Inside the massive, stone-walled keep of Ironhide Fortress, the mood was a volatile mixture of grief and pure, righteous fury. The fortress was the ancient, hulking embodiment of Ursarok military might, now serving as a staging ground for the old guard forces still loyal to the High Council. The thick granite walls, built generations ago to resist the nomadic Orc hordes, now felt like a cage against a cunning new threat.

In the cavernous, lamp-lit war room, General Borkor, a bearfolk whose thick, grizzled muzzle was scarred from a dozen campaigns, slammed a heavy iron fist onto the strategy table. The map of the region jumped from the force of the blow.

"Hearthglen is gone," Borkor's voice was a low growl that shook the rafters. "Killed in their sleep. Slaughtered like sheep by those Lupen mongrels. They burned families alive! And what does the High Council do? They issue protocols! They talk of diplomatic outreach! They are concerned with their silver vaults, not with the blood on the ground! They have abandoned their own people for coin!"

A roar of agreement met his words from the four Ursarok captains assembled. The sentiment echoed the growing civil strife across their territory—the military's rage against the Council's cowardice. Captain Ulf, the logistics officer, spoke first, trying to ground the General's rage in military reality.

"General, we share your fury, but the numbers are clear. They have five hundred mounted knights and at least a thousand levies surrounding us. We must contain this rage for now and focus on survival. The Citadel reinforcements—two full companies of veteran infantry, disciplined and well-equipped—are only a day out. We just need to hold these walls for twenty-four hours. Every hour we buy them ensures the counterattack is overwhelming."

"Twenty-four hours," echoed Captain Varrag, running a claw over the cold stone of the wall. "If we weather the first assault, we break their will and demonstrate the resilience of the Ursarok heart. We will use every staff in this fort, chef, janitor, engineers—every man and beast—every bit of every shield, and every arrow to hold the line."

Captain Freya, the youngest of the commanders, pointed to the crude scouting reports. "They have the full backing of the Foxkins and the Kobolds, an unholy alliance that solidified in weeks, not years. The talk is that the Foxkin weapons—the elemental staves—are a game-changer. They call them Pearlwood weapons, capable of incinerating a shield wall from fifty yards."

Borkor scoffed, his lips peeling back from his teeth. "Elemental staves. More Foxkin merchant gossip, I suspect. They always exaggerate the new toys to drive up the demand of their own trinkets and cause panic among the stable markets. These Lupens still fight with cold steel, and these walls were built to withstand every fire and rock they will throw at us, not a glow stick. We will hold the line, and when the reinforcements arrive, we will spill Lupen blood until the rivers run red." The Ursaroks were prepared for conventional siege warfare, failing to consider the true implication of advanced ranged weaponry.

Just as Borkor was mapping out the deployment of archers, a heavy horn blast echoed from the outer gatehouse—a parley signal.

General Borkor, unwilling to show weakness to the enemy by leaving the war room, entrusted the negotiation to his second-in-command, Captain Kjell, a massive, iron-shouldered Ursarok knight known for his unyielding temper.

Kjell stood alone on the battlements, his shadow stretching long in the twilight. Below him, riding a massive black charger and escorted by two Lupen standard-bearers, was Captain Jorah of the Lupen alliance. Jorah carried a small white pennant, flapping uselessly in the cold wind.

"Captain Kjell, I presume," Jorah's voice was smooth, carrying effortlessly up to the battlements. His face was framed by sleek, silver-gray fur, marked by an unsettling calmness. "I am Captain Jorah, sent by the Alliance High Command. I am here to offer terms of surrender. It is the most generous act we can offer the lives of your men and everyone inside before we are forced to take this position by force."

Kjell's laughter was rough and dismissive, laced with raw hate. "Surrender? We are Ursarok! We taught your scrawny ancestors how to wield a stick, cur! You have no standing here. Turn your tail and return to your masters before the gates open and your head rolls into the dust."

Jorah's smile didn't reach his eyes, betraying a deep, ancestral malice. "A predictable response, but a foolish one, Ursarok. You cling to a dead past where your brute strength meant dominance. Your High Council is weak, distracted by shiny metal and old alliances that have crumbled to dust. Your great-grandfather was a pawn to ours, and your line will end the same way. We offer you and your soldiers an honorable chance to stand aside and live—we only require your fortress and your allegiance."

