Ashfang Ford had never known such silence.
The fires burned low, sending spirals of smoke into the ashen dawn, while sentries patrolled along the reinforced palisades. After the battle with the carrion envoys, no one slept soundly. The Whispering Banner still fluttered softly at the highest point, its faint murmurs unsettling even the bravest of orcs.
But Gorak was not thinking of banners or undead horrors.
He stood inside the war tent, gazing at a rough map drawn in charcoal on stretched hide. Circles, symbols, crude arrows. Every mark represented a choice—a risk—and today, those choices would gather beneath this very roof.
It was time to forge alliances or die trying.
Drask entered first, ever the watchful shadow, followed by Tharak, carrying a crate of obsidian-forged weapons. They were soon joined by orcs bearing the sigils of scattered, broken clans. Gorak had sent runners out days ago—before the carrion arrived. Few responded.
But some had come.
Five chieftains in all. Scarred, bitter, and desperate.
Old Greth of the Iron Tusks, stooped with age but still wielding a stone-headed maul twice the size of a man's skull.
Vashra the Scarborn, her left eye missing, replaced with a crude bronze plate. Her warriors, lean and feral, eyed the weapons with hunger.
Ugzak of the Bone-Hand Tribe, his knuckles wrapped in strips of human scalp. His grin was as sharp as the knives on his belt.
And lastly, the Bloodbrothers: Hurn and Skegg, twins from the shattered Red Maw Clan, infamous for treachery and ambush.
Gorak studied them in silence.
No smiles. No welcomes.
"You called us to parley," Old Greth rasped, leaning heavily on his maul. "Talk, or I go home."
Gorak stepped forward.
"Home?" His voice carried like a hammer striking bronze. "Look around you, Greth. You have no home. None of you do. Burned out. Hunted. Driven into the wilds by men, beastblood tribes, and worse."
Vashra spat to the side. "And you offer what? A pile of sticks by a filthy river? A whispering curse flying overhead?"
Gorak grinned.
"Not a camp. A kingdom. You think small because your clans were taught to think small. Hunt, raid, die. Over and over, like dogs chasing bones. I will break that chain. Here. Now. With or without you."
The orcs glanced at one another. Murmurs. Doubt.
Ugzak spoke next, his voice oily with mockery. "Big talk for a warlord with no crown."
Gorak stepped closer, eyes narrowing, voice dropping low. "No crown... yet. But I have something better."
He gestured to the crate Tharak brought.
Tharak lifted the lid, revealing the obsidian-forged weapons—gleaming black blades, war picks, curved knives. Things of beauty and savagery.
The gathered chieftains fell silent.
"From the ruins beneath this land," Gorak explained. "The forges of the Orcish Ancients. We shape them with our own hands. I will arm you. I will feed you. And when the Bone-Eaters come—and they will come—we will grind their bones beneath our boots."
"Why you?" Ugzak sneered, but weaker now.
"Because none of you did it," Gorak said simply. "You hid. I fought. I took the banner. I bled for this. And I'll bleed again. But when the dust settles, I will be standing atop the ashes. The question is... will you be standing beside me—or underneath my boots?"
Silence.
Then: "Suppose we stand with you," Vashra growled, folding her arms. "What's the cost? What do you demand of us?"
"Loyalty," Gorak replied. "Not lip-service. True loyalty. Your warriors will wear my colors. Fight when called. Hunt when ordered. I'll give you lands. Blood rights. Wealth. But betray me... and you'll find out firsthand what obsidian tastes like."
It was not a threat. It was a promise.
Old Greth laughed suddenly, a hacking bark like a wolf coughing up bones. "Hells, boy, you've got bigger tusks than sense. I like it. I'll stand with you. I'm too old to care who wears the crown, so long as I get to break skulls."
Vashra nodded once. "The Scarborn join. But I answer to strength, Gorak. If you falter, I'll kill you myself."
Ugzak hesitated, but the glimmer of greed in his eyes betrayed him. "I'll take your blades. Let's see if your promises are sharper."
Only the Bloodbrothers remained silent, exchanging looks.
"Well?" Drask growled.
Finally, Skegg spoke. "We'll fight. But not for you. For the gold. You pay—we kill."
Gorak smiled. "Gold you'll have. Bone-Eaters first. Men later. And when the kingdom is ours—plunder without end."
The pact was made.
And as the orcs left the tent to prepare, Gorak remained behind, staring at the crude map of their world.
One spark.
One banner.
One kingdom yet to rise.