The king turned, the long sweep of his crimson cloak whispering against the marble floor as he faced the five knights assembled before him. His voice, though measured, carried the gravity of steel drawn from a sheath.
"As I was saying…"
The knights straightened instinctively, their spines rigid, hands resting on sword hilts polished more from use than ceremony. Their gazes held firm, not out of fear—but loyalty.
"I want the five of you at the vanguard," the king continued, his tone steady and unwavering. "You'll lead the charge. Not just with blade and shield, but with courage that makes lesser men tremble."
The air in the throne room thickened, as if his words carried weight that settled into every corner.
Then, with a slow turn, he looked to the alchemist standing in the shadows beyond the throne's dais—robes ink-dark, fingers already twitching as if working through ingredients in his mind.
"Can you prepare something to aid them?" the king asked. "Potions to strengthen their bodies, quicken their reflexes—perhaps even ward them against whatever nightmare the orcs might conjure?"
The alchemist bowed low, one hand pressed over his chest. "Of course, Your Majesty. I'll begin at once."
Without waiting for dismissal, he turned and swept from the chamber, his footsteps already lost beneath the quiet crackle of torchlight.
The king's gaze shifted again—this time to the rune-smith, whose hands bore the burn marks of decades spent etching magic into metal.
"And you," the king said, voice tinged with urgency, "what do we have left in the vaults? Any runes that might turn the tide in our favour?"
The rune-smith bowed even lower. "A few, sire. Rare ones—ancient. Dangerous, even. But effective. If it pleases you, I'll fetch them at once."
"It pleases me greatly," the king said with a tight nod. "Time is bleeding from us by the second. Go."
As the craftsman hurried away, the throne room stirred to life. Quiet footsteps turned to decisive strides. The silence of uncertainty gave way to the rhythm of resolve.
But the king remained still, eyes dark with thought, the silence around him sharpening like a blade being honed.
He raised his voice—not loud, but clear and resonant, slicing through the room like thunder beneath calm skies.
"We now know what we're facing," he said. "The orcs have harnessed something unnatural—a magic that lets them bend reality. Their thoughts become weapons. Their dreams, our nightmares. And the longer we wait, the more potent they become."
A hush fell like a veil. Even the torches seemed to flicker more quietly.
"But does that mean they are invincible?" the king asked, his voice now burning with defiance. "No. It means we must be clever. Ruthless. We will turn their gift against them. Make them doubt it. Make them fear us."
He turned toward the tall arched window, where the sun was beginning its slow descent. Its last golden rays fell across his face, gilding his expression with something almost holy.
"If I'm right…" he murmured, more to himself than the room, "they'll come at sunset."
He turned back, standing tall, his voice rising not in volume, but intensity. "There is no time left for speeches or ceremony. Send the word. Rouse every soldier, every mage, every sword-bearer within our walls."
He drew in a breath, his gaze sweeping across those still in the chamber—knights, servants, advisors, all frozen in place.
"Take your positions. Steel your hearts. And remember—we are not fighting just for survival. We are fighting to win."
The chamber burst into motion as though struck by lightning. Cloaks swirled, boots pounded against stone, and shouts echoed through the high-vaulted ceilings. Advisors, nobles, and messengers scrambled from the room like birds startled from a tree, their orders clenched in tight fists, their faces set with urgent purpose.
But the king remained.
He sat still on his throne, the golden sun of late afternoon bleeding through the stained glass and casting fractured light across his face. His expression did not waver. Alone in the quiet that followed, he stared ahead—silent, immovable, and waiting.
Beyond the ancient walls of Aurliath, the kingdom stood poised on the edge of war.
The land was lined with steel. An army stretched across the golden fields like a silver tide, its heartbeat steady and slow. Knights in gleaming armour stood beneath fluttering banners, their faces hidden beneath polished helms. Archers gripped their bows with steady fingers. Mages, robed in colours that shimmered like morning mist, stood ready with spellfire coiled around their hands.
And at the forefront, five figures stood alone.
The royal knights.
Each was a legend in their own right. Warriors whose names were etched into the bones of songs, whose deeds echoed through castle halls and fireside tales. They stood side by side on a rise above the battlefield, their silhouettes etched against the dying sun.
