“It is time.” The Wyze One averred.
“You must begin the ordeal, my lord.” Malchoir added.
Hacktor swallowed, his throat dry despite the dampness of the forest. His muscles ached from the weight of what was ahead. , but he felt exposed without it. Following the instructions of the priests’, Hacktor removed his clothing and the light leather armor he wore for traveling – for the ritual required him to face the tree as he was born—stripped bare of all pretense and protections. Slowly, reluctantly, he disrobed – the early morning air bit into his skin as the last of the clothing fell away, leaving him vulnerable before the ancient tree.
“You must give yourself fully, sire,” Malchoir instructed. “Only then can the gods test your worth.”
Hacktor nodded, though fear churned in his gut like a living thing, as the two priests began to prepare him for the ritual – chanting incantations, meticulously mixing powders and oils and them applying the concoctions to the king’s skin. The clerics spoke of the deep power that ran through the Blackwood, of ancient forces older than even the gods. Mirkir’s eyes gleamed with that strange, all-knowing glint, his crooked, ageless fingers applying the final marks on Hacktor’s chest. Malchior, quieter but equally reverent, had laid out offerings at the base of the Tree of the Forsaken. Then, the priests stepped back and nodded.
Hacktor took a deep breath, then, with a final glance at the priests, he walked towards The Tree. Without pausing he reached out and placed his hands on the trunk of the tree. The bark was cold, rough beneath his palms, but as soon as he made contact, a strange warmth began to seep into his skin, spreading up his arms and into his chest. For a moment, he felt a sense of calm, as though the tree was welcoming him. But that feeling quickly evaporated as a sharp pain, like a thousand needles had seemed to pierce his flesh and shot through his hands and up his arms. Hacktor gasped and pulled back. “This tree is alive!”
“Yes.” Mirkir smiled with a sinister smile. “The Kroniklz are true.”
“Do not resist, great Kon-Herr.” Malchoir advised, motioning to the servants to help the king get into position for the crucifixion. “Once we have you in place, you must endure…or…die.”
Hacktor gave himself up to his fate. The servants brought a long by the clerics for the ritual then did their part – using ladders and ropes to place the king upon the tree [being careful not to touch it themselves!], the dwarves hefted their Kon-Herr to the area indicated by Mirkir – and then they crucified Hacktor Derkillez upon The Tree!
The iron nails had been blessed by the priests before their use – as those spikes now tore through Hacktor’s wrists and ankles, the sound of flesh and bone giving way echoed through the glade. The king gritted his teeth, his scream caught in his throat as Mirkir’s servants hammered him to the Tree of the Forsaken.
The Blackwood drank his blood, and the tree groaned with ancient life, as if it fed on his suffering. His body sagged as they fastened him to the gnarled bark, arms spread wide, legs bound tight. He hung there, suspended between earth and sky, crucified to the sacred tree. The servants scurried away – their job done – and the priests also stepped back.
“We must leave you.” Malchoir advised. “We will return in three days. May the gods watch over you, my lord.”
For his part, Mirkir said nothing, but his cold eyes lingered, his gaze a mixture of curiosity and grim satisfaction.
Hacktor’s vision blurred, as the priests and their servants left him—alone. His body screamed in agony, the pain radiating from his limbs, burning through his muscles and into his bones. The weight of his body pulled against the nails, sending white-hot bolts of pain with every shallow breath. His lungs fought for air, but each inhalation felt like knives carving through his chest. He tried to move, but the iron nails held him fast.
Pain, such as he’d never known before, surged through Hacktor’s body like fire, burning him from the inside out. His muscles spasmed, every nerve in his body screaming in agony. It was as if the tree was pulling him apart, layer by layer, tearing away his flesh, his sinew, his very soul. He screamed—a raw, primal sound that tore from his throat—but there was no one to hear him. The forest, the world, felt impossibly far away. The only reality was the pain, endless and all-consuming.
The visions started sometime during that first day.
