Baronsworth journeyed onward, weaving his path through the wide and wondrous lands that stretched before him. The breathless beauty of the natural world unfolded on all sides — rolling hills cloaked in mist, groves of lush trees, rivers that sang as they danced over stone. Alone in the wilderness, with nothing but his thoughts and the wind for company, Baronsworth soon found himself growing still within. A quietude began to settle, unbidden, centering him.

  Memories stirred — of that first time he had fled alone into the wild, clutching the same old map passed down from his father. Now, once more, it guided him. Weathered by time but peerless in precision, no map he’d encountered since came close to matching it. Not even the finest work of modern cartographers could rival the accuracy with which his ancestors had charted the land.

  But instead of pride, the sight of it stirred sorrow.

  A heaviness gripped his heart whenever he thought of his people. There came a kind of quiet mourning — a sorrow for what had been and what was lost. The glory of Asturia, that once-proud nation, was now little more than myth: the tale of a golden realm where gods walked beside their children, and guardians of light held the darkness at bay. A realm now buried beneath the sea, remembered only in whispers and half-remembered songs.

  It all seemed too beautiful to be true.

  And yet, Solon the Elder believed it. The old Loremaster had spoken of those primordial days not as fable, but as fact — with the calm conviction of one who knew. And Baronsworth had not taken him for a madman. On the contrary, Solon was perhaps the wisest and most grounded man he had ever met. There was something in his eyes, in the way he smiled — not naively, but knowingly. As if he carried a secret that gave him peace, even in suffering. He had smiled even when starving, even in the shadow of torment. And when he spoke, it was as though he peered straight into the soul.

  It was this — more than any grand tale or prophecy — that had moved Baronsworth to listen.

  When Solon asked him to leave behind all he had known, to walk the path of uncertainty, he had agreed without protest. In truth, he had already done it once before. And if he were honest with himself, the years spent among the Gryphons had never fully satisfied him. Grateful though he was for their fellowship, something in him had always ached for more — for a higher calling he could not yet name. A feeling, persistent and wordless, like a hand tugging gently at the heart.

  Solon’s arrival had not awakened this longing — only named it.

  Now, that same longing guided his steps, as he traveled toward the land of the High Elves and whatever truths might await him there. And if there was even the smallest chance that this path — however uncertain — might help to set the world right again… then it was worth it.

  That much, he knew.

  Baronsworth recalled that on the night of his exile, his first instinct had been to seek the land of the Elves. Even now, he found himself wondering: had he followed that instinct, where might he be?

  The thought lingered. The timing, back then, had been right. Perhaps he could have reached Ellaria with ease. And had he dwelled there these past twenty years—studying under their ancient masters, poring over tomes likely older than the Sunkeep itself—what kind of man would he have become? Visions stirred in his mind: of a wiser Baronsworth, steeped in Elven knowledge, wielding their strange and storied magics, returning to the Sunkeep not as a wandering exile, but as a master of lore and light, wresting back his home with certainty and strength.

  Perhaps those years with the Gryphons had been lost time. Perhaps the very path he’d taken had delayed his fate. Had he followed his heart that first night—listened to the quiet voice that urged him toward Ellaria—then maybe by now, he would already have reclaimed what was his. Maybe he would be sitting now in the high halls of Cael Athala, firelight flickering on the stone as he dined in peace, his ancestral home restored, the long wound finally healed.

  He wondered: was it not his heart leading him then? Or perhaps, more still, was it the will of the gods—guiding him as they so often had before, subtle and unseen?

  But he pushed such musings aside. His father’s voice echoed in memory:

  “There is no use in pondering how things could have been, or should have been. It is a fruitless misuse of time and energy, yielding nothing but the weight of regret and a broken heart besides.”

  The hours turned to days, and the days into weeks, as Baronsworth passed through rolling hills and green valleys, across crystalline rivers and wind-swept highlands. Summer lay full upon the land, and he could not have chosen a finer season to travel. Each morning greeted him with golden light upon his face, and though he traveled alone, the world itself seemed to offer its quiet company.

  Now and then, a village would appear upon his path, affording him a warm meal and a roof to rest beneath. But most of his time was spent in the wild, where he relied on wit and memory to endure. His father’s lessons, long ago drilled into him beneath the shade of younger trees, had only grown more rooted in his heart. He had not forgotten them—how could he? They had kept him alive.

