Dawn crept over the hills like a careful scout, pale gold light sliding across the orc camp who had a good night rest. The air carried the cold bite of morning and the heavy smell of unwashed bodies, and horse sweat. Orc warriors stirred in their blankets, grunting and scratching, tusks. Kraghul was already awake. He stood on a low rise, arms folded, eyes fixed on the dark mouth of the mine far across the valley. He had not slept. He rarely did when a hunt was active.

A horse thundered in from the north-east flank, hooves drumming panic into the earth. The rider—a young warrior named Gorzod—threw himself from the saddle before the animal stopped, chest heaving.

"Kraghul! One dead on watch! He was headless, propped up like a doll. Blood writing on the rock: 'Sleep tight.' Goblins did it. Slipped right past us in the dark," Gorzod warned but the tone in his voice implied he was distressed by this sight.

Kraghul looked at him in disappointment, wondering how weak willed the orcs here were for something so basic to send them into a frenzy.

The name "goblins" rippled through the waking camp like a slap. Blankets flew off. Orcs surged to their feet, axes and spears already in hand.

"Little rats dared hit us?" One orc barked.

"They mocked us with the head!" Another barked.

"Storm the mine! Gut every green skin inside!" Yet another goblin barked.

Roars rolled across the valley. Young bloods beat weapons on shields. Older warriors spat curses, remembering every time goblins had scattered like roaches before them. The idea that the trapped, starving mine-rats had struck first was an insult too big to swallow. The camp boiled, ready to charge downhill in one roaring wave.

Kraghul lifted one massive arm. Silence crashed down as hard as any war drum.

"Stand," Kraghul commanded, voice low, flat, and cold enough to frost steel.

"This is goblin's trick," Kraghul dismissed it. He didn't share their rage and this surprised the other orcs within the vicinity.

"Trick? They killed our brothers!" Gorzod snarled. The nearest warriors hesitated because even thought this goblin wasn't one of their own, he belonged to a powerful tribe.

"And they want us to lose more," Kraghul answered. He was willing to share his reasoning with the rest of the orcs.

"Picture it: we charge angry, horses first, straight at the gate. Tunnels are narrow. Walls high. They drop rocks, pour oil, stab from holes we can't see. We lose twenty, thirty, maybe half our strength before breakfast. Vrognut sits inside laughing while we bleed on his ground. I understand your rage but do not make foolish choices because of it," Kraghul said calmly.

A few orcs shifted, seeing the picture. Others still growled, knuckles white on axe handles but Kraghul wasn't done.

"I feel nothing for the dead. The orc died because he thought just like the rest of you. The goblins became a threat the moment Vrognut joined their ranks. These aren't the same goblins you are used to dealing with," Kraghul reminded them what they were up against.

He knew he would lose a few orcs, it was inevitable but something told him these orcs were used to overwhelming the goblins with no casualties which was why one was enough to do such damage. He turned his gaze across the camp, meeting every pair of orc eyes.

"Tighten the circle. Double the watches. Let them stare at our fires and feel hunger chew their bellies. When they are soft and shaking, we walk in and finish it clean. No rush. No waste," Kraghul was sticking to his strategy.

Grumbles rose, but no one argued aloud. Kraghul's word was iron. Slowly the camp settled, fury banked into cold patience. Warriors kicked dirt over fires and moved to new posts, eyes narrowed, spears ready. Surprise still stung, but it would not rule them today.

-

Deep inside the mine, hammers rang like frantic bells. Goblins worked in sweating clumps, faces streaked with dust and determination. They dragged broken blades, bent nails, and jagged scrap metal to the surface, pounding the pieces point-up into the dirt just beyond the main gates and side entrances. A thin layer of soil and dead leaves hid the cruel carpet. Any horse that tried to charge would scream and fall, legs shredded. Barricades of overturned carts, splintered beams, and piled rocks rose higher at every choke point. Ropes stretched across tunnels at ankle height, ready to trip charging giants.

Naz and Naruz moved among the workers like quiet teachers. No speeches, just quick, sharp lessons. A twist of the wrist to slide a spear past an orc's guard and into the knee. How to duck under a swinging axe and stab upward. How to jam a broken pick handle between an orc's legs and shove. How to fight two steps back, always keeping the tunnel narrow so only one enemy could swing at a time. The goblins watched wide-eyed, repeated the motions, and felt something new grow inside their chests: not bravery yet, but the first warm flicker of confidence. They were still terrified. But now they were terrified with a plan.

Every goblin, from the smallest runner to the oldest digger, understood the single truth that kept them moving:

Hold the mine. Hold until Byung comes because they all had faith he wouldn't abandon them.

His name passed lip to lip like a charm against the dark. Byung, who built forges that turned weakness into strength. Byung, who looked at goblins and saw people worth saving. When he walks through that gate, every heart would beat harder, every arm swing stronger. And if huge Maui strode in beside him, axe dripping and tusks gleaming, the orcs outside would finally face something they had never met: a real fight.

So they hammered and hauled and hid sharp iron in the earth. They practiced the few moves Naz and Naruz showed them until muscles burned with the imprint of said actions.

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