The night air was thick with the scent of roasting meat and spiced wine, mingling with the deep timbre of laughter and the clash of tankards. Once a place of bloodshed and battle, the stone arena had been transformed into a great feast hall, its stone walls illuminated by flickering torchlight. Long wooden tables groaned beneath the weight of heaping platters—succulent meats glazed in honey and fire-charred, thick loaves of dark bread, and steaming cauldrons of stew rich with marrow and spice.
Tonight was no ordinary gathering.
The warriors of Hans's growing Domain had assembled—goblinkins, ogrekins, dracokins, titankins, and lunarborns who had once warred against each other, now bound together under a single banner. They ate as one, drank as one, laughed as one. The night was not just about the induction of a new purpose for these newly born tribes. It was a testament to their victories, to the bonds forged in the fires of battle. They were no longer just scattered clans and tribes. They were a force.
At the head of the largest table, Hans sat in quiet contemplation, his crimson eyes sweeping over the revelry before him. Though youthful in appearance, there was something in his gaze—an unspoken weight, an understanding far older than his years. Clad in dark finery, his presence was undeniable. Even in a hall brimming with warriors, the respect he commanded was absolute.
Beside him, Zharka lounged with the ease of a woman who knew her own strength. Her long raven-black hair cascaded over one shoulder. She swirled her goblet lazily, watching the revelers with amusement.
"You certainly know how to keep morale high," she mused, smirking as she took a sip. "A feast like this could make a warrior forget how many bones he's broken today."
Across from her, Vaelith was more restrained in her indulgence. She held herself with a quiet dignity. Her emerald eyes gleamed as she studied the crowd, her fingers tracing the rim of her goblet.
"A wise ruler ensures his warriors have something to fight for," she murmured, her voice smooth as silk. "Victory is not enough. A kingdom thrives on loyalty… and loyalty is fed through moments like these."
Hans chuckled, glancing over the lively crowd.
The night was alive with fire and laughter. Meat sizzled over open flames, its rich, smoky aroma thick in the air. Platters overflowed with roasted venison and spiced boar, while barrels of ale and wine were cracked open, filling goblets faster than they could be emptied.
Zharka carved off a thick slab of meat with a flick of her dagger, the blade slicing effortlessly through the charred flesh. With a smirk, she flicked a piece toward Selena.
"Here, pup," she teased.
Selena's sharp eyes caught the motion before the meat even left Zharka's fingers. With a huff, she let it drop in front of her instead of catching it, shooting a glare at Zharka. She didn't like being fed scraps, no matter how good the food was.
Rather than respond with words, she stood up and strode over to Hans, settling herself beside him. Her silver tail swayed as she leaned in, pointedly enjoying her new seat.
Zharka arched a brow but said nothing. Instead, she took a slow, deliberate bite of the meat she'd carved, chewing with an air of indifference—though her grip on the dagger tightened just slightly.
Varrek, ever the opportunist, raised his goblet high, breaking the momentary tension. "We've earned this," he declared. "To victory, to our flourishing kingdom, and to Lord Hans Marlic!"
A roar of agreement filled the arena stage, goblets clashing together, ale spilling over onto the stone floor. Laughter and revelry drowned out the small rivalry unfolding in the shadows of the feast.
Zhoran, the old goblin sage, stroked his beard as he observed the gathering. "Stronger than we were yesterday," he murmured. "And even stronger tomorrow."
Hans reclined in his chair, his gaze sweeping over the warriors gathered before him. They were his people—bound not just by his blood, but by battle, by loyalty hard-won.
Once, they had stood on opposing sides, hailing from tribes that had warred for generations. Yet here they sat, shoulder to shoulder, not as foes, but as kin. A quiet fire stirred in his chest, the weight of what they had become settling deep in his bones.
As the night wore on, the air pulsed with the rhythm of drums and flutes. Goblinkins played their instruments with wild enthusiasm, while Titankins stomped along in a heavy, booming cadence. The air was thick with laughter, flickering firelight casting long shadows over the revelers.
