The sun hung low over the mine's jagged entrance, casting yellow light on the blood-soaked ground where bodies still lay unburied. Drekk and Naruz moved through the area, their steps careful on the loose gravel. Drekk's nose twitched at every breeze, sniffing for any trace of Vrognut. The cannibal had vanished that night, wounds too severe for him to crawl, let alone flee. A dagger through the chest, ribs caved in—impossible unless someone carried him. And the only name that fit was Kraghul, the orc who had torn through their defenses like paper.

Naruz led the way, her massive orc frame a wall of muscle and fury, axe slung over one shoulder. She hadn't spoken much since they left the mine's makeshift infirmary. Byung lay there, bandaged and broken, his survival a fragile thread. Naruz expected him to die—his skull cracked, face pulped beyond recognition. She wasn't in love with him, not like that, but she cared deeply. He had given her hope, a place in this goblin world where she and Naz could belong. Getting out, clearing her head in the cold air, was the only way to keep from shattering. But they weren't the only ones searching for someone.

The nameless Stonehide Chieftess and her orcs had gone hunting Kraghul with single-minded vengeance, aiming to claim his life for sins long past. They had to stay on the ground, monitoring the situation but her tribe had reported back to the ones on the mountain to watch the roads as they set up a temporary base in the liberated mine. Tents clustered in the open.

Naruz paused at a fork in the path, her eyes scanning the area.

"He couldn't have gone far. Not like that," Naruz muttered, she didn't like Drekk but had to suck it up because this was a all hands-on-deck situation. Drekk nodded, crouching to examine a scuff in the dirt.

"Blood trail ends here. Like he just... vanished," Drekk said with a suspicious brow.

They pushed on, following faint clues: a broken twig, a smear of green blood on a rock. Naruz's thoughts drifted to Naz. The miracle of her survival still stunned her. Childbirth for any female orc was certain death, often fatal, but Naz had lived—weak, pale, but alive.

The baby suckled strong at her breast, a tiny goblin-orc hybrid with soft green skin and budding tusks.

It changed everything. Goblins had always been handicapped by low birth rates and certain death to the mothers; women could bear once or not all but the outcome would be the same. But if Naz's survival meant they could reuse the same women over and over, the need for more females would drop. Population could explode.

"Look," Drekk hissed, pointing.

Footprints in the soft earth: small, slightly bigger than goblin, too small for orc. Narrow, deep-heeled, like something between. They trailed off into the brush, heading north.

"Not Kraghul's. Too light," Naruz frowned in disappointment.

"Not goblin either. Smells... different. It definitely wasn't human, orc, or goblin," Drekk sniffed the print.

They followed the trail, weapons ready. Word from the other mines had come in by runner an hour ago: attacks everywhere, but the orcs had retreated to their main base after news of Kraghul's retreat spread. Kragg had chained up an entire outpost and dragged them away—slaves. No sightings of Kraghul or Vrognut. The cannibal's disappearance gnawed at Drekk; if Kraghul had him, why? Torture? Bait?

The footprints led to a small cave mouth, hidden by overhanging vines. Naruz pushed them aside, axe first. Inside, a low fire flickered. Empty. But the scent lingered—strong now, like a wet dog in rain.

The fire was burning like it had caved in on itself, it was strange but Naruz suspected it was an underground underground tunnel.

"Gone," Drekk muttered.

"But recent," He added.

Naruz didn't tell him what she suspected because the fire had ruined any evidence of this but the fact the scent was something she wasn't familiar with worried her as well.

A rustle from the bushes around soon startled them.

They spun, weapons up. But nothing. Just the wind.

Naruz's face hardened. She needed this search. Needed the distraction from Byung's bedside, she didn't want to be there when he died. He was her friend, the spark of hope in this world. Watching him die would break her. Better out here, hunting, than waiting for the end.

But she couldn't shake the nagging feeling that something was watching them.

-

The nameless Stonehide Chieftess moved through the foothills like a predator in her element, her white hair whipping in the cold wind that howled down from the peaks. Her four honor guards flanked her. They had been tracking Kraghul for hours, her red eyes fixed on the faint boot prints scarring the earth.

She was one of the best hunters, there wasn't a prey she couldn't find regardless of how far they ran.

They were unnaturally close to the main location of the orcs which meant they would eventually run into them.

The first orc patrol blundered into their path without warning. Three warriors, armored in rusted plate, weapons slung casually over their shoulders as they laughed about the goblins' slaughter. They didn't see her until it was too late.

She struck like lightning.

The orc's laugh died as her broadsword whistled through the air, cleaving him from collarbone to hip in one fluid arc. Blood sprayed in a hot fan, drenching the ground. The second orc spun, axe rising—too slow. She pivoted, the blade's backswing taking his legs at the knees. He toppled screaming, stumps pumping red. The third managed a desperate swing; she caught the haft mid-air with one massive hand, yanked him forward, and drove her free fist into his throat. Cartilage crushed with a wet pop. He gurgled, clutching his neck, and dropped twitching to the dirt.

Her guards hadn't even moved. The kills were clean, efficient, over in seconds. No wasted effort. No mercy.

One orc still breathed—the second, crawling through his own blood, legs useless ruins. She knelt beside him, her presence alone making him freeze. Red eyes bored into his, voiceless but demanding.

"Where is Kraghul?" one guard growled, translating her silent glare.

The orc spat blood, shaking his head.

"I don't know... I swear..." The orc pleaded.

She nodded once. The guard stepped back.

With a casual motion, she grabbed the orc by his belt and hoisted him upside down, dangling him like a caught fish. He thrashed, cursing, but her grip was iron. One guard uncoiled a rope from his belt, looping it around the orc's ankles and tying it to a low-hanging branch. He hung there, head down, blood rushing to his face, veins bulging.

She drew a small, razor-sharp skinning knife from her boot. Starting at the orc's boots, she sliced through leather and cloth with surgical precision, peeling away layers until his legs were bare. Then the real work began.

The knife danced. Thin cuts, shallow at first, flaying skin in long, curling strips. She worked methodically, exposing raw muscle and the delicate web of nerves beneath. The orc's screams started low, then built to howls as the exposed nerves screamed with every brush of air, every drip of blood. The slightest wind felt like fire. A falling leaf like acid. He writhed, body convulsing, mind fracturing under the agony.

Her guards watched impassively, axes ready for any interruption.

But the Chieftess... her red eyes shone with genuine happiness. A soft, almost serene smile touched her tusked mouth as the orc's screams reached a fever pitch. The rumors about her cruelty weren't just stories.

This orc was exiled for a reason and it wasn't because of her disability.

She left him hanging for the vultures, skin flapping in the wind like ragged flags, nerves alive to every torment until death came slow.

His earlier scream was sure to draw in more orcs and she had left them a present.

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