The echoes of battle had long faded, but the scent of blood and powder still clung to the air. Smoke curled lazily above the ruined field, drifting like ghosts between the wagons and the shattered remains of the enemy dead. The wounded were tended, the bodies cleared, yet the weight of what we had just endured hung heavy on all our shoulders.

  It wasn’t long before word came: I was summoned, along with Sergeant Ironheart, to the command tent of Captain Torvald Firebeard—the leader of the Ranger Expedition.

  Captain Firebeard was every inch the image of a veteran dwarven commander. His beard, once as red as embers, now streaked with iron gray. Scars crisscrossed his sun-bronzed face, hard-won trophies from a lifetime spent at the spearpoint of battle. When his piercing green eyes fell on you, there was no doubt whose authority ruled the camp.

  We stepped into his presence and saluted with quiet respect.

  “Sergeant Ironheart,” Firebeard began, voice steady but edged with pride, “your leadership today was exemplary. Had we pursued the decoy force like greenlings, this story might have ended very differently.”

  Ironheart gave a sharp nod, but said nothing.

  Then Firebeard’s gaze turned to me.

  “And you, Garrok Halforcen.” His tone softened, but carried no less weight. “It was your call that stayed our hand. Had you not spoken when you did, we might have walked into their trap blind. How did you know?”

  I squared my shoulders, drawing in a steady breath. “Captain… my people have seen this before. During the Great War, the Orcish Khanates often used a tactic called the Feigned Retreat—pulling the enemy out of position, only to circle back and crush them with their main force.” I paused, meeting the captain’s eyes. “I recognized the pattern. I’ve heard the stories my kin told of those days.”

  A flicker of recognition passed across Firebeard’s face. His jaw tightened as if chewing over memories best left buried.

  “Aye,” he muttered. “The Feigned Retreat. The bastards pulled that stunt more than once during the old campaigns.” His gaze drifted, far away for a moment. “Not just the orcs, either.”

  The room seemed to grow colder as he leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. When he spoke again, the fire in his voice was tempered by bitterness.

  “You’ve heard the tales of the Goblin Corsairs, haven’t you?” he asked, though it sounded more like a statement than a question.

  I nodded. “Some. Raiders, slavers… pirates.”

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Firebeard’s eyes narrowed. “Pirates, aye. But worse. The goblins breed fast, but their females are scarce—ten males for every one female, they say. The result? Only the strongest, cruelest of their kind earn the right to sire the next generation. The rest? Disposable.”

  His lip curled in disgust.

  “They raid not just for plunder—but for women. Human, elf, beast-kin—any who can bear young. Those they enslave aren’t just spoils of war. They’re breeding stock for the lower castes and playthings for their nobles.”

  A heavy silence followed his words. Ironheart’s brow darkened; I felt my own stomach twist.

  “I fought in the defense of my clan’s citadel when the Goblins came,” Firebeard continued after a moment. “Wave after wave of the ‘Disposables’ crashing against our walls. Cannon and powder tore them to pieces—but they just kept coming. Hoping to make a name for themselves, hoping to claw their way up the ladder on the bodies of their own.”

  His eyes darkened further. “And now… word reaches my ears that the goblins have begun forging their own guns. Crude, clumsy things—but deadly enough. They’ve stolen our powder. Reverse-engineered our pistols. If they’re learning… if they’re adapting…” He let the thought hang, unfinished but understood.

  The weight of it settled like a stone in my chest.

  “Keep your eyes sharp,” Firebeard said at last. “The next battle may look nothing like the last.”

  With a gruff nod, the captain dismissed us.

  Outside the tent, Ironheart clapped me on the shoulder, breaking the grim mood with a grin. “You’ve earned your share of respect today, Garrok. And if I’m not mistaken… I think it’s about time you asked for that Thunder Pipe you’ve been eyeing.”

  I gave a wry chuckle. “You’re not wrong, Sergeant.”

  We made our way toward the weapon racks, where the builders and smiths were inspecting the firearms salvaged from the fight. Captain Firebeard himself stood by the armory, hands folded behind his back. When he saw me approach, his face softened.

  “You showed sense today, Master Smith,” he said, gesturing toward the gleaming rack of thunder pipes. “It’s only fitting you carry one of your own.”

  He lifted one of the weapons—a pristine donderbuis, its flared muzzle polished like silver—and placed it into my waiting hands.

  “Treat her well,” he said. “And she’ll do the same.”

  I nodded, the weight of the weapon solid and reassuring in my grip.

  Later that day, with Ironheart’s guidance, I stood before a makeshift firing range on the outskirts of camp. Targets—wooden dummies shaped like raiders—had been lined up at varying distances.

  I took my time loading the donderbuis, carefully packing powder, wadding, and shot, feeling the craftsmanship of the weapon beneath my fingers. When I finally raised it to aim, my focus narrowed. Breath steady. Shoulders square.

  The blast split the air like a lightning crack.

  The nearest dummy shattered beneath the hail of shot, fragments spinning away into the dirt.

  Ironheart’s laughter rumbled behind me as he gave me a hearty clap on the back. “You’ve got the touch, Garrok! With that thunder pipe in your hands, you’ll send the bastards running.”

  But as the smoke cleared and I reloaded, my thoughts drifted again to Firebeard’s warning—the evolution of the enemy, the learning of the goblins. The arms race had begun, and we’d be fools to think we’d seen the worst of it.

  The donderbuis was no mere prize—it was a lesson. A challenge. And perhaps… the beginning of a new chapter in my craft.

  The sun dipped low as we packed away the last of the gear, but I lingered a moment longer, gazing out over the empty range.

  The fight for the outpost had only begun.

  And I would be ready.