Within the confines of a lone forest, three shadowed figures rode on horseback, their breath fogging the cold morning air as they moved. Dew slid from every leaf they brushed past. The silence held for a moment longer—until one of them spoke. The youngest of the three, but the one they considered the most valuable.
"Where are those bastards? Did they not say the damn orcs lived here?"
The speaker was a young man astride a stallion draped in an elegant caparison of black silk embroidered with golden thread. His noble bearing was undeniable: his face sculpted and sharp, with high cheekbones and a straight nose, a contrast to the slight playful smirk often tugging at his lips.
His eyes, a striking shade of storm-gray gave his surroundings a quick sweep from time to time. Loose strands of obsidian hair fell over his brow from beneath his hood, catching flecks of morning light. The design woven into his horse's covering—a golden and red scaled dragon—was the ancient crest of House Virelion, and depicted the legacy of the beast slain by his great-great-grandfather. That very act had marked the birth of the Argolien Crownlands, now the wealthiest and most prosperous kingdom on the continent.
The wealth the legendary dragon amassed was far more than the Royals up to this day could spend.
"Relax, Your Majesty. We are close to the Koanif Woodlands—they should be around here," spoke the knight to his right.
Morluk wore a silver-blue cloak draped over polished plate armor, each piece etched with sigils given for his valuable services of chivalry and honor he had won through countless battles, many serving the young boy's father. His bearing was straight-backed and noble, the sort forged by decades of service and discipline.
A proud brow shadowed his steel-blue eyes—always watchful, as he continuously read the terrain for signs of danger. His deep voice carried a profound authority which led countless of soldiers into battle before his early retreat to protect to young heir of the royal family.
With shoulder-length dirty blond hair tied loosely behind his helm and a longsword fastened at his hip, he looked every bit the paragon of knightly virtue.
"Why do you seek the brutes, my liege? We've never needed their help before. Plus, they're unsociable… I don't even know if they'll speak our tongue," added the third rider with a smirk that could disarm noblewomen and thieves alike. Borus was the prince's left hand, childhood friend, and the unrepentant playboy of the royal court. His chestnut hair was tousled just enough to seem accidental.
With a sharp jawline, long dark brown eyelashes and deep emerald eyes, he found no problem picking up even a Kobalt if given enough time. Cloaked in fine black mage-leathers stitched with glowing arcane threads, he carried no visible armor, but a thousand spells were always on the ready and danced around his jeweled filled fingers.
"Borus, you know we need power," the prince replied. "The southern Turkins, those bastards are always creeping north. We need a real fighting force to push them back. And I also want this to be my greatest achievement before my father's passing."
"I kid ya, Prince, I know what the plan is. It's just—being without a woman for so long… it gets to you, doesn't it?"
Ruiz, the prince, glanced toward his lifelong friend and shook his head.
"Did you not visit every tavern and have your way with nearly every waitress from here to the capital?"
Borus sighed and gave a dramatic nod. "Yes… but the last one was two days ago. How long before I get the taste of fresh meat again?"
"How about you use one of those spells you've been hoarding and find us the orcs instead? That way we might return sooner," the prince Ruiz shot back, his tone dry. "The damn hunter only told us to follow this trail for two days."
Ruiz was just as eager to leave the woods behind. He craved action, not endless wandering—but he also knew the next war would demand more soldiers than he currently commanded. And if there was one thing the young prince refused to do, it was rely on soldiers from other lords' platoons or inherited legions. Every warrior in his company was one he had chosen himself—through duel, oath, or earned respect—and he would sooner bleed than lead men he hadn't recognize or tested with his own hands.
"Fine, but it will cost you. You do remember why they call me the most expensive Magi, don't you?"
Borus slipped one of the many jeweled rings from his finger—the one inlaid with a sapphire so pure it seemed to hold a sky within. Holding it up, he whispered an incantation that shimmered on his breath:
"Sparkle, shine, and do your bit—
Lead us true and prove my wit…"
With a grin, Borus rubbed the metal and gem together between his palms. The sapphire pulsed with a flicker of azure light before shattering into a cloud of glittering particles. He exhaled gently, sending the fragments drifting into the forest ahead. They danced in the air like fireflies before aligning into a single glowing thread of light, veering slightly off the route they had been following.
"What did I tell you?" Ruiz grinned. "Without this, we'd be wandering for days instead of hours."
"I bet—but now you owe me a few hundred gold coins. That little trick just cost me a precious ring," Borus said, keeping the magic active as a faint current of mana shimmered at his fingertips.
"Ay, do tell me—when have I not paid? Now let's get this over with."
Ruiz's smile lingered only for a moment. He was eager to be done with the woods. Though he lacked the gift for long-range magic, his own arcana was forged in steel and blood, his ability focused on empowering his blade and body at will.
Morluk said nothing, merely shook his head at the antics of the two youths. His sharp eyes never stopped scanning the treeline. This land belonged to the orcs, and it wouldn't be hard to imagine an ambush among the roots and shadows. He could slay dozens if it came to it—Borus likely the same—but something felt off.
Not a single orc had been seen since they'd entered the forest.
The experienced warrior did not like this.
He had long urged the prince to bring more guards, but Ruiz insisted on speed over numbers. And so, they rode on—just the three of them, into the woods of a race known more for battle than hospitality.