"Allegiance to a pack of murderers?" Kjell spat, leaning over the stone parapet. "You killed civilians at Hearthglen. You slit the throats of children. Your 'honor' is filth, Lupen, and every beast on these battlements would rather be fed to the carrion birds than serve you. We will welcome you with boiling oil and arrows. Come and take your death."

Jorah tilted his head slightly, a gesture of almost bored pity that infuriated Kjell further. "A pity. You mistake defiance for strength. We are not just taking your fortress, Bear. We are taking your legacy, tearing down the symbols of your false dominance. I'll remember your face when I personally step over your corpse. You have until the evening bell to reconsider. If we hear no word, assume the terms are settled."

Jorah sharply reined his horse and, without waiting for a reply, turned and rode back towards the massive, organized camp of the invading force.

The First Wave

Jorah returned to the Lupen lines, throwing the white pennant onto the muddy ground in a symbolic rejection of peace.

"Lower the parley banner! The fools have chosen the old way—the way of extinction," Jorah announced, the confidence in his voice ringing clear through the ranks.

Behind him, the vast majority of the invasion force—the levy troops—began their final preparations. This was not the elite Lupen vanguard, but the hastily assembled coalition force designed to break the defenses before the specialized units were committed. Their purpose was simple: soak up the initial volley and plant the ladders.

The total Alliance levy force consisted of nearly one thousand three hundred troops from the allied races, but Jorah immediately delegated three hundred for the first, direct assault wave, reserving the rest for follow-up and protection.

The majority of these 300 were nimble Frogkin skirmishers, clad in dark, functional leather armor, their inherent agility and sticky pads making them ideal for scaling walls quickly and silently. Interspersed among them were stoic Kobold shock troops, small but vicious, carrying heavy axes and short, reinforced shields. Their small stature made them difficult targets, a tactical advantage in a ground assault. The command structure was held by thirty Lupen levy squad leaders, recognizable by their slightly better chain armor and the crisp red tabards marking them as field officers.

Crucially, there were no new, fabled Pearlwood elemental staves to be seen in this initial wave. Jorah's strategy was to test the defenses using traditional siege warfare first, conserving the more valuable magical weaponry for the breach or the second wave. The beastkin adjusted their leather straps and tested the weight of their crude weapons: short swords, hand axes, and bows.

The quartermasters were distributing the essential siege gear: dozens of rough-hewn scaling ladders, crude rope hooks, and bundles of tinder for torches. The ground rumbled as a few heavy, wheeled battering rams were hauled into position, ready to be pushed forward to breach a secondary gate if the assault on the battlements failed.

Jorah mounted a high scaffolding constructed of rough lumber, drawing a simple, highly polished steel sword that caught the last light. The sun had dipped below the horizon, casting the battlefield in deep purple and amber shadows.

"Fellow beastkins! We have been given opportunity at this moment to restore the old Spinebride principles! Strength through blood and steel! For many years, the old Alliance, led by the weak Ursarok, has made all of us complacent! We nearly forgot our old ways! Tonight, we shall repaint Spinebride anew and restore the glory and honor in battle!" Jorah roared, drawing a chaotic but unified cheer from the mixed-race ranks below. He lowered his sword point toward the massive, silent walls of the Ironhide Fortress.

"Advance the ladders! First assault wave—move!"

The horn of war blared, a long, mournful, yet aggressively challenging sound. The first wave of Lupen, Frogkin, and Kobold levies surged forward, their bodies blending into the gathering gloom as they raced toward the unyielding stone of the fortress, prepared to die just to get a ladder onto the wall.

The moment Jorah's sword dropped, a chaotic chorus of war cries rose from the levy troops. Three hundred bodies—mostly nimble Frogkin and squat Kobolds, flanked by Lupen commanders—sprinted across the fields towards the fortress moat. The ground shuddered under the rhythmic pounding of their advance, a desperate race to the walls before the defenses could fully engage.

On the battlements of Ironhide Fortress, Captain Kjell stood, his massive chest heaving, watching the charge. The Lupen's taunts still burned, but he had a moment of savage satisfaction. He nodded once to the signal drum master.

The silence of the fortress broke with an ear-splitting crack that signaled the full, brutal opening of the siege defense.

