Chapter 62: The War Marches

  In the heart of a grand Caravan, Thane Vulgaris leaned over a makeshift war table, his fingers tracing over the intricate maps laid before him. The Carriage was dimly lit by oil lamps, casting flickering shadows across the gathered war council—veteran commanders, mercenary captains, and political strategists. Each one handpicked for their expertise, loyalty, or sheer ruthlessness.

  At his right, Commander Dresk, a battle-hardened lion Beastfolk, leaned over the table, his piercing golden eyes surveying the strategy. "The Orcs may have fortified their stronghold, but they are not an organized army. Their warriors fight well, but they lack coordinated leadership. If we strike first, we dictate the battle."

  Opposite him, Lady Veressa, an exiled Astorian noble turned military advisor, tapped a gloved finger against the map. "A direct assault on their gates is costly and foolish. They will expect that. Instead, we starve them out. We burn their supply lines, cut their access to fresh water, and force them to fight on our terms."

  A hulking Canine in mercenary armor, Captain Jorvan, scoffed. "Sieges take time. I say we hit hard and fast. The Orcs will scatter under enough pressure."

  Thane Vulgaris raised a hand, silencing the debate. His expression was unreadable, but his voice carried a chilling finality. "We do both."

  He gestured to the map, where wooden markers represented their advancing forces. "Our preemptive forces are already en route. They will arrive within two days, positioning themselves to harass the stronghold’s perimeter, forcing the Orcs to focus inward. Meanwhile, our main forces will follow four days behind—enough time for exhaustion and desperation to set in."

  Dresk nodded in approval. "We starve them, then crush them."

  Vulgaris’ lips curled slightly. "And when they are broken… the survivors serve. The strong will be recruited. The weak will be discarded." His eyes darkened. "Xenor will claim the Rebirth Dungeon, and the Orcs will learn their place."

  A murmur of agreement spread through the council. The plan was set. The war had begun.

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  News of the Thane’s war plans spread quickly, intercepted by the upper circles of Xenor’s Adventurer’s Guild. Within the stone halls of the guild, Thalron sat in quiet contemplation, his fingers drumming against his knee.

  "Two days behind…" he muttered.

  At his side, Arixa watched him with narrowed eyes. "We're going to help him, aren’t we?"

  Thalron’s gaze didn’t waver. "Marcus earned my respect. He fought for something bigger than himself. I won’t stand by while he and the Orcs are slaughtered."

  Arixa sighed, folding her arms. "Alright, what’s the plan?"

  "You find Vealeth," Thalron said simply.

  Arixa raised a brow. "Vealeth? That dragon bastard? Why him?"

  "We don’t know his true motivations, but we do know one thing—he respects strength," Thalron explained. "And Marcus beat him in the tournament. That matters." He met Arixa’s gaze. "If he’s looking for a worthy cause, this is it."

  Arixa groaned. "Fine. But if he turns on us, I’ll gut him myself."

  Thalron smirked. "Good luck with that."

  Far from Xenor, within the walls of the Orc Stronghold, the air was heavy with anticipation. Chieftain Miran stood upon the watchtower, his sharp eyes scanning the darkened horizon. He did not yet know what had transpired in Canindrus, but he knew this feeling well.

  The scent of war.

  Beside him, Gurak, the Stronghold’s Lead Tactician, exhaled. "You’ve been saying this would happen."

  Miran grunted. "Vulgaris wouldn’t let the dungeon slip through his fingers. He’s a schemer. He’ll send forces ahead to weaken us before his main army arrives."

  "Then we’re ready for them," Gurak said, rolling his shoulders.

  "Not fully," Miran admitted. "But ready enough."

  The stronghold had been fortifying for weeks. Defensive structures had been erected. Traps had been set. Warriors had been training. It was not perfect, but it was enough.

  For now.

  Miran’s gaze darkened. "We just have to hold out… until Marcus gets here."

  Beyond the stronghold, unseen by Orc scouts, shrouded figures watched from the cover of the night. Clad in darkened robes and marked by the sigil of the Followers of the Black, they observed the brewing war with quiet calculation.

  A young acolyte, shifting uneasily, whispered, "They’re preparing for war. Should we intervene?"

  Their leader, a figure wrapped in a cloak of shifting shadows, gave a soft, knowing chuckle. "No, not yet."

  The acolyte hesitated. "But Marcus Elder is there. The one we seek."

  The leader turned slightly, their hood obscuring their features. "Exactly. And when the Thane’s forces reach the stronghold, Marcus will be occupied. The battle will consume him."

  The other followers nodded in understanding.

  The leader’s voice was calm, certain. "And that is when we strike."

  The war for the stronghold was about to begin.

  And in its chaos, the Followers of the Black would claim their prize.