The forges of Hollowpeak Pass roared with new life. Sparks flew into the air like fireflies as Stoneblood Steel was smelted, poured, and shaped into the weapons of a future empire. Gorak stood on the upper terrace, watching the work unfold, but his thoughts were not solely on metal.
Whispers had reached him from the Beastblood warriors he had recruited at the outpost. Some had begun questioning his authority. Not openly, not foolishly—but with grumbling discontent, like embers smoldering in the dark.
It was only a matter of time before one caught fire.
That fire had a name: Tharak Bloodtusk. A hulking brute with a mane of dark braids, skin like sun-charred bark, and tribal tattoos stretching from jaw to collarbone. He had once led the Beastblood outpost before swearing to Gorak—reluctantly, out of necessity, not respect.
Now, with battle behind them and wealth pouring from the forges, Tharak's pride had grown restless.
It began during the evening war council.
Gorak stood before a gathering of his lieutenants: Drask, the forge-chief Vrakka, and several Beastblood sub-commanders. The topic was expansion—how many forces to send west toward the riverlands.
Tharak interrupted.
"You speak as though you command gods, not warriors," he growled. "Half of those following you still remember the lash of my orders. And they still obey my voice in private."
Silence fell. Eyes turned.
Drask reached for his axe.
Gorak raised a hand. "Speak plainly, Tharak."
"I speak of truth, warlord. You took Hollowpeak by cunning and fire, yes—but we have not bled for you, only with you. You lead because you are feared, not honored."
"Would you change that?"
Tharak stepped forward. "I would test it. As our ancestors did. In open duel. No tricks. No fire-swords. Just strength, steel, and spirit."
The dueling pit beneath Hollowpeak had not seen use in years. It was a sunken arena carved into the stone floor, ringed by old iron torches and jagged rock. Word spread fast, and by nightfall, the whole camp gathered—orc, beastblood, and even forge-crafters.
Gorak stepped into the pit wearing only simple armor and wielding a standard iron axe. Flamefang remained sheathed. This was not a test of power—it was about presence.
Tharak entered bare-chested, gripping a twin-bladed war cleaver. The crowd roared.
The signal was given.
Tharak struck first, a brutal overhead blow. Gorak sidestepped, letting the axe graze his shoulder, then retaliated with a rising swing that clipped Tharak's ribs. The two circled like wolves, trading measured blows—neither wasting energy.
The crowd fell into tense silence as the minutes dragged on. Dust rose. Blood was drawn. Gorak's shoulder throbbed; Tharak's left leg was cut.
Then Gorak saw his chance.
Tharak roared forward for a heavy strike. Gorak deflected with the haft of his axe, used Tharak's momentum against him, and slammed his forehead into the chieftain's face with a wet crack.
Tharak staggered. Gorak swept his legs. The larger orc fell hard, weapon clattering.
Gorak straddled him, axe at his throat.
"Yield," he growled.
Tharak hesitated, blood trickling from his brow.
"I said—yield."
Tharak's eyes met his. For the first time, Gorak saw something besides defiance in them.
Respect.
"I yield... Ashfang."
The arena erupted in roars of approval. Drums pounded. Fists beat against chests.
Gorak stood and helped Tharak to his feet. He raised the chieftain's hand high, blood still dripping from both.
"This is not a kingdom of slaves or blind dogs," he declared to the crowd. "This is a brotherhood of blades. We earn loyalty not with chains, but with fire and honor. Any who doubt my rule—step forward."
None did.
From that day, the Beastblood warriors called him Gorak the Ironbrand, for the blood-forged bond he'd claimed through trial. Tharak became one of his most vocal supporters, and Gorak appointed him Warchief of the outer encampments.
And with the loyalty of the wilds now sealed, Gorak turned his gaze eastward—to the riverlands, to the fractured orc clans who had yet to hear his name.
Soon, they would.