The grand study in Rodell's manor was a manifestation of elegance amid the kingdom's rugged borderlands. High ceilings arched with wooden beams carved in intricate human motifs—dragons entwined with swords, symbols of power and vigilance. The air carried the rich scent of aged leather from the bookshelves lining the walls, mingled with the faint smokiness of beeswax candles flickering in silver holders. A massive oak desk dominated the room, cluttered with maps rolled like ancient scrolls, ink pots with quills still dripping, and sealed letters bearing wax stamps from distant allies. Rodell sat in a high-backed chair upholstered in deep crimson velvet, his fingers drumming on the armrest as he stared out the leaded window at the rolling hills beyond. The sun hung high in the sky, casting a golden hue over the landscape, but his mind was elsewhere. A knock echoed informing him of someone's presence.

"Enter," Rodell called, his voice smooth as polished steel.

The door creaked open on oiled hinges, admitting a messenger cloaked in mud-spattered riding leathers, the scent of horse sweat and river dampness clinging to him like a second skin. In his hand, he held a sodden piece of paper, edges frayed from its watery journey. "My lord," the man said, bowing low, "this washed up in the lower rapids. Fishermen found it caught in the reeds. Sealed for your eyes."

Rodell took the paper, his fingers brushing the damp parchment. It had been thrown into the water—Borg's doing, no doubt, a clever drop in the river that fed into the kingdom's waterways, carried by currents to trusted hands. He unfolded it carefully, the ink slightly blurred but legible, the message clear and concise: Borg's plan to kill Kragg, seize control of the orc tribes, and bend them to Rodell's will. A takeover from within, eliminating the old tribe leader and installing a puppet loyal to human interests.

It explicitly stated by the time this reaches his hands, the deed would be done and Rodell had no doubt this would be the case as this orc had shown great promise otherwise.

He had no reason to doubt this would be done because the only reason he would write this letter would be if he was certain.

This worked hand-in-hand with Rodell freeing the goblins to carry out their planned attack on Kragg as well.

Rodell smiled, a slow curl of his lips that didn't reach his sharp blue eyes. The parchment crinkled under his grip as he set it down. This would ensure he could directly control the orcs—through Borg, a cunning intermediary who owed him everything. Protect his interests: the border trade in goblin slaves, the flow of iron ore from orc mines, the buffer against deeper threats. Satisfaction warmed him like the candle flames, but a nagging doubt lingered as he understood there was a chance Borg's greed got the best of him.

This outcome wasn't sustainable because Borg had ambitions of his own.

Borg was ambitious, a snake in orc skin; puppets often cut their strings. And if he was willing to kill his ruler, he wasn't someone he could trust but for now, he was a great placeholder.

And then there was Byung. Something twisted in that goblin put Rodell on edge—a darkness that went beyond the usual goblin traits. He was no ordinary goblin, escaping Elandor, rallying orcs like Maui to his side, inventing weapons that turned battles. But even with that, there was no way he could match the orcs' brute strength or at least this was what Rodell thought.

Rodell leaned back, the chair creaking under his weight. This was what he believed—his updates came days after events, carried by riders whose horses foamed at the mouth from hard gallops, or birds with messages tied to legs. Delayed intelligence, but enough to keep tabs: the mine assaults, the goblin resistance, the Stonehide interference. These were information yet to reach him as there was a delay in communication and the Stonehide existence made it difficult for Borg to leave their fortress.

Byung was a thorn, but thorns could be plucked.

One thing caught his interest amid the report's scrawled lines: Vrognut was in that region. The cannibal goblin, a monster even among his kind, with a bounty high enough to change the life of a family. If Rodell could capture him, it would boost his image with the people—the average citizens, bloodthirsty for goblin heads to satisfy their bloodlust, people craved violence from the dawn of time.

Public executions in the capital square, the crowd's roars as the axe fell, the scent of fear and cheers echoing in the air.

It would rally support, distract them from the fact that Murkfang had 'escaped' even though it was for a bigger picutre.

The fact that Murkfang had escaped was already causing serious troubles—whispers in the taverns, nobles questioning Rodell's grip on the borders. The goblin escaping despite all the work done to bring it here. It could loosely incite potential uprisings, more raids on the goblins' camp.

But this was the least of his troubles; humans would always find something else to rage about—taxes, poor harvests, elf incursions. Rodell's real concern was the elves. They had been quiet for far too long, their forest realms silent as tombs. He had no idea if they were still in contact with the dwarves—the underground folk who forged alliances in secret.

Elves and dwarves together could spell disaster for human borders, they were the one race rumoured to have access to magic and with the dwarves craftsmanship a threat to his kingdom's advancement.

Rodell set the paper aside, its damp edges curling as it dried. He was waiting for his four Generals to return—the most refined warriors the kingdom had produced, each a legend in their own right. Tall and broad, clad in polished plate armor that gleamed like mirrors, wielding weapons that had claimed the lives of hundreds.

They had been sent out to the four axes—north, south, east, west—to keep watch on the orcs, ensuring they didn't overstep boundaries. Camps dotted the borders: tents flapping in the wind, fires crackling with the smell of roasting meat, sentries scanning horizons with sharp eyes. Reports came weekly by courier, the clip-clop of horse hooves on cobblestone heralding news of orc movements.

But there was something even darker they were keeping an eye on: the dark continent. Across the storm-tossed sea to the south, a land of nightmares where races thought extinct or mythical dwelled in shadowed realms. Creatures that could rip armies to shreds in seconds—dragons with scales like iron, behemoths with hides impervious to arrows, shadow-beasts that fed on light itself. The region they resided in had something that prevented those horrors from crossing over—a barrier, perhaps magical or natural, unknown in its mechanics but absolute in its effect. Ships that sailed too close vanished, swallowed by mists that reeked of sulfur and decay, crews never heard from again.

Rodell knew the elves were the only race to have glimpsed that world—ancient tales spoke of elven explorers returning mad, babbling of cities built from bone and skies that bled. This was part of the reason they shut out the rest of the world, retreating to their impenetrable forests where nothing left or entered. They were preparing for something and Rodell wanted to know what.

Instead, they built weapons—bows that could penetrate the strongest of armors, blades that sang through armor.

The scent of elderwood resin and forged mithril wafted from their borders on rare winds, a reminder of their isolationist forge. Rodell needed to know what it was—what terrified the immortal elves into silence. Spies had been sent, but none returned, their absence a void that gnawed at his sleep. But there was nothing he could do regarding their disappearance as they shouldn't be there in the first place.

He folded the paper, tucking it into a hidden drawer with a soft click. Borg's plan was a step forward, but the dark continent loomed like a storm on the horizon. Control the orcs, crush the goblins, then turn eyes south. The kingdom's survival demanded it.

-

The dwarf moved through the underground tunnels like a shadow forged in stone, his dark-skinned form blending with the gloom. His red eyes glowed faintly, piercing the darkness as he navigated the refined passages— arches curving overhead like the ribs of a buried giant. This was no natural formation; it was the work of dwarves from eons past, a hidden network of forges and halls long abandoned, their mechanical construction of forgotten craftsmanship.

He had entered through the very mine space Murkfang had discovered—a concealed crevice in the foothills—but from below, where the ancient dwarven engineering connected to the surface like veins in rock.

The dwarf's steps were silent, boots padded with enchanted leather that absorbed sound, his blackened steel armor whispering faintly with each movement. He carried a hammer at his belt, and a cloak of tattered hides.

His target was clear: Byung, the goblin king.

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