  But Baronsworth would have it no other way. He relished the solitude. The scent of the breeze and the whispers of the trees were companions enough. He listened to the murmur of brooks, the rustle of leaves, the symphony of birds that followed him from grove to glade, tilting their heads at him as if asking silent questions with their bright, curious eyes.

  He remembered, with vivid clarity, those earliest lessons—his father’s voice, calm and sure, guiding him through the forest paths near their home. Time is a strange thing, he thought. That first flight from the Sunkeep felt like a lifetime ago—and yet, in other ways, it felt like yesterday. The images had not dimmed. They returned often: the frantic escape, the bitter cold, the ache of uncertainty. The grief.

  How strange time was. In joy, it passed too quickly; in suffering, it dragged like a stone through sand. It was invisible, intangible—and yet it imprisoned all. Even the strongest bars of steel and stone could not resist its slow decay. Time wore down everything. It devoured all.

  And still, the memory endured: that night, that flight, that desperate hope for survival. The world had changed since then — and so had he. Yet, in quiet moments, Baronsworth could still feel the echo of that boy within him, the one who ran into the dark filled with fear, the fire fading in his heart.

  But he was that boy no longer.

  Gone was the child torn from all he had known, stripped of safety, of home. In his place stood someone forged through hardship — tempered like steel in flame. He was a man grown now, and a powerful one at that. Strength coursed through him, not only of body, but of will. And he carried it with a quiet pride, enduring and still, like the roots of a mountain.

  And despite, or perhaps because of, all the hardship he had endured, he felt... unstoppable.

  He did not yet know how he would reclaim the Sunkeep. That path was still shrouded in mist. But he was certain of one thing: he would succeed. A strange conviction stirred in his blood, a pulse that grew louder the closer he came to Ellaria. Something within him whispered that the hour was drawing near.

  He would let nothing stand in his way.

  If the gods were on his side, so be it. But if they stood against him—then let them beware. He would find a way to overcome even them. For the first time in many years, Baronsworth allowed himself to trust. Not in men, or luck—but in the hidden current of fate. He let go of the reins. Let go of the need to control. A larger design was at work. He could not see its end, but the next step lay clear before him—and that, for now, was enough.

  He pressed on.

  He had entered again the lands of the Forlorn Kingdoms — and found, to no surprise, that he had not missed them. Smoke curled like serpents into the sky, drifting from distant homesteads, hamlets, or battlefields—it was hard to say which. As he passed through dense woodlands and crumbling ruins, keeping to the shadows, he glimpsed signs of war everywhere. Once, it was banners fluttering over a distant ridge, steel flashing in sun and blood. Another time, it was the stench of corpses left to rot, their armor stripped, their eyes wide with terror.

  The land had not healed. If anything, it had worsened since the Gryphons had last ridden through — deeper scars, darker deeds. A patchwork of broken lords and squabbling knights, mercenary hosts turning upon one another for gold or pride. Peace was a foreign tongue here, long forgotten.

  But still, being here meant one thing: he was nearing the Elderwood. Ellaria could not be far.

  One day, while passing through a stretch of still wood, the silence was ripped open. A mighty Grand Duke cleaved the sky above, screaming as if to warn the earth itself. Moments later cries rose in the distance—shouts of terror braided with the ringing of steel.

  Baronsworth reacted without hesitation. He slid from his saddle, tethered the mare to a low bough, and pressed forward through the underbrush—swift and silent, a shadow among shadows.

  At the edge of a clearing he dropped low and peered through the foliage. The sight answered the uproar: a caravan under siege. Smoke curled from burning wagons. Chaos reigned. Men cried out in panic; the clash of blades was a harsh drum. Orcs poured in like a black tide—snarling, bellowing, striking with crude, brutal weapons.

  “Orcs?” Baronsworth breathed, brow furrowed. They did not belong so far south; not since the fall of the Western Holy Empire had such beasts dared these roads. The kings and barons were too busy warring among themselves, and in the hollow of their quarrels, the monsters had come.

  From his vantage he watched the defense—a handful of hardened mercenaries, veterans by the look of them, brave but outnumbered. The caravan’s fate was a matter of time.

  At the rear, where the line had buckled, a cart lay pried open. Captives were dragged into the mud—farmers, laborers, women—faces twisted in terror as they were hauled before the snarling creatures.