First came the iron rain. Not a gentle scatter of arrows, but the dense, chugging rhythm of the repeater ballistas positioned high on the third-floor battlements. These formidable weapons, powered by thick torsion cables, fired bursts of heavy, iron-tipped bolts. The bolts tore through the air with a shriek, punching holes through the dense pack of charging levies. A dozen Frogkin, agile just moments ago, were instantly slammed into the dirt, their momentum replaced by sudden, messy finality.

The charge faltered, but Jorah's command rang out, "Keep moving! Use the bodies for cover!"

Then, a high-pitched, metallic groan signaled the second stage of the defense: the catapults. From the hidden pockets of the inner courtyard, three squat machines launched their payloads. These weren't boulders; they were large, sloshing wooden barrels filled with thick, refined naphtha oil.

WHOOSH-WHOOSH-WHOOSH.

The barrels arced over the walls and shattered on the ground just fifty yards from the moat, soaking the earth, the men, and the scaling ladders in a slick, dark fluid. Before the levies could recover, a volley of Ursarok arrows, flaming and precise, traced arcs through the sky.

One arrow struck the center of a puddle of naphtha.

KABOOM!

The sound was less explosion and more the violent inhalation of a furnace. A sudden, terrifying wall of orange-red fire leaped fifteen feet high, enveloping the soaked section of the field. Shrill screams erupted as Frogkins and Kobolds, now living torches, stumbled blindly. The smell of burning oil and singed fur was instantaneous. The charge was now broken, reduced to scattered pockets of desperate movement.

Yet, some levies reached the moat, throwing grappling hooks and hastily placing their wooden ladders against the granite wall. They found themselves facing the second layer of hell: the ground-floor defense.

The fortress walls were ten feet thick here, reinforced with iron plating. Just above the stagnant water of the moat, narrow firing slits—too small for a counter-arrow to enter—opened up.

Inside, Ursarok spearmen and short-bow archers, safe behind the thick iron-backed stone, fired down through the slits at the attackers scrambling below. It was a turkey shoot. A Kobold trying to prop a ladder was instantly impaled by three spears thrust through the slots, and an adjacent Frogkin was shredded by arrows before he even reached the rung. The walls were impenetrable.

Miles away from the burning field, inside the Ironhide Fortress's command bunker—deep beneath the war room—General Borkor Ironhide monitored the battle's initial progress through a series of runners and viewing prisms. He remained calm, a stark contrast to the chaos raging above.

"Report on the first wave," Borkor ordered, his voice steady.

Captain Ulf, the logistics officer, wiped sweat from his brow. "Oil is ignited. The ballistas are suppressing their formation. They're disorganized, General. We've incurred negligible losses. Should we unleash the cavalry now to turn this into a rout?"

Borkor held up a scarred hand. "Patience, Captain. Our men are eager, but a quick rout does not break their strategic will. What of the sortie?"

"The knight cavalry, led by Commander Grif, is in position," Ulf confirmed. "They are staged in the southern forest, due west of the Lupen siege camp. They are mounted, armed, and ready to breach the camp's rear guard at your signal."

Borkor leaned over a flickering lamp, the light catching his grizzled face. "Listen carefully. The signal will only be fired when we confirm the deployment of their new weapon. Those elemental staves. We need to lure them out, force them to commit their most valuable assets. Do not move Grif until those Pearlwood weapons are on the field. That skirmish is the lure, not the victory."

He then turned to Captain Varrag, who stood by a heavy lever mechanism built into the wall. "The siege has begun. It's time to prepare for the long siege. Varrag, confirm the storage and escape tunnels are locked down."

Varrag placed his heavy paw on the lever. "Conf-confirmed, General. All primary heavy steel doors will close and lock when I engage the primary lever. The maze network will be activated, sealing off the direct routes. Only we will hold the keys."

"Execute it."

A deafening, deep GRIND echoed through the command bunker as Varrag pulled the lever. Far below, deep in the earth, massive iron-reinforced doors slammed shut throughout the maze of tunnels that connected Ironhide to the outer world. These tunnels, secretly maintained for years, were the fortress's true lifeline—a hidden route for essential supplies and the incoming Citadel reinforcements. The grinding noise was the sound of the fortress sealing itself, relying now only on its own strength and its secret egress.

Borkor watched the oil flare outside one of the viewing prisms. Come, Jorah, he thought. Show me your parlor tricks. I have fire, steel, and a fortress full of rage waiting for you.

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