The king turned to the five royal knights standing before him, his voice calm but commanding. "Now, as I was saying…"
The knights straightened, eyes fixed on him with unwavering attention.
"I want the five of you positioned at the front lines," he said firmly. "Lead our charge with strength and resolve."
Then, shifting his gaze, he addressed the royal alchemist standing off to the side. "Can you prepare potions to enhance their abilities? Something to bolster their strength, speed—and perhaps something to protect them from whatever tricks the orcs might have up their sleeves?"
The alchemist gave a respectful bow. "At once, Your Majesty. I'll begin preparations immediately." With a quick turn, he strode from the chamber, no doubt already calculating ingredients in his head.
Next, the king's eyes fell on the rune smith. "And you," he said, "do we have any runes in storage that might aid us in the coming battle?"
The rune smith bowed deeply. "Yes, my lord. I've several that could tip the scales in our favour. With your permission, I'll retrieve them at once."
The king gave a curt nod. "Go. Time is not on our side."
The room began to stir with purpose as each of them moved swiftly to fulfil their roles, the weight of the coming war pressing down on their shoulders.
The king's expression shifted, sharpening with thought. His voice rang clear through the throne room. "We now understand what we're facing. The orcs—they've gained the power to twist reality itself. Whatever they imagine, they can make real. And they're only growing stronger."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. The court hung on his every word, no one daring to avert their gaze.
"But does that mean they cannot be defeated?" he asked, his tone firm, resolute. "Of course not. We'll do the only thing that can truly shake them—we'll turn their power against them. We'll make them fear us."
He turned toward the window, eyes catching the golden light of the setting sun. "If I'm right," he murmured, just loud enough to be heard, "they'll strike at sunset."
Then he turned back to his court, standing tall before them. "Go. We've no time left for words. Send word to every warrior—take your positions. Prepare yourselves. We will win this battle."
Without hesitation, the room erupted into movement. Advisors, nobles, messengers—everyone rushed from the chamber with renewed purpose.
The king remained behind, seated upon his throne, alone in the dimming light—silent, steady, and waiting.
Beyond the towering walls of Aurliath, an army stretched across the landscape like a steel tide—thousands strong. Knights in polished armour, archers with taut bows, and mages cloaked in shimmering robes stood shoulder to shoulder. They were the kingdom's line of defence, their eyes fixed on the horizon, where the threat loomed just out of sight.
At the front of the formation stood five figures clad in distinct armour—the royal knights. They were the finest Aurliath had to offer, each one a living legend. Their faces showed nothing, unreadable as carved stone.
Among them, sophi, a young female mage shifted her weight and let out a frustrated sigh. "We've been standing here for hours," she muttered, brushing a lock of hair from her face. "These orcs are taking their sweet time."
Beside her, Ser Dorian, a holy knight tightened his grip on his weapon, his voice calm but firm. "Stay sharp," he said without turning. "They could be upon us at any moment."
As the royal knights stood atop the ridge, their gazes stretched across the vast plains below. At first, it was a shadow on the horizon—then, it grew, stretching wider, deeper, like a black tide swallowing the land.
It was an army.
An endless horde of orcs, marching in slow, deliberate formation. The ground trembled beneath them, the terrain seeming to shift and buckle under their weight. Dust and wind whipped through the air as the five knights stared in stunned silence.
"They just keep coming…" one of them muttered, eyes wide with disbelief.
Kaela, tall and imposing in her steel gauntlets, narrowed her eyes. Her voice was low, almost a growl. "Why did they stop?"
The tide had halted. Thousands of orcs stood eerily still, like statues in formation.
Beside her, Iancyne adjusted the string of his bow—the finest in the kingdom—his elven features taut with focus. "What could they possibly be waiting for?"
Before anyone could answer, movement broke the silence. One lone figure began making his way toward them—an orc, but something about him was different.
"Someone's coming," said Ser Dorian, the holy knight, his hand drifting instinctively to the hilt of his blade.
The lone orc approached with slow, measured steps. As he neared, the knights could see he was unarmed—no axe, no armour, no war paint. His stance held no aggression, only purpose. He stopped a fair distance away, just short of a kilometre, and raised a hand in what could only be a gesture of peace.
Then he cleared his throat, the sound oddly formal.
"Greetings, humans," he called out, his voice steady, practiced. "I come as an envoy. The King of Grom'Khal sends his message."
The orc stepped forward, towering over the stone steps of the royal courtyard. His voice boomed across the valley, deep and thunderous, as though the mountains themselves might echo it.
