It happened in an instant.

  Slice-

  The elk's head came clean off, tumbling into the grass with a dull thud. Blood spurted in hot arcs before soaking into the earth.

  Crouched low beside the kill, a towering orc dressed the carcass with practiced precision. His muscles shifted beneath taut green skin, each movement efficient, deliberate. Black hair, braided in thick whips on the sides, hung loose down his broad back. His tusks curved up from behind his bottom lip, gleaming faintly with the damp mist of early morning.

  He was strong-as strong as he needed to be.

  "Chief!"

  A small hunting party bounded through the brush toward him, whooping with triumph. Leaner and younger, the others-two males and two females-grinned proudly as they approached. They had herded the elk down toward him like wolves, cornering it into its final charge.

  He grunted, handing off fresh-cut pieces to each of them without ceremony. They took their share eagerly before vanishing back toward the village. Chief stayed behind, binding the remainder and hoisting it effortlessly onto his shoulder.

  Orcs didn't bother with names. Not among their own. Names were for humans-fragile little ornaments to decorate fragile little lives. Orcs were remembered for what they did, not what they were called.

  Among his kin, he was Chief.

  That was all anyone needed to know.

  He had led this band for years. Once a band of scavengers and exiles, now something greater. A village had taken root under his command, deep in the Bonewood Valley-rawhide tents, dugout smoke pits, hand-carved palisades. Crude but proud. A real beginning.

  And Chief had dared to dream of more. A "Horde". A force that would echo across the land again, not just in fear, but in pride.

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  But dreams don't last long in a world ruled by men and magic.

  Humans had grown too strong-cities walled in steel, mages who bent fire and ice like breath, contracts that shackled spirits. Their "Adventurers" no longer hunted monsters for glory-they *harvested* them.

  Orcs were captured, collared with enchanted seals, and sold to nobles or priests. Forced into servitude, their will - devoured by the binding magic. The lucky ones died fighting.

  Chief had kept his people clear of that fate-so far. They lived away from human roads. Moved with caution. Trained hard. Trusted each other.

  Until that day.

  It was supposed to be a simple hunt. A small herd of mountain elk, just beyond the ridge. The young needed meat to grow strong.

  Chief had taken three trackers. They weren't far from home.

  That was when he caught it-the sharp sting of smoke in the wind. Not from the meat they smoked. This was different. Acrid. Wet. Familiar.

  He turned his eyes toward the Bonewood Valley.

  Black pillars of smoke rose over the treetops.

  His heart dropped.

  The run back was a blur-half sprint, half prayer. Muscles burned, lungs seared.

  Too late.

  Flames licked the edges of the village. Tents torn. Stakes shattered. Bodies-his kin-strewn across the ground like discarded meat. The bonfire pit soaked red.

  Magic still lingered in the air. Holy fire. Silver-tipped spears. Chains glowing faintly with divine light.

  They had been waiting. Watching. Baiting.

  Chief barely let out a roar before something slammed into his back-holy magic, heavy and binding.

  They didn't kill him.

  They knew who he was.

  They wanted him broken.

  But the seal didn't hold. His mana resisted it, cracked it before it rooted.

  "BLAST! He is resisting the contract! I can't break him!"

  "Then knock him out and we'll sell him to someone who can."

  As his consciousness faded under their sorcery, he swore in his heart. He would return.

  And when he did-the fire wouldn't come from the humans.

  It would come from him