"Our march south is not an invasion! It is a quest for fertile soil, a crusade to feed our people!"
The warlords of the outcast races were savage, yes, but they were rarely stupid. They saw the momentum shifting, and they leaped to ride the wave.
"Correct!" a voice boomed from the crowd. "Why should they feast in the sun while we freeze and starve in this wasteland?"
"Form the coalition! March South!"
One by one, the voices rose in the insectoid territory, becoming a chorus of guttural agreements and screeching affirmations. It wasn't just compliance; it was a release of pent-up desperation.
"To the South!"
"To the South!"
And so, orchestrated by the Clown, Lokiviria, and a planted agent in the crowd, the new northern power bloc was born.
They named themselves the Alliance of the Hundred Races.
The South. The Human Kingdom.
Deep in the velvet night, within the opulent silence of the Royal Palace, King Harold was roused from his slumber by a sealed letter from the North.
