Deep in the eastern Rocky Mountains.
The stonemason clan's temple is hidden deep in the mountains. Hundreds of bronze mining lamps hang from the huge granite dome, illuminating the entire hall in a dark red light. On the exquisitely carved stone pillars, the reliefs of ancestors from past generations seem to come alive in the flickering firelight, gazing sternly at their descendants below.
Having already ascended to the position of chieftain, Imar tapped his obsidian throne with his fingers, his voice echoing in the empty cave: "Bring out the oldest brew from the cellar! And slaughter ten more snow mountain antelopes!"
He is currently busy entertaining his ally—Abar, the chieftain of the Orcish King's Tent. It was with Abar's help that he defeated the "rebels" who had usurped his chieftainship and restored his rule over the Stonemasons Clan.
Imar is deeply grateful for this—at least for now.
"Chieftain." A dwarf warrior with a scarred face stepped out of the ranks, his iron boots clattering on the ground. "The scouts have reported that the orcs have suffered a defeat in the human world to the south. They are nothing but a pack of wild dogs now. Why bother entertaining them with such care?"
"Shut up, Morgedin!" Imar abruptly stood up, his short, stocky frame casting a distorted shadow before the throne. "If it weren't for the warriors of the White Wolf Clan, you'd still be in the mines being exploited by those traitors!"
The crystal veins on the rock wall trembled slightly with his roar, and fine quartz sand fell from the dome.
Mogdin kicked a rock at his feet, clearly annoyed. "Those guys even lost their battle flag! I heard the humans have artillery—"
"That's precisely why we should treat them so well!" Imar suddenly lowered her voice, her brass earrings swaying in the firelight. "Isn't this a perfect opportunity to prove the friendship between us and them?"
The glowing furnace reflected the ever-changing faces of his men, who exchanged glances, puzzled by their chieftain's eagerness to curry favor with the orcs.
"Friendship? Chieftain! Is there any friendship between us orcs?" Broom, the clan's chief blacksmith, said indignantly, "Our best gold mine in the eastern district has been directly occupied by the orcs, and they even stole our ancestral Star Iron recipe!"
Treasurer Tolkien, his gray beard twitching, unfurled a ledger: "And last year we handed over enough weapons to arm five thousand troops, but all we got in return were a few cartloads of tattered animal hides!"
Imar's knuckles turned white from his subordinates' words, and he quickly looked toward the entrance to the hall—where stood two orcs, guards given to Imar by Abar in case he was assassinated by any remaining rebels.
He gestured to his subordinates with his eyes—now was not the time to speak so bluntly.
"Without Lord Abal, I would still be an exile," Imar said in a low voice, but his eyes were already beginning to waver.
"But now he's nothing but a stray dog!" Morgdin stamped his foot in dissatisfaction. "His army was supposed to be very powerful, but they lost even the fortified Watcher's Fortress when facing humans. How can they possibly protect us?"
The firelight suddenly flared up, illuminating the struggle on Imar's face. He recalled how Abar's warriors plucked the beard hairs off former chieftain Malori on the day of the power grab. If he betrayed them, would he be treated the same way by the orcs in the future?
Imar's fear of the orcs was not without reason. In accordance with his promise to the orcs before reclaiming his chieftainship, all key positions within the Stonemasons' territory were open to them. Rather than being allies of the orcs, the Stonemasons' clan was more accurately described as a vassal firmly controlled by them.
But since everyone has said so, if I don't fight back against the orcs, won't I be looked down upon by the people below?
"In that case, let's lower the scale of the banquet," Imar suddenly ordered. "Use ordinary argali sheep instead of snow mountain antelope." He stroked the armrest of his throne, looking tentatively at his subordinates: "I've decided to tell Abar that starting this year, weapons will be exchanged at the price we've set."
The subordinates exchanged glances. Well, the chieftain had finally taken the first step with courage.
"Yes, yes, that's it!" Tolkien encouraged him. "At least we should try to put ourselves on an equal footing with the orcs."
The servants carried huge barrels of wine through the hall, still damp with the moisture from the underground lake. Imar picked up a glass of freshly poured ale, the amber liquid containing luminous mineral particles—the dwarves' most prized possession.
He finished his ale, and the alcohol boosted his confidence. For the first time, he felt his shadow was taller than the two orc guards.
Imar slammed the bronze cup down on the stone table. "You're right. When Abar arrives here, I want him to know who the real master of this place is."
The next day, at dawn, the stonemason clan's sentry post sounded the low, mournful horn of a goat.
Imar stood on the viewing platform carved with reliefs of his ancestors, and the orcish army gradually emerging from the morning mist made his fingers dig deep into the stone railing.
Abar's white wolf banner still flew high, and row upon row of elite warriors marched in perfect unison through the canyon. Their armor bore the marks of battle, but their metal headbands gleamed, and the forest of spears they formed shimmered coldly in the morning sun. The seriously wounded were placed in the center of the column, while the lightly wounded walked at the very front—a tradition among the orcs to demonstrate their bravery.
"Didn't you say… the returning orcs were just a bunch of defeated soldiers?" Imar's voice was dry, like a rusty gear.
Mogdin's axe handle scraped against the stone ground with a harsh sound: "My scout Mingming reported." His words trailed off.
Twenty shamans stepped out from beside Abar, their bone staffs striking the ground simultaneously. A layer of mist rose from the valley, and under the shroud of this mysterious mist, the orcs' military might appeared even more imposing, enough to deter those with ill intentions.
Abar's single eye scar glowed red, and his forehead bore the mark of honor smeared with the blood of a powerful enemy after he had slain them. He held a mastiff the size of a calf in his right hand, which was gnawing on the bone of an unknown prey, the crunching sound particularly clear in the silent valley.
"Prepare the finest lava wine." Imar suddenly turned around, his copper belt clanging against the stone pillar. "Take out the bottle of fine wine I've hidden deep in the cellar as well."
The clan elders exchanged glances and silently put away the draft of the equal treaty they had prepared the night before.
As Abar's boots stepped onto the red carpet of the stonemason's hall, all the dwarves noticed that beneath the chieftain's cloak, half of a bloodstained human banner was faintly visible.