  Then the largest of the Orcs shoved through the fray: red-skinned, vast of shoulder and bulging with muscle, a leader by its swagger. It stalked to the line of captives and stopped, seizing a woman by the jaw and lifting her face. She did not struggle; terror had pinned her still.

  “Worthless,” the great Orc spat. “Filthy and weak. These won’t fetch coin. Might as well make supper of them.”

  A smaller, sly-eyed Orc slunk up and murmured, “Not entirely true, sire. The women-folk don’t need strength to bring a fair price. Sell the females. Eat the rest.”

  The leader snarled, glaring. But after a long, considering pause, it relented.

  “As you say. But if they’re not worth the travel, I’ll have your head.”

  Before the smaller Orc could respond, the wind screamed.

  An arrow hissed through the clearing and buried itself in the chieftain’s throat.

  The brute staggered, choking, clutching at the shaft as black blood poured down its chest.

  Another arrow came — and another. Each struck true. Orcs toppled in confusion, snarls turning to shrieks of alarm.

  “Ambush!” the sly-eyed one screeched, its voice thin with panic. “To arms! Find them!”

  The surviving guards, still locked in desperate melee, looked up in disbelief. Their attackers were breaking away, rushing toward the rear of the caravan.

  Hope stirred.

  Whoever struck from the shadows had turned the tide.

  “What is it? I can’t see anything,” muttered an Orc at the rear, squinting into the trees. Its beady eyes strained against the gloom.

  Then the forest answered.

  A war cry split the air — fierce and mighty, like the wrath of the mountain itself rolling down from the heights. Not the cry of the cornered, nor the desperate, but a challenge, wrath made voice. A shudder rippled through the Orcs.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  “Brace yourselves!” came the barked command. Weapons lifted, eyes narrowed, breath caught.

  The roar swelled — closer, louder — until the Orcs braced for the thunder of an onrushing army.

  But no army came.

  From between the trees burst a lone man, charging headlong with his blade held high, its surface catching the faint light like lightning on steel.

  “It’s just one man!” an Orc snarled, laughing. “Get him, boys!”

  They broke ranks, grinning with bloodlust. Numbers were their strength. One man alone would fall like all the rest.

  But this was no ordinary man.

  He struck with the force of an avalanche breaking loose, crashing into the front line with ruinous power. Orcs reeled backward from the sheer violence of the impact. His sword carved through flesh and sinew with a speed that defied the eye, each stroke precise, purposeful—lethal.

  Cries of pain filled the clearing as he moved like a spirit of vengeance, cutting down the creatures as if born to the blade. The Orcs had known war, had fought many foes… but never this. This was no warrior. This was a reaper.

  “Stick him! Forward!” their commander bellowed, but the command cracked with fear.

  It did not matter how many pressed in. He cut them down one after another, a vortex of steel and fury. Blood splashed across the earth. Orcs shrieked and fell.

  At last he reached the center of the carnage. The commander, ringed by its last guard, stared in mounting dread as the stranger advanced—calm, relentless, unstoppable.

  And then… silence.

  The Orcs dared not move. He stood among the bodies of their kin, blade slick with black blood, chest rising and falling with measured breath. A dozen eyes fixed on him, wide with horror.

  One gasped, voice trembling:

  “It’s… it’s him.”

  Another pointed, shrieking: “The blade! Look at the blade!”

  “Ark-s?n…” one whispered. Orcslayer. The name fell like a curse.

  Then he charged once more—no hesitation, no fear—his sword lifted high, gleaming like a shard of the sun piercing through the sky’s veil. The commander, hulking and iron-clad, roared defiance. A single stroke answered it—lightning-quick—and the beast lay broken in the mud, bloodied and lifeless.

  In that moment, their courage shattered.

  The Orcs turned to flee, panic seizing them—but it was too late. The surviving caravan guards, emboldened by the savage ferocity before them, surged forward and struck. Blades flashed, vengeance and gratitude driving every blow.

  Caught between two onslaughts, the Orcs fell one by one. In moments, they were slain to the last.

  The battle was over.

  A young girl — the same who had moments before been seized by the Orc commander — stumbled forward, tears streaming down her face. She flung herself at the warrior, wrapping her arms around his leg as sobs of relief shook her frame.

  “Thank you,” she whispered between gasps, clutching him as if he were the last real thing in the world.

