Blackfang Hold sprawled across the shadowed valley like a scar upon the land. Massive walls of crudely hewn black stone, reinforced with looted dwarven masonry and human ironwork, rose defiantly against the mountains. Banners of conquered kingdoms hung limp in the smoky air, tattered standards of fallen human realms, their once-proud eagles and lions smeared with blood and orcish runes.
The air reeked of smoke, blood, and unwashed bodies. Slave pens lined the outer courtyards, where hundreds of humans and beastkin huddled in chains, their eyes reflecting the torchlight. In the center of the hold, the fighting pits roared with life, a circular arena of blood-soaked sand surrounded by tiered seating carved from the valley rock.
Lord Grimgor sat upon his throne of fused bone and steel, a colossal orc whose green-gray hide bore the scars of a hundred battles. Tusks jutted prominently from his powerful jaw, adorned with gold rings taken from fallen kings. His eyes, sharp beneath a heavy brow, missed nothing. He was no mindless brute. Grimgor had risen through cunning as much as strength, forging alliances during the Beast Wars, betraying them when convenient, and crushing rivals with surgical precision. Ambition burned in his veins like forge-fire. He would not be content ruling a single valley. The entire continent would kneel.
Today, he watched the pits with a faint smirk. Two human slaves, former soldiers from the south, circled each other with crude weapons. One lunged, only to be disemboweled in a spray of gore. The crowd of orcs, goblins, and a few allied dwarves roared approval. Grimgor raised a massive hand, signaling the victor to be rewarded with a meager ration and a night with one of the female slaves. Entertainment served its purpose, keeping his warriors sharp and loyal while he planned greater things.
A larger campaign brewed in the south. Whispers of a human rebellion had grown into open defiance. Remnants of the old kingdoms were uniting under some self-proclaimed "Liberator." Grimgor intended to march within the month, crush them utterly, and parade their leaders through every beastkin stronghold as trophies. Victory there would cement his dominance among the fractious beastkin lords.
A commotion at the entrance to the viewing platform drew his attention. Three messengers, two battered orcs and a trembling goblin, were dragged forward by his guards. Their armor was scorched, and fear stank on them.
"Speak," Grimgor rumbled, his voice deep as rolling thunder. He leaned forward, fingers drumming on the arm of his throne.
The lead orc messenger swallowed hard. "My lord... Karg’s patrol was destroyed. The slave caravan to the pits... gone. The mountain camp burned. Karg himself was beheaded by one of the slaves. The others... most escaped. Some survivors report activity near the old dwarven ruins of Kharadun."
Grimgor’s eyes narrowed. "One slave did this?"
The goblin squeaked, "Yes, Great One! They call him the Orc Slayer now. He fights like a demon, martial arts no slave should know. He has gathered some of the escaped slaves. They’re organizing... in the ruins."
A heavy silence fell over the platform. The crowd in the pits continued cheering, oblivious. Grimgor’s mind raced. This was no ordinary escaped slave. A single man killing Karg, a Level 4 veteran, and rallying others? It spoke of skill, perhaps even a hidden power. Some humans were born as mages, and while they were rare, few existed. Perhaps this Orc Slayer had just newly awakened his magic.
Calculated rage built in Grimgor’s chest. He rose slowly, towering over the messengers. "You let a single slave slaughter my men and burn my supplies., and then you return with excuses instead of his head."
The lead orc stammered, "We searched, my lord! Patrols are still out—"
Grimgor moved with surprising speed for his bulk. His axe, a monstrous weapon named Bloodreaver, cleaved through the air. The lead orc’s head tumbled to the stone floor. The goblin screamed and tried to flee, only for Grimgor’s guards to pin him down. The second orc messenger fell to his knees, begging.
"Two more failures," Grimgor growled. He executed the remaining orc with a casual backhand that shattered his skull. The goblin he spared, for now. "You will carry my orders. This is not some random uprising. This Orc Slayer is dangerous."
He paced the platform, tusks gleaming. Internally, the bigger picture weighed on him. The Beast Wars victory had been hard-fought, but alliances among orcs, goblins, dwarves, and other beastkin were fraying. Other lords watched him hungrily, waiting for an opening. Human rebellions in the south were spreading like wildfire, fueled by surviving mages and disgruntled nobles. If this slave’s actions inspired more resistance, his planned campaign could face unexpected delays. He could not afford to appear vulnerable.
"The bounty I placed, hundred gold and a choice slave harem has drawn bounty hunters from across the mountains," Grimgor continued, addressing his assembled lieutenants who had gathered at the commotion. "Yet none have delivered. This changes now."
He turned to a hulking figure standing nearby: Thragor the Crusher, one of his most trusted champions. A massive orc nearly as large as Grimgor himself, adorned with trophies from a dozen raids, Thragor commanded respect through brute force and loyalty. "Take fifty warriors, veterans only. A mix of orcs and goblin trackers. Go to Kharadun. Find this Orc Slayer and his rabble. Do not kill him. Bring him to me alive."
Thragor grinned, revealing filed teeth. "Alive, my lord? You wish to break him personally?"
Grimgor chuckled darkly, a sound like grinding stones. "Yes. I will make an example of him in the pits. Let every slave in my domain watch as the so-called Orc Slayer begs for death. His head on a pike will crush any spark of rebellion before it spreads. If he has awakened some power... I want to know its nature before I crush it."
He gestured dismissively at the surviving goblin messenger. "Spread word across the valleys. Double the bounty. Any who aid this slave will see their villages burned. And send scouts to monitor the southern routes. The rebellion there must not gain momentum from this fool’s actions."
As the lieutenants dispersed to carry out his will, Grimgor returned to his throne. The pits had been cleared for the next fight, but his mind was no longer on entertainment. This Orc Slayer, Grimgor, didn’t know why he bothered him. Many slave rebellions have risen, and they have all been crushed in an instant. Yet, this one felt like a real threat.
The Beast Wars had taught Grimgor many lessons. Humans were resilient when cornered. Their kingdoms had fallen not just to superior strength, but because of division. He would not allow history to repeat itself under his watch. Other beastkin lords might grumble and scheme, but Blackfang Hold would stand supreme.
"Prepare the war host for the south," he ordered a nearby aide. "But first, deal with this insect in the mountains. I want him in chains within the week."