Zharka, never one to resist chaos, suddenly grabbed Vaelith by the wrist, her crimson lips curled into a wicked grin. "Come on, dragon lady—let's see if you can dance."
Vaelith sighed, her emerald eyes rolling, but she allowed herself to be dragged into the open space between the tables. Though she muttered about how ridiculous this was, her movements betrayed an effortless grace. As she twirled, the flames caught on her skin covered with a few dragon scales, making her shimmer as though she were a creature born of moonlight and fire. The onlookers cheered.
Selena watched from her seat, arms folded, her tail lazily flicking behind her. The warmth of the firelight brushed against her skin, casting golden highlights in her silver hair. She wasn't one for dancing. She could fight, she could hunt, but swaying to music in front of a crowd? That wasn't her.
Yet, as her sharp eyes drifted, she caught Hans watching. He wasn't grinning like the others, nor did he wear the smug amusement she expected. No, his gaze was steady, curious—almost intrigued.
A slow heat curled in her chest.
She told herself she didn't care. That she wouldn't let herself be pulled into something so foolish. And yet, before she could second-guess the impulse, she rose. The cool night air brushed against her as she stepped forward, smooth and sure, her every movement carrying the natural grace of a huntress.
If Hans wanted to watch, she would give him something worth watching.
As the hours passed, the revelry began to wane. The air, once thick with laughter and the clash of tankards, grew hushed as exhaustion claimed its due. Some warriors still lingered, their voices hushed as they swapped stories of old battles and whispered of the glories yet to come. Others had succumbed to sleep where they sat, sprawled across benches or lying motionless on the stone floor, their chests rising and falling in deep, satisfied slumber.
Hans finally rose, rolling the stiffness from his shoulders as he surveyed the remnants of the feast. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows across the great hall, illuminating the banners that now bore his crest.
Nearby, Zharka leaned against a pillar, swirling the last dregs of wine in her goblet. She smirked, fangs flashing in the firelight. "Not bad, huh?"
Hans returned the grin. "Not bad at all."
A steady set of footsteps announced Vaelith's approach. Arms crossed, the dracokin regarded him with an appraising look. "After tonight, more will come. Word of this kingdom spreads faster than you think."
Hans met her gaze, the weight of it settling deep in his chest. He welcomed it. "Good," he said. "Let them come."
Selena let out a long yawn, her wolfish ears twitching as her tail flicked lazily behind her. "For now, though, I'd say we've earned some rest."
Hans took one last sweeping glance over the hall—the warriors, the banners, the torches still burning defiantly against the encroaching night.
He knew this was only the beginning, and whatever came next—whether war, destiny, or something beyond—he and his army would be ready.
At the break of dawn, a thunderous crash shattered the stillness of the camp, ripping Hans from his slumber. The echo lingered in the early morning air like a war drum, unmistakably close.
Hans rose swiftly, heart thudding in rhythm with the fading reverberations. He moved to the edge of his quarter, pulling back the heavy flap just enough to peer out. The camp, usually wrapped in the quiet hum of discipline and order, now churned with unrest. Goblinkin sentinels scrambled into position, weapons drawn and eyes wide with confusion. From the direction of the main gate, smoke curled upward—thin and ominous.
"What happened?" he demanded, turning to the goblinkin sentinel stationed just outside his quarters.
The goblinkin bowed hastily, speaking in a gravelly, tense voice. "My lord, it is General Valrok. He has been… overthrown. Hooded figures appeared before dawn and struck with coordinated force. They now wait at the gate. They claim they wish only to speak—with you."
A flash of irritation crossed Hans' face, but he masked it behind a cold calm. Valrok—his Titanborn general—was not someone easily overpowered. Whoever these hooded intruders were, they had either brought overwhelming strength or sinister cunning. Perhaps both.
"Escort them to the war hall," Hans said, his voice low but firm. "If it's an audience they want… then I'll give them one."
He turned back into his quarters, eyes narrowing as he reached for the dark coat draped over his chair. Whatever storm had come to his doorstep, he would face it on his terms—and the hooded strangers would soon learn that kings did not answer summons. They dictated the terms.