  Others followed — men, women, trembling, bruised, bloodied — gathering around him in a chorus of broken gratitude. Their words were jumbled, choked with emotion, but all bore the same truth: he had saved them.

  The guards, bloodied but breathing, moved among the Orc bodies, checking for signs of life, though they knew none would rise again.

  One of them stepped forward, sword still in hand, and came to stand before the stranger.

  “Greetings, friend,” said the man, stepping forward and bowing his head slightly. “We owe you more than we can repay. My name is Dereth — I was charged with protecting this caravan. A task I would have failed, had you not intervened.”

  He paused, then offered a respectful nod. “Please, tell me your name, so that I may thank you properly.”

  The stranger regarded him in silence for a moment. Then he looked to the others gathered around, their faces lit with awe and relief. At last, he answered.

  “My name is… Magnus.”

  “Well met, Magnus. You have our deepest gratitude. And your companions — bid them come out, that we may thank them also.” Dereth’s eyes drifted to one of the Orc bodies, where an arrow still jutted from the neck.

  “He has no companions,” came a voice — an old man from the caravan. “He stood alone against the beasts.”

  Dereth’s eyes widened.

  From the back, a bald, thickset guard burst into laughter. “He? By himself?” He glanced around, expecting others to join him. “You mean to say this one man brought down all these Orcs?” His chuckling faded as no one answered — only silence met him.

  The weight of the truth settled in.

  Dereth turned back to Baronsworth, a new gravity in his gaze. “You are… incredibly brave, my friend. To face so many on your own…” He hesitated, then added gently, “Is there any way we can repay you? Surely you must expect some reward for your efforts.”

  Baronsworth shook his head. “No reward is necessary. I saw travelers in danger and answered the call. Slaying these beasts is reward enough.” He nudged one of the fallen with his boot — it did not move.

  Dereth inclined his head. “Then we will offer you our gratitude — and what little hospitality we can. At least stay for a bowl of soup? We’ve brought spices all the way from Samarkhan. A rare treat in these parts.”

  At that, Baronsworth’s eyes flickered — a memory stirred. The scent of Samarkhani spices once filled the kitchens of the Sunkeep. It had been years.

  And he was, in truth, very hungry.

  But he glanced toward the forest — toward the blood on the earth, the stench of death — and frowned. “I thank you,” he said, “but I must be on my way. The scent of battle lingers — it may attract less welcome company.”

  “As you wish.” Dereth placed a hand to his chest. “May fortune favor you, Magnus.”

  “Goodbye, Magnus!” called the young girl, who had clung to his leg. Her voice still trembled, but her smile had returned. “I will never forget you!”

  Baronsworth gave her a final nod, turned, and strode back into the trees. The caravan watched him go in reverent silence.

  But not all eyes that watched him were grateful.

  Unseen, hidden amidst the brush, a lone Orc lay crouched, clutching its wounded gut. It was the smaller one — the same who had argued with the slain commander.

  Its dark eyes gleamed with hate and fear.

  “Orcslayer…” it rasped. “I must tell the others…”

  And with that, it slipped away into the forest shadows, vanishing like smoke on the wind.

  That night, Baronsworth made camp atop a craggy rise, a rugged spur of stone overlooking the wilderness below. Judging it safe enough to light a fire, he roasted a hare he had hunted earlier and tended his wounds — little more than scrapes, though the bruises ran deep. When the meal was done and the fire burned low, he turned his attention to Lightbringer.

  The leather wrappings along the hilt had been torn to shreds in the battle. There was no one here to repair them, no skillful tanner hand to stitch new bindings. Worse still, when he reached for the darkening oil to maintain the blade’s luster, he found the flask nearly empty. In his haste, he had brought no ingredients to mix more.

  He stared at the sword for a long moment — naked, gleaming in the firelight.

  “I am done hiding,” he declared aloud, voice firm. “Let them see. The Lord of Cael Athala walks openly now, wielding Artharion. I go to meet my fate.”

  That night, he slept soundly beneath the stars.

  At first light, he resumed his journey. Days passed in solitude, winding through ridges and glades, through high meadows and fern-choked hollows. The wilds stretched vast and untamed, but he pressed on, drawn ever westward. Then, at last, he reached the edge of the Elderwood.

  He remembered the last time he had stood here, years ago — when he and the Gryphons had camped in its shadowed depths. Then, it had loomed silent and vast, a wall of green mystery, half-glimpsed by firelight and fleeting watchful hours. But now… something had changed.

