For the second time since his arrival in the Maw, Vorath found himself standing inside the Sanctum of Domination.
Being summoned to this place was a deeply unsettling occurrence. After the Jailer had banished him to the lower floors of Torghast to endlessly torture souls, Vorath had genuinely believed, or perhaps just hoped, that he had been discarded and forgotten among the millions of other minions.
Clearly, he wasn't as forgotten as he had thought.
The first time had been the very moment he woke up here.
The Jailer had personally demanded an immediate meeting with the strange, foreign soul, abruptly teleporting the massively shocked newcomer directly into his presence.
How he fumbled the meeting was noteworthy, but being in the presence of a literal malevolent god wasn't something he was prepared for in everyday life back on Earth.
Pushing the memory aside, Vorath continued his slow march through the Sanctum's dark halls, passing by the terrifying upper echelons of the Mawsworn legion.
The bastion was a truly impregnable fortress. So many runes and wards were etched into the very walls of the Sanctum that it would prevent even the strongest beings in the universe from ever entering, let alone destroying it.
In fact, if you weren't personally invited by the Jailer, there was only one way up: killing the Tarragrue.
But as far as Vorath was concerned, that was completely impossible. The sheer amount of raw anima and Death magic crammed into that hulking monstrosity made the beast practically invincible.
He still couldn't fathom how the heroes of Azeroth had ever managed to defeat something so absurdly strong.
"We have been expecting you."
A voice echoed through the massive halls of the Sanctum. Vorath looked up at the winged Mawsworn hovering above him. It was a fallen Kyrian. To this day, the young man still had no idea how a fully ascended Kyrian had ended up plunging into the Maw.
"Greetings, Lord Dorian," Vorath said, offering a stiff nod.
The dark angel was perhaps the only Mawsworn who was even slightly amicable toward him. It was probably because Dorian was one of the very few who still retained a semblance of his original ego after enduring the Jailer's torture.
He was the commander responsible for deploying troops whenever Devourers attacked the Maw. And that happened a lot. Those grotesque beasts were absolutely voracious for anima, and thanks to the Jailer's machinations, the Maw was currently one of the realms overflowing with it.
But Vorath knew the truth. The actual anima residing in the Maw right now was a mere drop in the bucket compared to the endless torrent that would flow through Gorgoa one day.
"Lord Raznal is awaiting you at the Screaming Anvil," the Kyrian stated, his voice completely devoid of emotion.
Without another word, he banked sharply and flew back up toward the highest spires of the Sanctum.
Watching the dark angel disappear into the shadows above, Vorath resumed his trek toward the Screaming Anvil.
Raznal was a bit of an odd case for Vorath. As the chief engineer behind Torghast's many defense systems and an absolute master at torturing poor souls, he was a monster. But as far as overlords in the Maw went... he wasn't actually a bad boss.
He was strangely fair when it came to punishing those who failed to meet their quotas. Vorath had failed exactly once.
Never again.
The Painsmith had literally torn him apart that day. Vorath had never felt such agonizing, soul-rending pain in his entire existence.
As he approached the forge, the temperature spiked. The Screaming Anvil was a colossal receptacle fueled by a monstrous amount of soulfire magic. It was the very heart of the Jailer's war machine, the place where most of the Mawsworn's weapons and heavy armor were forged.
The noise inside was absolutely deafening. The heavy, rhythmic clang of hammers striking dark metal constantly clashed with the horrifying shrieks of condemned souls being forcibly imbued into the iron to create new Mawsworn.
The heavy doors to Raznal's personal workshop ground open as Vorath arrived, revealing a massive, open space that looked more like a gladiatorial arena than a simple forge.
"You called for me, Painsmith?" Vorath asked, stopping dead at the entrance.
It was immediately obvious that his boss was in a foul mood. The armored behemoth stood looming over a blackened anvil, brutally bringing his massive hammer down onto a trapped soul. The spirit's agonizing shrieks roared violently through the room with every strike.
"Vorath..." the Painsmith hissed, his sadistic voice dripping with pure, unadulterated hatred. "Wait here an instant. I must finish the punishment."
Vorath watched in silence as the Painsmith tore the soul to pieces with dark magic. He violently absorbed the raw energy from the screaming spirit until nothing but a pitiful wisp of anima remained.
As Raznal finally calmed himself, Vorath made his presence known once more with a low, metallic cough.
He saw the heavy, armored head of the Painsmith snap toward him, locking onto his position.
"Vorath," the Painsmith repeated, fully regaining his cold composure. He stepped past a massive stone slab where a single sword was resting.
Vorath's eyes widened behind his dark visor as he stared at the weapon resting on the heavy stone slab.
It lacked the glowing, sinister runes he knew so well, but the skeletal, jagged design was unmistakable.
It wasn't exactly Frostmourne.
'A Mourneblade,' Vorath realized. 'Is it an early prototype or perhaps Frostmourne was already sent to Azeroth ?'
"The Master commands you to wield this weapon," Raznal rumbled, his voice pulling Vorath out of his thoughts. The Painsmith gestured toward the unholy blade with a hand "You are to test its edge against our enemies. Bleed them. Break them. And report back on its hunger and power."
Vorath frowned beneath his helmet, unable to tear his eyes away from the soul-thirsty steel.
"Why me?"
Raznal's eyes narrowed dangerously, the brief moment of calm he had shown suddenly vanishing into thin air. He took a heavy, threatening step forward.
