Kul Tiras – Drustvar Region.Galen had been stomping around this accursed forested wasteland for two whole days. Two. Days. And for what? To play interdimensional exterminator to a horde of shrieking Void Watchers and finally loot one measly Void Gem from a slime-coated corpse in a lonely valley that smelled like regret and damp fungus.
The moment Galen's hand wrapped around the gem, the dagger hanging at his waist—Xal'atath, that sassy relic of squirming evil—began to twitch and shudder like a gossiping aunt at a royal scandal. But that was all. No ominous whispers. No soul-melting madness. Not even a creepy chuckle.
Miss "I'm the Echo of a Thousand Screams" had been given a thorough education over the past few days—Holy Light style. And after repeated doses of divine pain, she'd become surprisingly docile.
"You had one job," Galen grumbled as he glared down at the dagger. "And you flopped harder than a murloc in a desert. Worst ancient evil ever."
Xal'atath wisely remained silent. She'd learned that Galen's Holy Light came with a side of sass and zero tolerance for tentacle tantrums.
Galen set the Void Gem and the Blade of the Black Empire down on a slab of rock that might as well have been labeled "Dark Rituals Here – BYOB (Bring Your Own Blood)".
"You already gorged on Mithrax's soul juice. Now suck this thing dry," he ordered, gesturing dramatically to the Void Gem. "Condense your incarnation, sprout some legs, and let's get this freak show on the road."
Still silent.
This gem wasn't just a spooky rock—it was one of the Void Holy Trinity™, crafted by N'Zoth's favorite cultists to be his red-carpet welcome gift. Brimming with unholy whispers and enough energy to throw a small moon off-course, it was the final ingredient in the "Let Xal'atath Sort of Be Free Again" cocktail.
And yet, she hesitated.
For the first time in countless millennia—since dinosaurs wore funny hats and yelled about "the good old days"—Xal'atath, the dagger of doom, felt conflicted. She, a being of unknowable madness, felt... doubt.
How does this insufferable human know my plans? My timeline? My vulnerabilities? she thought, equal parts impressed and infuriated.
Galen, of course, was in no rush. This was a trap so obvious it might as well have had blinking neon signs. And yet he was practically daring her to fall into it. His only move? Wait and smirk like the smug paladin he was.
After what felt like an eternity, shadows twisted and coiled. Then, like a character selection screen at an evil fashion show, a new form emerged.
Xal'atath's incarnation materialized.
A high elf. Or at least, something trying to be one—if you ignored the purplish hue, the glowing void eyes, and the aura of "I may whisper secrets into your spleen."
Galen raised an eyebrow.
"Really? Not going with Natalie's look this time?" he asked, arms folded.
Xal'atath scoffed. "Tch. That zealot's image is... inefficient. She may have been a fool, but even fools have escape plans. I suspect she's not quite as dead as she pretended."
"Oh?" Galen leaned in with a grin. "Someone's been reading 'Dead and Loving It: The Natalie Seline Story'."
And indeed, Xal'atath was right. Natalie had cheated death at the last second, sending her soul into the Void like some kind of spooky postcard. Her body was buried, her diary was lost, and her soul was playing hide-and-seek in the nether realms.
But Galen? Galen had plans. Backups to the backups. Shadow sects, secret spells, scribbled notes stashed in vaults guarded by angry squirrels. Whether Natalie lived or died was no longer relevant—unless Galen needed her. That was power.
"You abandoned your pet zealot," Galen said coolly. "So let's stop pretending you care. Stick to the script. Absorb the relics. Free yourself. Help me summon the big tentacle daddy. Win-win."
Xal'atath narrowed her eyes. "And what, exactly, is your goal, paladin?"
"Don't ask dumb questions unless I'm in the mood to answer them," Galen shot back. "And I'm not."
With an irritated "Hmph!", Xal'atath crossed her arms—dramatically, of course. "Fine. Then let's find the other relics."
"Oh, you mean the legendary Trident of the Depths and Stormcaller's Crown? Yeah. Already got those."
Xal'atath blinked. "...What."
Galen crouched down and with the flair of a magician revealing the final act, traced a gleaming teleportation array. With a shimmer of light and a flash worthy of a rock concert, the trident and crown materialized in front of them.
"Drake got the trident after dunking on some pirate wannabes in southern Tiragarde. The crown? Thranduil found it in a crusty old lobsterman's cave. Don't ask."
With all three relics in hand, the summoning of the ancient god N'Zoth was now not just possible—but imminent.
"So," Xal'atath said with a sarcastic drawl. "Why am I even here?"
"Because I said you're here. You're the ceremonial plug that breaks the seal. Just do your creepy thing, get your freedom, and I'll get what I want. Doesn't that sound fun?"
Xal'atath, for once, didn't argue. "Fine. As you wish, meat puppet."
Under her whispering guidance, Galen headed for Stormsong Valley, the next piece on this cosmic chessboard. The lush land greeted them with rivers that sparkled like secrets and fields that swayed like lullabies—if those lullabies were sung by eldritch horrors pretending to be sheep.
Their destination: the Temple of Storms, a holy site now unholy thanks to some bad life choices by Lord Stormsong and a few too many void cult bake sales. It had once been a shining beacon for the tidesages. Now it looked like a war zone covered in mist and regret.
Drake had cleansed the place not long ago in a storm of steel and explosions, leaving behind a smoking ruin of ruined ruin-ness.
At the base of this desecrated temple, deep within the Storm Furnace, Galen pulled his hood low. His face vanished into shadows. His breath stilled.
Because down here—beneath sacred rock and stained altars—he would stand before the slumbering madness of the Ancient God himself.
And Galen? He was ready.