They came in flashes—disjointed, surreal, but vivid. Faces from his past, all those who had shaped him and haunted him, appeared before his mind’s eye. First came his father, Baldur, towering over him with a cruel sneer Hacktor had never seen before.
“You were never enough.” Baldur scoffed. “You have failed our family.”
The words tore through his mind like a hammer on steel, driving deep into his core. Hacktor saw the man who had never belittle him as a child, but now wondered if these were his father’s true feelings. He saw the final moments of Baldur’s life—saw him drowning in a sea of rubble as the twin towers of The Siq came crashing down – destroyed by The Priory of the Myz and the treachery of the Drokka elite. Which Hacktor himself had been fully aware of and did nothing to stop.
“You think I didn’t know the part you played?” Baldur raged. “You will never be free of me, boy.”
Hacktor screamed, his voice ragged, but there was no one to hear it. The visions intensified.
Next he saw his sister, Hecla—his twin, his confidante, and the only one who had ever understood him. Her emerald eyes gleamed in the darkness, her face full of sorrow and understanding. She had always been his anchor, yet even now, her face twisted into something unfamiliar. Her soft hands, once so comforting, morphed into claws, and she reached out for him—not in love, but in accusation.
“Why, Hacktor? Why did you leave me? Why did you forsake us all?”
Her voice was venom, laced with blame. He had failed her. He had failed them all.
He tried to speak, but no words came. His mouth was dry, his throat cracked. The nails in his wrists burned hotter, the weight of his failure pressing down on him like the weight of the cross itself.
The second day came with no relief. The sun rose, scorching his body. Dehydration gripped him, his lips chapped and bleeding. His mouth felt like sand. Every minute stretched into an eternity. Hacktor’s mind unraveled as he hung there, crucified, exposed, vulnerable. His body shuddered with every breath, his muscles cramping, fighting to survive.
But the visions never stopped.
They grew worse. More vivid. More tormenting.
He saw his children—Livy, Alf, Garl, and Jini. They appeared as they all were, once upon a time—innocent, filled with life, their eyes full of love. But as Hacktor watched, their images decayed before him. Their skin darkened, shriveled, and peeled away until they were nothing more than corpses, rotting in the earth. Their accusing eyes bored into his soul.
“Why didn’t you save us, father?” they cried, their voices hollow, lifeless.
Hacktor sobbed, tears mixing with the blood that trickled down his arms. His heart shattered as he saw their bodies collapse into dust, blown away by the wind. He was powerless to save them, just as he had been powerless to stop their deaths.
Fredrik Vendal came next. His old friend. His brother-in-arms. He appeared before Hacktor, bathed in shadow, his neck twisted grotesquely from where the Myz Uruk had murdered him. Blood still dripped from Fredrik’s wounds, his dead eyes staring at Hacktor with resentment.
“You promised me, Hacktor. You promised to avenge me. To win this war.”
The weight of guilt crushed Hacktor, his friend’s betrayal like a axe tearing into his side. He had promised revenge, and yet here he was—crucified, helpless, unable to fulfill that oath. Fredrik’s face disappeared into the darkness, leaving Hacktor alone once more.
The second night was worse. The pain intensified. His wrists throbbed where the nails pinned him to the tree, his feet twisted in agony as the iron bit into his flesh. Sleep teased him, but every time his head lolled forward, the pain dragged him back into wakefulness. The forest around him seemed alive, whispering ancient secrets, mocking his suffering.
On the third day, delirium set in.
His mind was breaking. Hacktor could no longer tell where the visions ended and reality began. His thoughts spiraled, mixing pain and hallucination into a terrible vortex. He saw Monty Redstone grinning, counting the spoils of the Blackwood Forest that had been lost. He saw the sneering face of Garrick of the Golden Hand. Even the gods Gwar and Shedu Mazai – gloating over the destruction of the battlefield.
Hacktor screamed, his voice hoarse, breaking through the veil of his suffering. The tree groaned beneath him, as if feeding on his torment. The world around him swirled into madness, and his vision blurred as his consciousness slipped into darkness.