As they pushed deeper, a settlement finally came into view—half-shrouded by trees. It was large enough to house several hundred, but no bigger than that which could fit a thousand. Smoke curled lazily from behind a palisade wall of sharpened logs, marking life inside.
They slowed their horses.
There would be no easy entrance—or so they thought.
The gates creaked open without resistance, and from within stepped four figures.
Four she-orcs. Each armed with various primitive weapons and yet they did not look at the strangers with reproach, it was more like they were waiting for their arrival.
"No males?" Borus asked, his tone shifting into something uneasy. He instinctively drew his reins tighter. His gaze narrowed. "That's rare…"
He wasn't wrong. It was nearly unheard of to see an orc village composed entirely of women. Their kind was too primal, too bound to old instincts. War and pleasure defined them, often in equal measure. To see a village populated only by women defied everything they knew.
Morluk's eyes ran across the trees again. Presently there were no signs of danger only that of the wild, birds sang, deer fed, rodents and rabbits flitting through underbrush, nothing appeared out of place.
And that bothered him more than anything.
"Lads," Morluk said, voice low. "I believe the danger waits within. Tread carefully. There's most likely a surprise waiting for us inside."
Ruiz gave the dirty village a quick glare. He had been too far worse places. This one was little more than a cluster of rags pitched up as tents.
"Well, gents, let's get to what we came here for."
He lightly nudged his horse forward, wanting to enter the village slowly, his hand near his blade. He stopped before the orcs.
"What tongue do you speak, and where is the chief so we may speak?"
He addressed the women, but they didn't respond. Instead, they silently gestured for him to enter in a somewhat rough manner.
The prince was mildly irritated at being ignored, but he knew better than to lash out. The orcs had made it clear they wouldn't speak with him or that they couldn't, so he simply passed through and rode into the village.
Inside the walls, the scene shifted. One part of the village looked relatively normal. The other bore signs of a recent fight. Fewer than twenty orcs lay dead, each one brutally slain. Prince Ruiz could see signs of both magical and physical damage on the bodies.
All around them, more she-orcs moved about—some cleaning up the carnage, others strangely packing their belongings in what looked like a rush.
Then, from the largest tent near the center of the village, an orc woman stepped out. She raised a hand, signaling for the group to come closer.
Borus, who had kept quiet as they walked through the village, tried not to let his nose twitch. The stench was more than he could handle at times, and he feared the prince might go mad from it alone.
Fortunately, the prince made no comment and showed no reaction. He led them forward until they were close enough to the shaman female orc, this particular orc then raised a hand to signal a stop and motioned for one of them to dismount.
The orc shaman, the one that had called them forward, stood firm with a commanding figure wrapped in a thick bear pelt that draped over her shoulders. Her skin was of dark earthen green, marked with faded ritual paint and a few battle scars showing her rich battle experience. A headdress made from the bleached skull of a deer crowned her head, its antlers curling outward like branches of a withered tree.
Her hair, ash-gray and tightly braided, was woven with small bones, feathers, and trinkets that jingled with each movement. In one hand, she held a gnarled staff of twisted wood, its top bound in sinew and adorned with another deer skull, smaller but equally menacing. Her eyes—amber and unwavering—studied Ruiz and his men not with hostility, but with a knowing gaze, as if she knew why they were here.
"Borus, stay seated. Morluk, come with me," Ruiz commanded. His tone shifted to the one he used for diplomacy. He pulled back his black hood and walked toward the she-orc.
"Well then, do tell us—what is the state of this place? Where is the chief, and why are there only women here?" Ruiz asked, before formally introducing himself.
"Relax, young prince of the Argolien Crownlands," she replied calmly. "We recognize you as our new king, so let us speak in peace. As for the great warlord… he was sent away—by me. He would not have accepted the deal, and that puts both me and this village in a difficult position.
However, I do have someone ready to take his place. She will be the one to lead those of us who remain. You have my word…"
Ruiz narrowed his eyes. He wasn't going to accept those words at face value. It was then that the she-orc spoke again.
"Have your knights inspect the village. Your young mage-knight—send him to the far side. There, he'll find the human captives our warlord had taken. They are safe and sound, and he may verify their well-being himself."
She then turned her attention to the knight, the one that seemed to be the strongest in the group.
"As for your second knight, let him deal with the remains of the war chief's warriors. If possible, have them executed—we need no traitors if we are to start a new life. He can also inspect all the tents and confirm the truth of my words. If there are any orcs who must be dealt with, let it be done. As I said, my intention is to recognize you as our king."
At her command, the she-orcs halted their tasks, standing still to show they meant no harm.
Ruiz took note of how easily they followed her words—without question. That alone was a sign of true leadership, and one he respected.
"You heard her," Ruiz said. "Borus, check on the captives. Morluk, you know I can handle an orc or two, but what I can't handle is an ambush. Sweep the perimeter and make sure no one interferes with these talks. If everything goes well, we leave within the hour. As for you, shaman—have your people tend to our horses. We'll need them fit for the return journey."
His knights nodded and moved swiftly to carry out his orders, both trusting the prince's judgment. The orcs, likewise, obeyed the shaman's word, quietly leading the horses away.