"Ours is not to question the infinite design of the Jailer," the Painsmith snapped, his voice dropping into a warning growl. "Your only purpose is to take the blade. And obey."
"Then teach me how to fight," Vorath replied flatly, his voice devoid of any hesitation. "Teach me how to wield magic."
The moment the words left his mouth, all sound in the massive room seemed to instantly evaporate. The deafening clangs of the forge and the roaring of soulfire gave way to a suffocating silence.
"Is that some manner of joke?" Raznal asked, his voice dropping to a dangerously low, rumbling growl.
"N-no," Vorath stammered, stepping back slightly. "It's just that I don't actually know how to fight. Perhaps you should give the blade to a more accomplished warrior?"
"Pick up the sword," the Painsmith snarled, his hulking frame closing the distance between them with terrifying speed.
"Lord Raznal, I—"
Vorath's eyes widened in sheer panic. A brutal, spiked mace suddenly materialized in Raznal's massive grip, already swinging down in a lethal, bone-crushing arc.
Moving on pure, desperate instinct, Vorath snatched the dark Mourneblade from the stone slab and threw it up to block.
The moment the two heavy weapons clashed, an explosive kinetic force ripped through his arms. Vorath was instantly launched across the cavernous workshop, his body slamming violently into the cold iron wall with a sickening crunch.
"Stand up, worm."
Vorath shook the dizziness from his head, blinking as Raznal loomed right in front of him.
"Right now, I will shape you into something fit for the Master's blade."
Vorath forced himself up shakily, raising the heavy Mourneblade in a desperate guard.
Then, Raznal moved.
His frame was entirely too fast for Vorath's eyes to track. Relying purely on panic and instinct, Vorath threw the blade up just in time to catch the incoming mace.
The joints of his armor shrieked in protest. The crushing impact instantly forced him down onto one knee.
His strength is insane, Vorath thought, gritting his teeth. He desperately struggled not to collapse completely to the floor as the Painsmith relentlessly ground the heavy mace against his guard.
"You truly do not know how to fight."
The heavy mace completely crushed his defense, forcing Vorath to the ground. Without missing a beat, Raznal delivered a brutal kick to his chest. The Mawsworn was sent flying backward, hitting the cold stone floor hard.
"How pathetic," Raznal snarled, looking down at him in disgust. "You do not even have the drive to improve yourself. I do not know how someone like you even exists in this tower."
Vorath grunted in pain, his armor scraping against the ground as he struggled to move.
'What drive do I even need? I am a slave ! ' he thought bitterly.
"You lack the drive to become stronger. The drive to become better," the Painsmith continued, his heavy footsteps echoing as he slowly approached. "This tower may be a prison, but some of us here still choose to improve."
"Improve?" Vorath spat, using the heavy sword as a crutch to force himself back to his feet. His frame shook slightly as he stood. "What is there to improve? We are all just slaves to him!"
Raznal let out a dark, mocking snort. "Perhaps. But even in servitude, there are still things to achieve!"
Raznal moved even faster this time. Vorath didn't have a second to parry. He was airborne before he could even register the motion.
"I've seen enough." Raznal stared down at the pitiful, crumpled form of the Mawsworn. He turned on his heel, his heavy mace dissolving into the ether. "Return the blade. Then return to your post."
Vorath lay there, staring blankly at the high ceiling of the workshop.
'Is there really anything left for me in this new life?' He raised a trembling, armored hand, as if trying to grasp one of the distant, flickering lights above.
'I miss them so much.' It was a fleeting thought of the family and friends he might never see again.
Vorath clenched his fist tight. A raw, guttural cry tore from his throat as he forced himself back up. His eyes locked onto the Painsmith, who was already standing by the stone slab. The hulking monster slowly turned his head, his eerie blue eyes sending a sharp chill down Vorath's spine.
The young Mawsworn started forward with a slow, heavy limp. Then, he broke into a desperate sprint. He raised the dark Mourneblade, charging straight at his tormentor.
"Good."
Vorath barely heard the Painsmith's low rumble over the roar of the forge as swirling anima rapidly materialized into the brutal mace once more.
And the beating resumed.
–
Dormazain was, as always, torturing souls. It was truly one of the most enjoyable things in his existence.
He loved finding the hidden weaknesses of spirits that were far too resilient for the Maw's normal methods to break. His cruel weapon tore the raw anima from the soul, and he relished the agonized cries as if they were the most incredible melody.
BOOM.
A violent tremor suddenly shook his quarters, forcing him to halt his work for a brief moment.
A Mawsworn quickly hurried into the torture chamber, bowing its heavy, armored head.
"A new wave of Devourers?" Dormazain asked, clearly annoyed by the interruption.
"No, Soulrender," the minion replied quickly. "It appears the Painsmith is the cause of the tremors."
Dormazain looked at the underling with a deep frown.
'Is Raznal experimenting with his contraptions again?'
The Soulrender dismissed the thought and went back to his work, letting the agonizing cries echo through his chambers once again.
He decided he would pay that insufferable smith a visit later. If Raznal was causing this much of a ruckus, perhaps he had forged a new toy for him to play with.
–
AN:
I'm a bit torn about this chapter, hope it's good nonetheless
I haven't yet decided on the power level of all the bosses in Shadowlands except the Jailer that I can compare to a Titan. The others, I don't know much
See you soon :)