The forest seemed to hold its breath as the orc warriors moved in single file through the dense undergrowth. The air was heavy with tension, each step deliberate and muffled by soft moss and fallen leaves. Khaz’ara took point, her axe balanced across her back, her sharp amber eyes scanning the terrain ahead. Every rustle of leaves or distant cry of an animal heightened her alertness, the weight of their mission pressing down on her shoulders.
Her mind raced, replaying the events of the last few hours. The traveler’s face lingered in her thoughts—calm, resolute, that maddening half-grin he’d worn even as he walked straight into danger. “Trust me,” he’d said, as if trust came so easily. As if it wasn’t earned through years of shared blood and sweat. Yet somehow, she had trusted him. And that trust gnawed at her now.
“Khaz’ara,” Grok’an’s deep voice rumbled from just behind her, pulling her from her thoughts. “You’ve been quiet since we left the village. What’s troubling you?”
She slowed her pace slightly, allowing the chieftain to fall in step beside her. His towering form and weathered features carried the weight of leadership, but his gaze was sharp, probing. She hesitated before answering, her voice low and measured. “Just thinking about the plan.”
Grok’an gave a grunt, his brow furrowing. “The plan. Leaving an outsider—a human, no less—to distract slavers while we muster our forces. That’s not a plan; it’s a gamble.”
Khaz’ara felt her jaw tighten, the chieftain’s words stoking the embers of her frustration. “It’s a calculated gamble. And it’s better than charging in blind.”
“It’s reckless,” Grok’an countered, his voice edged with doubt. “You put your faith in someone you barely know. What makes you so certain he can hold them off?”
She stopped abruptly, turning to face him. The other warriors behind them slowed but kept their distance, sensing the weight of the conversation. “Because he’s not like anyone I’ve met,” she said firmly, her tone brooking no argument. “He’s brave. Resourceful. And he doesn’t think like we do—he’s unpredictable. That’s an advantage against Garr’khan.”
Grok’an crossed his arms, his tusks glinting faintly in the dappled light. “Unpredictable doesn’t mean reliable. What if he fails? What if his distraction costs us the lives of the captives?”
Khaz’ara’s fists clenched at her sides, her voice dropping to a near growl. “And what if it doesn’t? What if he gives us the chance we need to save them—and to take Garr’khan down for good?”
The chieftain held her gaze for a long moment before exhaling heavily. “You’re betting a lot on this human, Khaz’ara. I hope, for all our sakes, that your instincts are right.”
Before she could respond, one of the scouts ahead raised a hand in a silent signal. The group halted instantly, fading into the shadows of the forest like ghosts. Khaz’ara crouched, her fingers brushing the hilt of her axe as she moved to join the scout.
“What is it?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
The scout pointed to a patch of disturbed earth ahead. Shallow trenches crisscrossed the path, their edges hastily concealed with leaves and debris. “Traps,” he murmured. “Crude, but effective if we’re not careful.”
Khaz’ara’s gaze swept the area, her sharp eyes picking out other signs of recent activity—boot prints in the damp soil, broken branches at shoulder height, and the faint glint of metal where a trap hadn’t been fully covered. “They’re preparing to move,” she said grimly, glancing back at Grok’an.
He crouched beside her, his expression hardening. “They know they’re exposed. They’ll want to clear out before anyone comes looking for them.”
Khaz’ara nodded, her mind racing. The slavers wouldn’t leave without their captives, which meant they still had a small window to act. She turned to Grok’an, her voice steady. “We need to move fast. If they’re packing up, they won’t be as vigilant. The traveler’s distraction might give us the edge we need to strike before they’re ready.”
The chieftain rubbed his chin thoughtfully before glancing at the senior warriors who had gathered around them. “Suggestions?” he asked, his tone clipped.
One of the warriors, a scarred veteran named Valruk, spoke first. “We split into two groups. One hits them head-on, drawing their attention, while the other frees the captives and secures the wagons.”
Khaz’ara shook her head. “Too risky. Garr’khan will expect a direct assault. If we give him the chance, he’ll use the captives as leverage—or worse, as shields.”
Valruk frowned but said nothing, his jaw tightening.
“What do you propose, Khaz’ara?” Grok’an asked, his tone neutral but curious.
She gestured to the surrounding forest. “We use the terrain. Surround the camp, isolate their patrols, and take them out silently. Once their numbers are thinned, we strike hard and fast. Hit them before they can regroup.”