And then, amidst the swirling chaos, a figure emerged.
Powerful and strong, wrapped in the cloak of legend, Ajax the Freemaker appeared before him. His face was lined with the weight of history, his eyes glowing with the wisdom of countless battles won and lost. The first hero of the Drokka stood before Hacktor, radiant and resolute.
“Endure, Hacktor,” Ajax’s voice boomed through his mind, cutting through the fog of agony. “Fulfill your destiny.”
Hacktor blinked, struggling to focus on the hero. Ajax moved closer, his presence filling the glade with an overwhelming sense of power.
“I did not survive the Tree of the Forsaken only because I was strong,” Ajax said, his voice calm but firm. “I survived because I let go. I let go of everything—pride, fear, anger—and I allowed the Blackwood to take me.”
Hacktor’s breath hitched, his body shaking from exhaustion. He stared at Ajax, disbelief warring with hope. How could he let go? How could he surrender after everything he had fought for?
“Release your soul, Hacktor,” Ajax urged, his eyes glowing brighter. “Let the Blackwood claim you, and only then will you rise.”
Hacktor hesitated, his mind whirling with doubt, but the agony in his body was unbearable. His vision blurred as he stared into Ajax’s unwavering gaze.
And then, in one final act of surrender, Hacktor closed his eyes and let go.
Sometimes later – who can say how long – the pain Hacktor had once felt had dissipated like smoke – replaced by a calm, stillness that seemed to envelop him. The Blackwood Tree’s bark no longer bit into his skin; instead, it seemed to cradle him. The visions had also faded, leaving him with a profound sense of peace.
When Hacktor opened his eyes again, he was still crucified to the tree—but something had changed. The forest was no longer dark and oppressive. The Blackwood Tree seemed to pulse with life, its branches stretching toward the heavens, vibrant and eternal. He felt the power of the earth beneath him, coursing through his veins, healing his body.
The third day ended with the rising of a new dawn.
As the pale light of morning filtered through the sparse canopy of what remained of Blackwood Forest, Hacktor was still hanging up on The Tree. Blood had crusted around his wounds, mixing with the dried sweat and grime that covered his body, but his eyes flickered with a dim flame of life. Against all odds, Hacktor Derkillez had survived the Tree of the Forsaken ritual!
Mirkir and Malchior returned with their servants, their faces twisted with a mix of apprehension and hope. When they saw Hacktor, still clinging to life, their fear gave way to elation.
“By the gods!” Mirkir cried out, a rare smile splitting his usually grim features. Malchior, too, was overcome with joy, and the servants rushed forward, quickly raising their ladders and working to UNcrucify Hacktor.
The Tree released it’s victim and the king’s body sagged into the servants’ arms. The dwarves laid their Kon-Herr gently on the ground, careful to avoid jarring his still-raw wounds.
Mirkir and Malchior anointed his wounds with salve and pressed a goblet of nourishing elixir to his lips. Hacktor drank deeply, feeling the warmth of the liquid flood his veins. He looked at his priests with a newfound certainty. “It is done,” he said, his voice ragged but filled with conviction. “I will achieve my destiny.”
The priests nodded, their faces filled with awe. They knew the truth—Hacktor was no longer a mere king. He was something more now, something destined for greatness. The servants celebrated quietly, helping Hacktor to his feet as they shared in the sense of victory. The ordeal had ended, and Hacktor stood triumphant.
Hacktor was a changed man. Though his muscles trembled from the agony he had endured, there was a fire in his eyes—one that had not been there before. The torment, the suffering, the visions of his past—his father, his sister, his lost children—all of it had burned away the last of his doubts. He had faced the crucible of the Tree and emerged, not broken, but reborn. He felt more alive, more powerful, than ever before.
And Hacktor Derkillez, battered and scarred, but reborn, walked away from the Tree of the Forsaken – ready to finish the war and become a god.
The Apocrypha of Azazel 