Among them, Sophi shifted her stance, arms crossed, her eyes narrowed with impatience. A soft breath escaped her lips, half sigh, half growl.
"We've been out here for hours," she muttered, brushing a stubborn strand of hair behind her ear. "Are they marching here or dying of indecision?"
Beside her, Ser Dorian stood as though carved from marble, one hand resting calmly on the hilt of his greatsword. His voice, when it came, was quiet but steady.
"Hold your ground. They'll come. And when they do, we must be ready."
Their gazes stretched across the plains, scanning the horizon where the earth met sky.
Then… something shifted.
A shadow. At first no more than a dark thread at the edge of vision. But it grew. It thickened. It swallowed the land.
An army.
A monstrous horde of orcs surged into view—marching with terrifying order, thousands upon thousands in grim formation. The ground trembled with their steps, and the air seemed to quiver with the weight of their approach. Dust and wind coiled like snakes between their ranks, swallowing light.
The knights stood frozen, the silence between them louder than any battle cry.
"They just… keep coming," someone whispered. The voice trembled.
Kaela, towering in her iron gauntlets, watched with narrowed eyes. She said nothing at first, just stared at the swelling tide of green flesh and iron. Then, her jaw tensed.
"Why did they stop?"
The horde had halted as one. Not a breath, not a shuffle. A wall of stillness. It was like the world itself had paused, holding its breath.
Iancyne, the elven archer, lowered his bow just enough to adjust the string. His eyes were sharp as flint, his face unreadable.
"They're waiting," he said. "But for what?"
And then… movement.
One figure broke from the endless sea of orcs.
He moved alone, not rushing, not hesitating—just walking, as though the field were his own. The knights tensed in unison. Even Dorian's fingers shifted slightly, curling around the hilt of his blade.
"He's unarmed," Kaela observed quietly.
And he was. No armour, no war paint. Just a tall orc in worn robes, walking with a strange, almost sombre grace. He stopped at a respectful distance—close enough to be heard, far enough not to threaten—and slowly raised a hand, palm outward.
A gesture of peace.
The wind caught his cloak and flared it around him as he cleared his throat, the sound oddly… polite.
"Greetings, humans," the orc said, voice clear and measured. "I come as an envoy. The King of Grom'Khal sends his message."
The orc stepped forward, each thunderous footfall echoing off the stone steps of the royal courtyard like distant war drums. He stood tall, a mountain of muscle and iron, framed by the blood-red banners of his kin. The evening sun cast him in molten gold and shadow, but it was his voice that truly darkened the valley.
"You may call me Glush," he announced, his tone a deep rumble that rolled across the cliffs like a coming storm. Pride gleamed in his eyes, and a cruel smile tugged at the corners of his tusked mouth. "And now... hear the words of my king."
The air seemed to still, as if the very wind was listening.
"I speak for the King of Grom'Khal," Glush continued, his voice steeped in bitter memory, thick with fury barely held at bay. "The king your people scorned—dragged in chains through the dirt, burned alive in the fires of Inferna with his most loyal warriors. But hear this and hear it well: we are not without mercy."
He paused, letting the words sink like blades into the hearts of those gathered.
"Kneel now," he said, each syllable sharpened by wrath, "and he will spare half of you."
A heavy silence followed—filled with tension, held taut like a bowstring—before it snapped with laughter. Harsh, disbelieving, mocking.
"Mercy?" chuckled Iancyne, one of the five Royal Knights, his fingers resting lazily on the curve of his bow. "Your king must be drunk on his own delusions."
The others joined in, their mirth echoing across the courtyard, but it was short-lived.
Ser Dorian stepped forward, tall and calm, a cold fire flickering behind his eyes.
"Go back to your king," he said, his voice a quiet threat, deliberate and final. "And tell him this, we'll be the ones to drag him back to the flames he crawled out of."
Glush's laughter this time was low and cruel, more a growl than a sound of humor. It slithered through the silence like a blade through silk.
"My king expected your pride would blind you," he said with grim satisfaction. "And so it will be your undoing."
He turned, slowly, facing the tide of orcs behind him—thousands strong. Their eyes, hungry and burning like coals, reflected the fading sun. Weapons glinted in their fists. The ground itself seemed to tremble beneath them, as if the land feared what was coming.
