The night air was thick with the stench of blood and fear as Borg's orc warriors chased the retreating goblins through the jagged foothills. The goblins were a ragged group—a few more survivors but they had ventured deeper than they would have liked—the orcs that was.

They stumbled over rocks, some wounded, others carrying the weak, their small green bodies silhouetted against the moonlit sky. Borg, his face still a map of bruises from his fight with Byung, joined the others after emptying his balls into Shava, his weapon slung over his shoulder. He had no mercy for these "rats"—they were loose ends, potential messengers who could rally more goblins or alert humans to the chaos.

"No survivors!" Borg bellowed, his voice rough with triumph and rum. His orcs charged, a green wave of muscle and steel. The first goblin fell to a thrown spear, the shaft punching through his back and pinning him to the ground like a bug. He twitched once, green blood bubbling from his mouth, then stilled. The others scattered, but there was no escape. An orc on foot grabbed a fleeing male by his hair, yanked him back, and slammed his boot into his spine with a crunch that echoed off the rocks. He screamed, high and desperate, before his axe silenced him forever, cleaving his head from his shoulders in a spray of arterial blood.

Borg smiled at the bloodbath as it showed how easy it was to weave a tale with the right circumstances. A young goblin turned to fight, knife shaking in his small hand. Borg laughed, swatting the blade aside, then drove his fist into the goblin's face. Bone caved in with a wet snap; the goblin dropped, nose flattened, eyes rolling back. Borg stomped down, heel crushing the throat until cartilage gave way and the body jerked still. He moved on to the next, axe swinging in wide arcs that lopped off limbs and opened bellies. Guts spilled steaming onto the cold earth, the smell of offal mixing with the sharp copper of blood.

The orcs were thorough, brutal. They dragged the wounded from hiding spots, pinning them down and hacking slowly—drawing out the pain with shallow cuts before the killing blow. Screams filled the night, high-pitched and pitiful, but the orcs laughed, making games of it. "Bet I can take his legs without killing him!" one roared, swinging low. The goblin howled as his knees shattered, crawling in the dirt until another orc stomped his skull flat. No mercy. No prisoners. Borg wanted their heads.

When the last goblin fell—a child who had hidden behind a boulder, stabbed through the back as he tried to run—Borg ordered the spikes brought forward. Iron rods, sharpened to points, hammered into the ground along the path. The orcs lopped off heads with casual swings, blood spurting from necks in dark arcs. They impaled the heads one by one, eyes staring sightless, mouths frozen in screams. Thirty-four spikes, thirty-four heads—decorations to warn any who passed. Borg stepped back, admiring the grotesque line, a smile twisting his bruised lips.

"Let the crows have them," Borg blurted under his breath because the massacre was done.

He had no idea where Kragg was—but knew there was no way he could be alive, his heart had stopped. Shava must have taken him to honor him even though Borg was yet to question her. Borg felt nothing but satisfaction. With Kragg gone, the tribes would look for a new leader.

They turned back toward camp, the night growing colder. But as they crested a ridge, one orc scout froze, pointing.

"Look— one of ours," He screamed at the top of his lungs.

The body hung upside down from a tree, ankles bound with rope. Flayed. Skin peeled in long, curling strips from legs and torso, exposing raw muscle and the delicate web of nerves beneath. The orc was alive—barely—body twitching, screams reduced to hoarse whimpers as wind brushed his exposed flesh like acid. Vultures circled overhead, waiting. Horror rippled through the group.

"Who did this?" an orc growled, drawing his axe.

"Goblins?" Another asked.

Borg's face paled. No goblin could do this—too precise, too cruel. The wounds were fresh, nerves glistening, every touch of air a torment. The orc's mind was broken, eyes mad with pain, babbling nonsense.

They cut him down, but mercy was quick: a blade across the throat to end it. Borg ordered the body buried, but his voice shook. This was no goblin work. The enemy had gotten close—undetected, unseen. If they could flay one of their own like this, what else lurked in the shadows? It was brought to Borg's notice by a panting orc as they returned to camp.

"Borg—it's not isolated. Three more patrols found dead," He reported and Borg realized they were in more danger than he realized.

Borg's horror deepened. They expanded the search immediately—patrols doubled, torches lit, horns blown to rally stragglers. Sentries posted on every ridge, fires blazing high to ward off the night. This turned from a massacre to something else.

Shava watched the frenzy from quite the distance, her eyes narrow. She knew goblins hadn't done this. Borg would exploit it, though—whip up fear, paint the goblins as monsters to justify their annihilation. He wasn't the strongest fighter, but cunning? That was his blade, sharper than any axe.

She saw fear in his eyes as he barked orders—real fear, cracking his usual smirk. Rightfully so. This was no random attack; this was a message.

Then, from the shadows of the treeline, a figure emerged: a white-haired orc woman, broadsword dragging against the ground with a low, grating scrape. Alone. Massive, scarred. The nameless Stonehide Chieftess had appeared.

Over twenty orcs froze, not counting Borg and Shava. Weapons rose slowly, but no one moved. She stood there, silent, eyes glowing in the firelight, like a demon summoned from the peaks. Borg swallowed hard.

"What in the..." He had no idea who she was but the killing intent was crushing but Borg believed they held the advantage.

She was just one woman after all.

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