The Black Maw Clan thrived under the new rule, but beneath the surface, unrest grew like a sickness. Remoran was Warlord now, yet the title alone did not ensure loyalty. Even as he settled into leadership, whispers spread, doubt took root, and in the shadows, betrayal was being forged.

  Each morning, Remoran met with the elders of the clan, settling disputes and ensuring balance among the warriors. Not all came willingly.

  Some refused to meet his gaze, their posture stiff with defiance. Others openly questioned his decisions, though never outright. Even those who had supported his claim watched carefully, waiting.

  At the heart of the unease sat Grimgor's absence. Though officially defeated, he had not left the clan. He lingered, watching. Waiting.

  Grima remained by Remoran’s side, guiding him as best she could. One evening, after a particularly tense council meeting, she approached him near the central fire.

  “You hesitate too much,” she said, studying him. “The clan feels it.”

  Remoran exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I’m trying to lead without forcing my rule on them.”

  Grima tilted her head, watching him with a knowing look. “Orcs do not follow uncertainty. Show them you are certain, and they will have no choice but to follow.”

  Her words hung between them, heavy with unspoken meaning. She saw his struggle, saw his doubt—but more importantly, she saw his potential.

  For the first time, Remoran felt truly seen.

  In the outskirts of the encampment, a lone orc hunter, Brakzul, knelt beside a small, concealed fire. His hands trembled as he unfolded a crude parchment, its surface covered in deep scrawled markings of human script.

  He was not a warrior. He was a survivor. And in this new age, survival meant siding with the strong.

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  The message was short:

  “Grimgor wishes to speak. He offers weapons, secrets, and land. Send your best.”

  Brakzul knew what he was doing was dangerous. He also knew what Grimgor promised him if they succeeded—a place of power, not as a follower, but as a leader.

  With a final glance toward the camp, he folded the parchment, mounted his beast, and rode toward the edge of orcish territory, where humans had begun to watch from the trees.

  Two nights later, far beyond the Black Maw Clan’s borders, Grimgor arrived at a hidden clearing, where the human scouts waited.

  They were not knights, nor noblemen. These were mercenaries—hardened warriors in mismatched armor, their eyes cold with calculation.

  One stepped forward, a man with a scarred face and sharp, intelligent eyes. “You called for us.”

  Grimgor smirked, his massive frame looming over them. “I called for powerful men, not scavengers.”

  The leader chuckled. “Then it’s good we came armed.”

  Grimgor tossed a bundle onto the ground, revealing stolen orcish steel—blades, axes, and armor. “There is more, if you want it.”

  The human’s eyes gleamed. “And what do you want in return?”

  Grimgor’s grin widened, his tusks catching the moonlight. “A dead warlord.”

  The human leader tilted his head. “You wish to kill your own kind?”

  Grimgor’s expression hardened. “He is not my kind. And when he falls, I will restore what is ours.”

  The humans exchanged glances before their leader spoke. “You give us your stronghold, your steel, and a way inside. In return, we remove your problem.”

  Grimgor nodded once. “Do it cleanly, and we will feast together.”

  A hand was extended. A deal was struck.

  And the first blow of betrayal had been forged.

  Unaware of the treachery unfolding beyond the mountains, the Black Maw Clan celebrated a successful hunt. Great beasts had fallen, and the meat was plenty.

  Remoran sat at the head of the gathering, feeling the energy of his people, but also the weight of the uneasy glances still cast his way.

  An old orc, one of the last remaining elders, approached him and leaned close. “Not all who kneel do so in loyalty.”

  Remoran frowned. “Who?”

  The elder’s lips pressed together in a grim line. “The winds shift. Beware, young Warlord.”

  The words stayed with him long after the feast had ended.