The last rays of the sun were fading beyond the mountains as Marcus walked through the Fairheaven Stronghold, his heart heavy with the news he bore. His clothes were still stained with dirt and blood from the battle, and his face was drawn and pale. He had fought beside his friend Thomas for years, but nothing could have prepared him for the sight of him struck down, an arrow in his side, and then swept away by the relentless river. Now, it was his duty to tell Thomas's younger brother, Jack, and their friends what had happened.
In a secluded corner of the stronghold's barracks, Marcus found Jack, Milo, Finn, Lila, and Emory gathered, faces anxious with unspoken fears. The room was silent as Marcus stood before them, struggling to find the right words.
"It's… it's Thomas," Marcus began, his voice thick with sorrow. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to go on. "During the fight by the river, a goblin archer in the treeline… he caught Thomas off-guard. An arrow hit him, deep in his side." He faltered, seeing the shock and dread in their eyes. "He… he stumbled, and then the river… the river took him. He's gone."
Jack's face paled, his eyes widening in horror as he whispered, "He can't be gone. Not Thomas. He… he'd find a way back."
Milo, holding back tears, placed a hand on Jack's shoulder. "If anyone could survive, it would be him," he said, though his voice trembled with doubt.
Lila covered her mouth, stifling a sob, while Emory clenched his jaw, his fists trembling as he stared down at the ground. "No," he muttered, shaking his head. "It's not fair."
They sat in silence, each grappling with the loss. Thomas had been a light in their lives, and now that light had been extinguished, swept away into the darkness of the river. Marcus felt the weight of guilt on his shoulders—he had been there, he had fought, and still, he hadn't been able to save his friend.
After a moment, Jack spoke, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I should have been there," he said, his eyes glistening. "I should have fought beside him."
But there were no words of comfort that could ease their pain. All they could do was sit in the shadows, mourning the friend they had lost.
In the depths of the newly conquered dwarven mine, now buzzing with the activity of orc workers, Kargath, bloodstained and battle-worn, approached Thrall. His massive double-bladed axe, Bloodreaver, was still darkened with the blood of dwarves. Kargath's face was etched with barely concealed rage and confusion, his pride wounded by the fact that Thrall had kept a second legion hidden, commanded by the fearsome Kroghtar.
As Kargath drew closer, Thrall turned, his sharp eyes betraying none of the secrets he still held. He gestured to the vast mines around them, his voice calm, though laced with unmistakable authority.
"Ah, Kargath," Thrall began, a small smirk crossing his face. "I imagine you're wondering why I didn't tell you about Kroghtar and his legion."
Kargath growled, his grip tightening on Bloodreaver. "You kept me in the dark, Thrall. If I'd known about Kroghtar, we could have crushed those dwarves faster. Why keep it hidden?"
Thrall's smirk faded, replaced with a steely gaze. "Because, Kargath, I needed you to focus on the front line. You are powerful, brutal—but my plans require precision and timing. Kroghtar's legion was always meant to strike at the critical moment, tipping the scales only when both our enemies and allies were exhausted."
Kargath's red eyes flashed with anger. "I'm no puppet, Thrall! I am a warlord! You don't command me like some foot soldier."
"Indeed, you are a warlord," Thrall replied, his tone unyielding, "which is why I trust you to understand that brute force alone would never win this war. These mountains," he gestured around them, "are only the beginning. Soon, we will press further into human lands, taking resources the dwarves and humans have hoarded for generations."
Kargath hesitated, his anger giving way to a begrudging respect. "And where do we begin this grand conquest?"
"We will start from Cindor," Thrall answered, his voice filled with cunning. "But you, Kargath, and Kroghtar will not stay here. I have a new mission for you both. I want you to return to Cindor to gather our main forces. Leave your lieutenant, Gorak, and your captain, Varzog, here to fortify and defend the mines and the stronghold."
Kargath's jaw clenched. "Leave my best men behind?"
"Yes," Thrall replied, his tone final. "These mines are valuable, but they are only a part of what we will take. The humans have lands rich in resources just beyond our reach. Our chieftain has new plans for those lands, and you, Kargath, will lead our forces into human territory to seize them."
Kargath let the words sink in, his fierce gaze locking onto Thrall. "And Kroghtar?"
"Kroghtar will be by your side, preparing for the advance," Thrall assured him. "Trust that this plan serves us all. We will claim what is ours—not just in these mountains, but far beyond."
Finally, Kargath nodded, accepting the command. "Very well, Thrall. We'll return to Cindor and prepare for the next phase. But know this: I'll be watching closely. One mistake, and your plans mean nothing."
Thrall's lips curved into a faint smile. "I expect nothing less."
Far away in the great halls of the Dwarven Kingdom, King Thorin sat alone, surrounded by piles of gleaming gold and precious gems. Word of the defeat had reached him—the Ironfoot dwarves had been crushed, and the orcs now claimed the lands and mines that had once belonged to his people. His advisors had urged him to rally the dwarves and reclaim what was theirs, but Thorin dismissed them all.
"No orc will touch my gold here," he muttered, his gaze fixed on the glittering hoard around him. In his heart, he felt the weight of responsibility for his people, but the thought of risking his wealth, his kingdom, filled him with dread.
Thorin's loyal subjects waited for a sign that he would act, but none came. While the dwarves yearned to avenge their fallen and reclaim their honor, their king sat in silence, clinging to his gold, ignoring the cries of his people. And so, the dwarves remained isolated, unwilling to challenge the orcs who had taken their lands.
In the opulent halls of Edros, Count Varian stood before King Edros IV, Queen Illyana, and Prince Edward of Edros. The count, battered and weary from the disastrous battle, recounted the events in grim detail. He spoke of the unexpected second orc legion, led by the cunning shaman Thrall, and the brutal efficiency with which they had decimated the dwarves and his own forces.
King Edros IV's face was grave, his piercing eyes fixed on the count as he absorbed the full scope of the orc threat. Queen Illyana, regal and poised, exchanged a concerned glance with Prince Edward, whose hand tightened around the hilt of his ceremonial sword.
"And what do you propose we do, Count Varian?" the king asked finally, his tone measured but weary.
"With respect, Your Majesty," Varian began, "we cannot ignore the strength of these orcs. They've established themselves in the mountains, and their leader, Thrall, has a mind for conquest. If we do not act now, they will only grow stronger."
The king's gaze hardened, but after a long pause, he shook his head. "Edros is not prepared for a war, Count Varian. Our lands are strained, our armies weakened from the last conflict. To face these orcs now would risk all we hold dear."
Varian opened his mouth to argue, but a look from Queen Illyana stopped him. She nodded in quiet agreement with the king. Prince Edward, however, seemed torn, his youthful idealism clashing with the reality of his father's decision.
"I understand, Your Majesty," Varian said finally, though a bitter edge crept into his voice. "But know this—the orcs are not content to stay in the mountains. They will come for us sooner than we think."
With a curt bow, Varian left the hall, his mind racing. He knew that Edros's inaction would not stop the orcish expansion, and he could only wonder how much time they had before Thrall's forces would march on their lands.
As the doors closed behind him, the royal family remained in silence, each lost in thought, contemplating the threat that loomed on their borders. And in the depths of the mountains, the orcish stronghold of Cindor continued to grow, a dark and formidable power on the rise.