"You may call me Glush," he declared, his chest swelling with pride. Then, with a grim smile curling his tusked lips, he added, "Now, hear the words of my king."
The courtyard fell into a tense silence, save for the rustling of banners in the wind.
"I, King of Grom'Khal," Glush continued, his voice now thick with venom, "will have my vengeance. Your kingdom humiliated me—cast me and my loyal warriors into the Inferna fires. But know this—I am not without mercy. Kneel before me now, and I shall spare half your people."
A hush fell over the gathered knights and nobles, til the five royal knights—burst into laughter.
"Your king must be truly confident he'll win this war," Iancyne scoffed, his hand gripping lazily on the handle of his bow.
As the laughter faded, Ser Dorian stepped forward, his eyes sharp and unwavering.
"Go back to your king," he said, voice calm but laced with steel, "and tell him we'll gladly send him back to the fires he crawled from."
Glush let out a low chuckle, the sound cold and mocking. "My king knew you'd say that," he said, voice edged with satisfaction. "Let it be known—this is your end."
He turned slowly to face the mass of Orcs behind him, their eyes glinting like embers in the dusk. "At any moment now, my king will give the command. And when he does… everything you love, everything you've built—your homes, your hopes, your very legacy—will be ash beneath their feet."
Behind Glush, the Orc army stirred, gripping weapons with growing anticipation. In front of them, the five royal knights stepped forward, drawing their blades in unison, steel ringing in the thick air. Behind them, the ranks of Aurliath's soldiers readied for war.
"Steady now!" Ser Dorian called out, his voice sharp and rallying. "Get ready!"
Glush turned slowly to face the Royal Knights, his eyes burning with a wild, primal fire.
"Fear the Orc King," he growled, his voice rough as gravel, but steady with conviction. "when his warriors tear through your armies—ripping you apart, limb by bloody limb. When your cities crumble, and the very ground you built your kingdom upon runs slick with the blood of men, dwarves, elves… and anything else foolish enough to stand in his path."
His tone dropped lower, colder, a shadow creeping into every word.
"He will stand over the corpse of your beloved king," Glush continued, his gaze locking with theirs, unblinking. "He will look upon the ruin—the broken bodies of your people scattered across the earth…"
He paused, a wicked grin curling at the edges of his cracked lips.
"And then… he will consume them."
The words hung in the air like a curse.
With a savage roar, the Orc horde rushed forward. Glush vanished into the stampeding wave, swallowed by the tide of iron and fury.
From the other side, the army of Aurliath charged to meet them. The two forces collided like thunder rolling across the hills, and the earth itself seemed to tremble beneath the weight of war.
The orcs chanted in low, guttural tones, their eyes glowing faintly as they reached out with ancient, magic, an attempt to bend reality itself. But something held them back. Some unseen force protected the human army, a protective veil that turned the orcs' power to ash in the air.
At the vanguard, five figures in gleaming armor carved a path through the chaos—the royal knights. With effortless precision, they struck down the front lines of the orc horde.
"Keep pushing forward! No fear!" Ser Dorian bellowed, his voice cutting through the roar of battle. He yanked his bloodied blade from an orc's chest and, without missing a beat, pivoted to intercept another strike with the flat of his sword, sparks flying from the clash.
Not far behind him, Kaela met an oncoming swing with her gauntlets, metal ringing against metal. She tilted her head, unimpressed.
"I thought they'd put up more of a fight," she muttered, before channeling all her strength into a devastating punch. The impact sent the orc sprawling backward, unconscious before it hit the ground. Without hesitation, she stepped onto its chest and brought both gauntlets down hard, ending it.
"Not that it matters," she said under her breath, brushing a strand of blood-slicked hair from her face as she moved on to the next.
The clash of steel echoed across the battlefield as the human army surged forward, forcing the orcs into retreat. Confusion rippled through the orc ranks—spells that should have turned the tide fizzled out, their powers inexplicably ineffective. Panic began to spread like wildfire as the tide of battle shifted.
At the edge of the chaos, Glush approached the towering figure of the Orc King. Dropping to one knee, he bowed his head low. "My lord," he said, his voice calm amid the storm, "everything is unfolding just as we planned. The humans believe they're winning."
A slow, cruel grin crept across the Orc King's face. "Excellent," he rumbled. "Let them celebrate their illusion of victory." He turned his gaze toward the battlefield, eyes gleaming with menace. "It's time they learned what real strength looks like."
Rising to his full height, he raised a clawed hand and barked the command, "Send in the high-ranking warlords. Let them show these fools the true power of the Horde."