"Any moment now," Glush murmured, voice rising with terrible certainty, "my king will speak the word. And when he does—everything you cherish, everything you've built with your soft hands and noble words, will fall. Your homes will burn. Your blood will stain the roots of the earth. Your legacy will be trampled into dust beneath boots of iron."
The Royal Knights stepped forward as one, swords drawn with a whisper of steel and resolve. Behind them, the soldiers of Aurliath braced themselves, ranks tightening, hands trembling around their spears.
"Hold the line!" Ser Dorian's voice cracked through the air like lightning. "No fear!"
Glush turned his eyes back to them—those burning, beast-like eyes—and there was something ancient in his gaze. Something dark. Something that had bled and waited and endured.
"Fear him," he said, barely more than a growl now. "Fear the Orc King—when his wrath spills over your walls, when his warriors tear through your armies like wildfire through dry grass. When your mothers and children scream beneath the weight of a vengeance you brought upon yourselves."
His voice dropped to a whisper, and somehow that made it worse.
"He will stand over your king's shattered body," Glush continued, gaze fixed and unblinking. "And as he looks upon your ruin, as he surveys the wreckage of your pride, your people, your future."
Glush fell silent. He didn't need words anymore. His presence alone was a grim omen of what was about to unfold.
He lingered there for a heartbeat—then a smile, thin and venomous, slithered across his cracked lips.
"And then… he will devour them."
The words slipped into the air like a hex, and the very wind seemed to flinch.
Then the scream of war shattered the stillness.
With a deafening roar, the orc horde surged forward like a living storm. Glush disappeared beneath the tide of steel and fury, his form swallowed whole by the snarling wave of warriors.
From the opposite ridge, the banners of Aurliath rose high, snapping in the wind like thunderclaps of defiance. Their legions poured down the hillside, a flood of armour and grit, rushing to meet the oncoming darkness.
When the two armies collided, it was not battle—it was collision, cataclysm. The clash echoed through the hills, a sound that shook birds from trees and sent shivers down spines for miles around. The ground itself groaned beneath the carnage, cracks spiderwebbing through the soil as if the earth couldn't bear the weight of so much death.
The orcs chanted in harsh, guttural voices, a rising hum of old, forbidden magic. Their hands moved in twisted patterns, fingers grasping at reality, trying to unravel it. But their power sputtered and failed. Something unseen—something ancient—shielded the human soldiers. The spells, once destructive, now disintegrated on contact, dissolving into bitter ash.
At the front lines, five figures in armour that gleamed like morning steel carved through the chaos with surgical grace—the royal knights. They moved like a blade drawn through silk, a blur of motion and metal.
"Push forward!" Ser Dorian roared, voice raw and fierce, cutting through the din of screams and steel. He wrenched his sword from an orc's ribcage, blood spraying in a crimson arc, then spun, parrying a blow mid-turn with a shriek of sparks. His eyes burned with fire, unrelenting.
Not far behind, Kaela caught a massive axe strike with her gauntlets, the impact ringing out like a bell. She tilted her head slightly, her expression somewhere between curiosity and boredom.
"Hmph. I expected more from them," she muttered, unimpressed.
She drove her fist forward—fast, brutal, final. The blow shattered the orc's helmet like paper. It hit the ground unconscious, but she wasn't done. Stepping onto its chest, she brought both gauntleted fists down with crushing finality. The body stilled.
"Not that it matters," she said under her breath, brushing strands of blood-matted hair from her cheek before vanishing back into the melee.
The humans pressed forward, their momentum snowballing. Steel clashed, arrows screamed through the air, and war cries mixed with dying gasps. Panic started to creep through the orc lines like poison. Spells failed. Formations broke. The tide, once monstrous, began to recede.
At the edge of it all, Glush knelt before a hulking figure cloaked in shadow and iron—the Orc King. A giant among monsters, his eyes glowed with cold cunning.
"My lord," Glush said softly, calm amid the storm. "All is proceeding as we intended. The humans believe they're winning."
The Orc King's lip curled into a slow, deliberate grin. "Good," he growled. "Let them taste their hollow triumph."
His eyes turned toward the blood-soaked battlefield, glowing brighter now. "Let them believe they've survived the worst. Let them feel hope."
He raised a clawed hand high and bellowed, his voice shaking the bones of all who heard it.
"Release the warlords. Show them what real power looks like."