On the battlefield.
Orkus, covered in minor cuts and the blood of others, breathed heavily, his gaze burning with unshakable determination.
The body of the rival chieftain, a towering Gurka named Varnuk, lay on the damp ground. He was still alive, gasping, his jaw dislocated and one leg broken. He tried to rise, clinging to his tribal pride… but it was useless.
Orkus slowly raised his leg, as if the moment required its own weight, then brought it down on Varnuk's chest with a dull thud.
"You're strong," Varnuk growled with difficulty, "but you are no leader…"
Orkus did not reply. Strength needed no justification. It was proven.
His warriors stood behind him like a living wall, armed with obsidian-carved spears, bone axes, and crude shields. Before them, the enemy army—a scattered mix of lesser Gurka clans—watched the scene in silence. Orkus, draped in a tattered beast-hide cloak and with his black wings half-spread, looked more like a totem of conquest than a mere warrior.
He raised his voice, firm and raw:
"I didn't come to negotiate. I came to unite."
The silence was absolute. Only the wind humming through the cliffs and Varnuk's broken moans broke the stillness.
"Surrender," Orkus continued, his tone sharp. "Serve under my shadow, or die in vain like this man."
No one moved for a moment. Then, one of the enemy captains, his face tattooed and arms scarred by fire, dropped to his knees. One by one, the others followed, until the entire enemy army bowed their heads.
Orkus looked down. Varnuk, still alive, clenched his teeth in fury. He tried to speak… but was not given the chance.
Orkus stepped aside. His hand came down like a shadow, and with a single crude axe swing, he severed Varnuk's head from his body. Blood burst like a dark spring, soaking the earth.
With the same brutal calm that had brought him this far, Orkus raised the severed head with his right hand. His face showed no joy—only a cold acceptance of power.
"RAAAAAAAH!" he roared to the sky, holding his enemy's head high.
Behind him, his army answered with a guttural roar that shook the valley.
Thus another clan fell under his banner. And thus, Orkus continued forging his empire with fire, force, and blood.
---
Three months later.
The wind blew with the usual harshness of Ikarus' northern frontier—a vast plain marked by rocky formations and hills that served as a natural barrier against Gurka incursions. But this time, it wasn't the wind that brought unease. It was the silence. A thick, threatening silence that signaled the inevitable.
The garrison of Karet Tower, one of five forward watchposts, had been on high alert for weeks. Reports of skirmishes, razed villages, and vanished patrols were piling up with worrying regularity. But today wasn't a rumor. Today, the threat had form.
From the top of the wooden tower, a sentry shouted:
"Movement in the valley! Gurka! Hundreds of them!"
The bells rang loudly. Winged warriors rushed out of their tents, grabbing spears and bows. Commanders barked orders as the gates shut with urgency. But in everyone's heart, a certainty settled: this was no mere skirmish.
Atop the hill facing the outpost, Orkus appeared mounted on a four-legged beast with bony plates on its back and glowing orange eyes. His armor was made of polished bones, and his spear was black as coal. Behind him, an army roared savagely in organized ranks. Gurka warriors—each more brutal than the last—formed a dark, threatening tide.
Orkus raised a hand. The roar ceased.
"This day marks the beginning of a new era!" he thundered, his deep voice carried by the wind to Karet's walls. "An era where there is no more fragmentation! An era where the Gurka stop living like scattered beasts and rule this land with a single fist!"
The general of Karet, a veteran named Daelios, stood before his men.
"Don't let them pass! For each one who falls, let three Gurka heads roll!"
And then, thunder exploded.
The Gurka charged with coordination.
Arrows flew, spears shattered, and the ground trembled with every clash of shields and bodies. Despite the defenders' valor, they were quickly overwhelmed by the sheer strength and number of their enemies. The skies darkened with the wings of the Tratos attempting to contain the offensive from above, but the Gurka had adapted their strategy: nets, harpoons, and trained slingers brought the fliers down like prey.
In the center of the field, Orkus advanced with no resistance. He launched himself directly at Daelios. The clash was short. The general managed to wound his side, but Orkus's black spear pierced through his torso with brutal precision.
With the still-warm body at his feet, Orkus crushed it under his boot, making bone crack. Then he raised his gaze toward the remaining surrounded soldiers.
"Surrender and live!" he roared. "Or die and be forgotten!"
The response was swift. The few surviving defenders, wounded and trembling, dropped their weapons. The white wings of some fell like feathers in the wind, a sign of surrender.
"Take the women and kill all the men, elders, and children!"
Orkus's smile widened as he watched his men massacre and violate the members of the Tretos tribe.
---
In Ikarus, the Defense Council convened in the main hall of the central keep. Pakur was present, his gaze stern, his wings extended with authority. Enoc stood to his right, silent, watching the maps and reports intently.
One of the scouts had just arrived, covered in dust and blood.
"Karet Tower has fallen." The young messenger's voice was firm despite the tremor in his jaw. "The enemy is stronger than we anticipated."
Murmurs spread like a wave across the hall.
Pakur extended his wings and ordered with authoritative tone: "Deploy the soldiers and reinforce the defenses! The enemy's target is the city."
Later that night, on the keep's terrace, Avelia approached Enoc with a jug of hot infusion.
"What will you do?"
Enoc looked over the city below and sighed.
"What I must," he replied without drama. "Prepare for what's coming. Think clearly."
Avelia sat beside him in silence. The war felt more real with every passing day.