The humid air of the marshlands pressed down like a heavy blanket, and the waters rippled faintly as fish darted beneath the surface. Despite the stillness, tension ran thick—rumors spread faster than the wind. The Orc Army was advancing, devouring everything in its path.
At the heart of the marsh, the Lizardman Chieftain sat on his throne of stone. His massive, scaled body seemed weighed down, not by age, but by the fears of his people. Warriors knelt before him, their muscles hardened from years of survival in the swamp. At his side stood his daughter, poised and graceful, her amber eyes sharp with intelligence.
"Father," she said softly, her voice steady despite the dread beneath it. "The scouts confirm it. The Orc numbers grow each day. Tens of thousands march already… and they move with purpose. If nothing is done, the marsh will fall within the month."
The Chieftain's eyes darkened. He already knew this truth. The Orcs were no longer mindless beasts—they were organized, disciplined, united by something greater. Worse still, there were whispers. Whispers of an Orc Lord.
"We will hold," he rumbled finally. "The marsh is our ally. Its mud and waters will slow their march. We will dig in. We will endure."
The warriors slammed their tails in unison, voices rising with resolve. But one voice, sharp and burning with arrogance, cut through the hall.
"Endure? Hide in the swamp like cowards?"
It was Gabil, the Chieftain's son. His scales gleamed a bright azure, his tall frame brimming with youthful energy—and arrogance. A spear rested proudly in his grip as his golden eyes burned with ambition.
He strode forward, ignoring the dark looks from the older warriors.
"If we wait, we die. If we fight, we win! Father, you speak of defense like it is honor—but there is no honor in waiting for pigs to come trample us. I will lead our warriors. I will crush them before they even set foot in the marsh!"
"Gabil!" the Chieftain's roar shook the chamber. "Do not mistake pride for wisdom. These Orcs are not rabble. They march in formation, consuming everything in their way. To strike recklessly is suicide."
But Gabil only laughed, twirling his spear.
"Suicide? No—glory. The Orcs are weak in spirit. The Lizardmen are strong. If I lead, we cannot lose. The marsh will remember the name of Gabil!"
A murmur ran through the warriors. The younger ones looked at him with awe, swept up by his fiery words. The older warriors exchanged uneasy glances, their tails flicking nervously.
The Chieftain's shoulders sank with sorrow. His son's pride blinded him. He knew arrogance would lead them to ruin.
"You will not," he declared firmly. "I command it. Our path is defense, nothing more."
But Gabil smirked, bowing mockingly.
"As you command, Father. But when the people grow tired of cowardice, they will look not to an old lizard clinging to fear—but to me."
He turned and marched out, younger warriors following in his wake. Their footsteps echoed like cracks in the Chieftain's heart.
The Chieftain's daughter stepped closer, her voice quiet. "Father… should we stop him?"
"No," the Chieftain said, voice heavy. "He must learn. But I fear the lesson will cost us dearly."
---
The village had changed a lot. Thanks to the dwarves and the hard work of the hobgoblins, proper log houses stood in tidy rows. Smoke rose from chimneys. The training ground was busy: people sparred, practiced setting snares, and learned how to keep watch. Even the wolves moved with a calm order now.
Atem stood on a low rise and watched it all. He folded his arms and breathed in the clean air, feeling the small hum of Veldora's essence at his chest. For a moment he allowed himself a small, quiet satisfaction. The place looked like it could last.
Then Souei — one of his more careful scouts — knelt beside him, voice low and urgent. "Master, I bring troubling news. Scouts report movement in the south. A massive force—well over one hundred thousand—marches through the Great Forest. They leave nothing in their path."
Everyone nearby stopped what they were doing. Men and women dropped tools and stared. Atem's eyes sharpened.
"A hundred thousand?" Atem repeated, slow, steady. He looked to his leaders and trainers, to the men who had been working at the forge and the women who kept the stores. "Are you certain?"
Souei's nod was exact. "There's no mistake. They're orcs, but not the disorganized raiders we know. They move like an army."
A low murmur spread. Memories of raids, burned hiding places, and lost kin tightened the camp's mood. Atem felt a weight settle over the village — and under it, a coldness that meant something bigger than simple raiders.
One of the captains stepped forward, voice rough but ready. "If the orcs number that many, then something has made them whole. They march under an Orc Lord. That's no ordinary threat."
Atem's jaw set. He let the Oracle's voice slide into his mind, clear as a bell.
<
Atem answered in his head. "Understood." He tightened his cloak and turned to the gathered people. "We cannot ignore this. If that army keeps moving, it will reach these woods before long."
Another trainer, someone who had been leading drills, rubbed his beard and said, "We can fight, but against those numbers we'd be crushed if we act alone."
Atem kept his tone calm and practical. "Rushing out alone is suicide. Hiding and waiting is also a risk." He paused and let that land. "We need allies. We need to know the map of the enemy and we need to make more friends."
<
Atem nodded slowly, thinking three steps ahead as he always did. "Then we make contact. We will offer an alliance. If they agree, we'll coordinate defenses. If not, then we must prepare other plans." He looked out over the village, at the newly built houses, at Rigurd drilling his people, at Gobta fussing over a bag of food. "I won't let them sweep through and burn everything."
There was a murmur of resolve. Faces hardened, shoulders squared. Atem could see the spark of readiness flare in the hunters' eyes.
Ranga padded up and nosed Atem's hand, tail thumping once. "We will go where you command, Master," the direwolf said in its low voice.
Atem allowed a small, tight smile. "Good. Send scouts to the marsh quietly. Offer a parley. Take no big force—just enough to show respect and seriousness. Keep the route secret. If the Lizardmen refuse, do not fight. Withdraw." He looked at the closest captain. "You lead the men here. Reinforce the palisades and the snares. Teach two watch shifts and rotate them. If the orcs come, we buy time—nothing more. That time will be the lives we can save and the decisions we make."
<> the Oracle said softly. <>
"Good," Atem said aloud, voice firm and clear. "We leave within two days. Prepare the envoy. Bring food and simple gifts. Keep the village strong."
The villagers moved without need for long speeches—they were already beginning drills and checking supplies. The plan was simple and cold and practical: gather information, offer alliance, prepare defenses. Atem felt the pull of duty like weight settling into his shoulders. He had not wanted a war, but he knew one thing clearly:
"If the Orc Lord walks unchecked, no one will be safe. We meet them before they reach our door."
He turned and watched the horizon, where the forest met the distant marsh. The march had begun, and now the village he'd helped build had to face its first great test.