The fire crackled in the great hall of Kragg's stronghold, a massive stone keep carved into the side of a jagged mountain. Smoke curled up to the high rafters, where banners of skinned goblin hides hung as trophies from past raids. Kragg sat heavy in his throne-like chair, a tankard of rum in one meaty fist, staring into the flames. His orcs filled the room, rowdy and triumphant, slamming mugs together and roaring laughter. The harvest had been good—chains clinked in the pens outside, where the captured goblins huddled in the cold. They had taken nearly over fifty from the southern mine, skinny but sturdy workers to fuel the forges.

The orcs treated them harshly, as was their way: kicks to get them moving, whips for any backtalk, meager slop thrown into the dirt for food. But they were smart enough not to kill them. Dead goblins dug no ore, forged no weapons.

"Break 'em, but keep 'em breathing," Kragg had ordered. His warriors obeyed, grumbling but compliant. They chained the goblins in shifts, working them to exhaustion in the mines below the keep, then locking them in iron-barred pits at night.

Shava paced near the throne, her tusks grinding in frustration. She was against this—against all of it.

"This is madness, Kragg," she said, voice low but sharp, her face twisted in disgust.

"We agreed on raids for resources, not wholesale slavery. This goes against everything—the pacts with the border clans, the uneasy truce with the humans. You're turning us into monsters in their eyes," Shava was quick to condemn his actions.

The room quieted a bit, orcs glancing her way. Kragg waved a hand dismissively, but his eyes darkened.

Then the messenger arrived, a bloodied scout bursting through the doors.

"Chief! Word from the north—Kraghul's partner has killed everyone. Massacred everyone in the mine his guard watched over. He didn't just take the outpost; he burned it all," The messenger said.

This meant the mine, the weakest of them all, they had killed all the goblins there and it was achievable by the weakest of orc but Kragg could see he made a mistake by letting Kraghul's acquaintance lead the charge.

The hall fell silent. Shava stopped pacing, her face paling.

"That idiot," She spat.

"That wasn't the plan. Raid, intimidate, take what we need and force them to work for us—not genocide. Now the situation's beyond repair. The humans will see this as full war. They'll rally their armies," Shava pointed out. They had crossed a line.

Kragg slammed his tankard down, rum spilling across the table.

"Damn him," Kraghul cussed under his breath, voice thick with fury and regret.

"All this is my fault. I sent him there to subdue them, not to start a blaze. This is all because of that fucking Vrognut!... that cannibal goblin wasn't supposed to be here! Kraghul never planned to help us take the mines—this is on me." He rubbed his temples, the rum's warmth adding to his drowsiness, making his eyelids heavy. He wasn't drunk, but the liquor dulled the edges, made the weight of leadership feel like a boulder on his chest. The orcs had seen Kragg unravel for the first time, their strong leader had publicly shown signs of weakness.

There was no doubt the humans would react badly. Word traveled fast on the borders; messengers on swift horses. Kragg's keep sat on the edge of human lands—peace had been fragile, built on trade and mutual understanding of their respective roles in this world.

But Kragg wasn't one to wallow. He rose, striding to the pens outside. The captured goblins shrank back as he approached, chains rattling in the cold night air. Instead of a whip, he brought bread and water, tossing loaves into the pits with surprising gentleness.

"Eat," he growled.

"You'll need strength," Kragg added.

The goblins stared, suspicious at first, but hunger won. They grabbed the food, devouring it. Kragg used this—small kindnesses to build trust. A word here, a question there.

"Where are your main tunnels?" "How many goblins in the other mines?" They preferred him to the other orcs, who kicked and cursed. They opened up, bit by bit. He needed them alive; this was his only shot at brokering peace with the goblins. Send envoys, offer terms, use the captives as leverage. Something told him it would take more than women to fix this mess. Land? Gold? An alliance against humans?

Kragg needed to rest his head, he returned to his quarters shortly after.

A knock at his door pulled him from his thoughts. Borg entered, face a map of bruises and cuts, body wrapped in bandages. Kragg kissed his teeth in irritation, waving him in without a word. He wasn't drunk, but the rum had softened his edges, made him drowsy so his vision was seeing double at this point.

He sat back in his chair as Borg limped to a chair and sat without invitation.

Awkward silence stretched for a full minute. Kragg stared blankly at the wall. Borg fiddled with a bandage on his arm.

"Why didn't you join us? We could have used your blade," Kragg spoke finally.

"Knew you'd lose. No point dying for nothing," Borg shrugged casually, leaning back.

Kragg's eyes narrowed. Rage boiled up fast. He slammed his fist on the table, splitting the thick oak in two with a crack like thunder. Splinters flew. He surged forward, grabbing Borg by the neck and hauling him up like a rag doll. "You coward! You knew and you sat back? I'll snap your neck like a twig, you—"

Pain exploded in his torso soon after.

Kragg looked down. Borg's knife was buried to the hilt in his gut, blood welling around the blade. Borg twisted it once, grinning through swollen lips.

"I didn't come here to talk, Kragg," Borg said with a grin.

Kragg roared, but the rum and the shock slowed him. Borg yanked the knife free and backed away, watching as Kragg slumped, clutching the wound.

"You got sloppy, old friend," Borg said with a blood-curdling chuckle as the orc bled out.

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