  Not in the forest.

  In him.

  His heart quickened, not from fear but wonder — a childlike awe rising from some forgotten place within.

  Even now, it defied description. The forest did not merely seem old — it felt eternal. The trunks of the trees rose like towers, broad as castle keeps, their roots tangled deep in the earth like the bones of the world. High above, their canopies vanished into a veil of mist, arching overhead like the vaulted ceiling of a temple not built by mortal hands. The very air shimmered with a stillness that felt sacred, filled with life and meaning.

  Stories whispered by his mother stirred in his mind — tales of a realm untouched by time, where the Elves walked beneath moonlight, and the stars sang through the leaves. A place older than memory. A place where the elder days still lingered, hidden in earth and river and bough.

  Baronsworth stepped across the threshold, into the ancient depths.

  Hours passed beneath that lush canopy. The deeper he went, the more the light dimmed, filtered through endless layers of leaf and limb. The sun became a distant memory. Here, the trees pressed close — ancient sentinels — and the silence was profound. Only the soft rustle of leaves, the murmur of distant water, and the occasional trill of unseen birds stirred the stillness. Yet there was no menace in the quiet. On the contrary — the forest wrapped itself around him like a cloak, and he felt curiously… protected.

  But not alone.

  A presence lingered in the air — elusive, just beyond the reach of reason. He caught fleeting shadows at the edge of his vision, vanishing the instant he turned. Shapes darting between the trees. Eyes, perhaps. Watching.

  At first, he told himself it was nothing — the tricks of a weary mind. But he could not shake the feeling. The instincts his father had honed in him stirred uneasily. Always trust your senses.

  And now, Baronsworth felt those senses screaming.

  That evening, as the sun dipped behind the horizon and the pale moon rose over the canopy, the feeling sharpened to a blade's edge. It was no longer a suspicion — it was certainty. The air thickened. The woods grew too still.

  Then — the whisper of movement.

  A rustle in the underbrush. The chitter of guttural voices in a language like broken stone. Shadows thickened around him, coalescing. Something was there — many somethings. And they were closing in.

  His horse reared, sensing it too.

  Baronsworth did not hesitate. He spurred the beast forward just as the first volley of arrows hissed through the trees. One whistled past his ear. Another thudded into a tree trunk mere inches from his path. Had he delayed a moment longer, he would not have escaped.

  Horse and rider plunged deeper into the forest, racing through narrow trails and tangled undergrowth. The remnants of daylight vanished behind the dense curtain of trees, and Baronsworth lost all sense of direction. The forest became a maze of shadow and motion. Branches tore at him as he rode. His horse snorted, eyes wild with panic, galloping blind into the unknown.

  And then — silence.

  No more arrows. No more voices.

  Only the pounding of his heartbeat, the ragged pull of breath, and the echo of hooves fading into moss and loam.

  For a moment, Baronsworth dared to believe he had shaken his pursuers.

  But his peace was short-lived.

  The stillness shattered — guttural shrieks pierced the air, echoing from every direction. Shadows moved between the trees, fast and many. Then he saw them. Dozens, perhaps more. Orcs, closing in — a host of them, emerging like wraiths from the undergrowth.

  They had come for vengeance.

  Baronsworth’s heart sank for an instant as he realized he was surrounded. There was no escape. The ring of steel, the hiss of breath, the gleam of cruel eyes — this could well be the end. But Baronsworth was not one to die with his back turned. If death was upon him, he would meet it head-on, with sword in hand and fire in his soul.

  With a sharp breath, he drew the Lightbringer.

  Its blade flared with a soft, cold light as he spurred his mount, into the enemy.

  The horse reared, panic surging in its eyes. But Baronsworth’s resolve calmed the beast. Feeling the strength of its rider, the steed surged forward with a sudden, desperate courage. Together they crashed into their foe like chaos let loose.

  The impact was ruinous.

  Bodies flew, flung aside like leaves in a gale. Some were trampled under pounding hooves; others were hewn down by Baronsworth’s sweeping blade. He carved a path through them, steel flashing with brutal grace, black blood spraying with each stroke. The Orcs screamed, staggered, and died.

  The scent of blood awakened something in him.

  A cry tore from his throat — primal, deafening — echoing through the Elderwood like a war-horn from the dawn of time. Horse and rider became one fury, a whirlwind of death and carnage.

  But the onslaught broke.

  From the shadows, an Orc leapt — larger than the rest, snarling — and slammed into Baronsworth with crushing force. They hit the ground hard, tumbling in a violent roll. His horse, startled, vanished into the trees.

  Stunned, winded, Baronsworth fought the daze from his eyes. The Orc was on him, snapping and clawing, its fetid breath hot on his face as it lashed with savage fury. Baronsworth grappled with it, fists and elbows flying, until at last he seized its head and twisted — a sharp crack rang out. The beast went limp.

  He rose — bruised, bloodied, but alive.

  Around him, the Orcs regrouped, encircling him once more. They jeered and howled, striking their weapons together, hungry for blood. Baronsworth’s vision spun for a moment, but he forced himself steady and raised his sword. With his back against a sheer rocky rise, he faced them down.

  “Begone, creatures!” he roared, his voice filled with fury and fire. “Lest I send you back to the darkness from whence you came!”

  The Orcs halted. A stiff silence fell.

  They stalked in a slow circle around him now — probing, testing, waiting. Some jabbed their spears at him from a safe distance. He stood unmoved, defiant, a pillar of will among shadows.

  Then one of them spoke, pointing with trembling claw.

  “That’s him,” it hissed. “That’s Ark-s?n.”

  A ripple passed through the horde. Murmurs rose — not of anger, but fear.

  Another figure stepped forward — larger than the rest. A towering brute, its skin black as pitch, muscles bulging like coiled ropes beneath spiked iron armor. Twin axes gleamed in its grasp, and its eyes burned with hatred.

  It raised one axe, pointing at Baronsworth.

  “Reck!” it snarled. “I’ve come to bring your doom. That blade you carry has drunk the blood of my kin — I’ll take it from your corpse, and mount your head upon it!”

  Baronsworth’s voice was calm, defiant. “Come then and claim it, filth.”

  “Grom! Grom! Grom!” the orcs chanted, stomping and snarling, rallying behind their champion. The black Orc — Grom — roared, then charged forward like a juggernaut of iron and fury.

  But its charge ended in a flash.

  Baronsworth met it with a crushing overhead strike that cleaved straight through armor and flesh. The beast collapsed, twitching, split near in two. A stunned silence fell over the Orcs.

  Their champion was dead.

  They stared at the corpse, stunned — then, a howl broke from the horde.

  “For Grom!”

  The tide surged forward.

  They came like a flood — shrieking, ravenous, endless. But Baronsworth did not falter. His blade swept through them with punishing force, each arc of Lightbringer cutting down three, four, five foes in a single breath. Orcs were hurled back, dismembered, sliced apart. Limbs flew. The ground ran black with blood.

  Still they came.

  And still he stood.

  Around him, the forest became a vortex of savagery and destruction. His blade glimmered, a burning sun amidst the shadow. The Orcs fought with feral savagery, but it was as if they threw themselves against a living wall of wrath and steel. Baronsworth’s cries rose like thunder, echoing through the trees.

  But their numbers were great.

  Despite the carnage, they kept coming — until suddenly, one leapt from above.

  The ledge — his refuge — had become his vulnerability.

  The creature crashed down on him from behind, knocking him to a knee. Sensing weakness, the other Orcs surged forward, gaining ground.

  Baronsworth gritted his teeth, seized the foul beast upon his back, and hurled it into its comrades. Several toppled in a heap. He sprang to his feet and resumed the assault, blade flashing, cutting down more foes.

  Then — a sharp pain flared across his back.

  A dagger.

  He reached behind him and yanked it free, blood gushing from the wound. Without pause, he hurled the blade — it spun end-over-end and struck its mark, sinking into the skull of the Orc that had ambushed him. The creature collapsed without a sound.

  But the damage was done.

  The wound burned hot, and his vision swam. His strength began to ebb. Worse still, now he was forced to divide his attention — guarding against foes from both the front while watching the ledge above for another ambush. His footing was weaker, his swings slower.

  Still, the Orcs hesitated.

  They circled him, snarling — but unsure. Was it fear? Or strategy? Were they buying time, letting the wound bleed him dry? Perhaps both. But for now, there was a breath of silence.

  Baronsworth swayed, breathing hard. He closed his eyes.

  “Father… the time has come for me to join you.”

  And with a roar that tore from the depths of his soul, he charged.