Grok’an considered her words, his expression unreadable. After a moment, he nodded. “A sound strategy. But we’ll need to move quickly—and precisely. One misstep, and Garr’khan will turn this into a slaughter.”
He turned to the group, his voice rising just enough to be heard. “Spread out. Stay low. We move as one, and we strike as one. No mistakes.”
The warriors nodded, their faces set with grim determination. As they began to fan out into the forest, Khaz’ara lingered for a moment, her gaze fixed on the distant horizon. She could almost see the traveler in her mind’s eye, standing alone in that camp, facing Garr’khan with nothing but his golden glow and unshakable confidence.
“Hold on, traveler,” she murmured under her breath, gripping her axe tightly. “We’re coming.”
++++++++++++
The two guards flanked me, their professional demeanor marred only by the subtle sideways glances they kept casting toward my sword. The blade still glowed faintly, its golden light pulsing with an almost rhythmic cadence. My cloak billowed slightly as I walked, each step deliberate, projecting a calm authority I was far from feeling. Inside, my mind raced, weighing options, crafting responses, and trying not to calculate how quickly this could all fall apart.
The camp was a hive of subdued activity, the slavers and soldiers moving with quiet efficiency. Their eyes followed me as I passed, whispers trailing in my wake. I couldn’t afford to show hesitation, couldn’t let the cracks in my confidence slip through. I’d seen it before—in fires and medical emergencies—how a single moment of doubt could cascade into chaos.
The tent ahead loomed larger than the others, its canvas reinforced and adorned with faint symbols of the human-elf kingdom. The golden wisp that had hovered nearby since I entered the camp flickered just outside my vision, its faint light a comfort I couldn’t explain. The guards parted the entrance flaps, motioning me inside with stiff movements.
“Welcome to my camp, wizard.” The voice was a low rumble, heavy with disdain and something colder curiosity.
Garr’khan stood at the center of the tent, his broad shoulders and towering form framed by the flickering light of an oil lamp. His armor gleamed faintly, its polished surface a stark contrast to the crude weapons of the other slavers. His amber eyes locked onto mine, sharp and calculating, and his tusks bared slightly in what might have been a grin—or a warning.
I inclined my head slightly, letting the shadows of my hood obscure my face. “Garr’khan, I presume,” I said, my voice calm, detached. “A fitting name for one who has made quite the impression across these lands.”
The orc’s brow furrowed slightly, the faintest hint of surprise flickering across his features before he masked it. “And who are you to speak of impressions? A wizard with no name, no faction, and a sword no wizard should carry.”
My lips twitched into a faint smile. “You may call me Hydra.” I barely kept the amusement from my tone as the name left my lips, the absurdity of it adding to the mystique I was trying to project. “As for my sword, it is a tool, nothing more. Wizards adapt to the needs of their circumstances.”
His eyes narrowed, his suspicion palpable. “Hydra,” he repeated, the word rolling off his tongue like a stone in his throat. “And what brings you here, to my camp, uninvited and armed?”
I let the silence stretch, watching him carefully. “I seek... valuable assets,” I said finally, each word deliberate. “Your operation intrigues me. But intrigue alone is not enough. I came to see if it was worth my time.”
Garr’khan let out a low chuckle, though it carried no warmth. “And what does a wizard like you want with ‘assets’? Slaves are beneath your kind, are they not?”
I tilted my head, the golden glow around me pulsing faintly as if in response to my thoughts. “Beneath? Perhaps. But even the lowliest pawn has value in the right hands. And I decide what is beneath me, Garr’khan. Not you.”
The tension in the tent thickened, the air charged with unspoken threats. I saw his hands flex subtly near his sides, his fingers brushing the haft of his axe. He was weighing me, testing the boundaries of what he could push without provoking a response.
From the corner of my vision, the goblin from earlier slinked into view, his sharp, beady eyes darting between Garr’khan and me. His movements were quick, deliberate, as though he were cataloging every word, every gesture. He didn’t speak, but his suspicion was clear.
“You speak as though you are above reproach,” Garr’khan said, his tone turning colder. “But even a wizard is not immune to steel and blood. What is to stop me from killing you where you stand?”
I stepped forward, my movements unhurried, closing the space between us. The glow of my sword brightened slightly as I raised it, pointing the pommel casually toward the orc. “You could try,” I said, my voice calm. “But consider what happens if you fail. Do you know how long a body takes to die when its organs are turned against it? A minute? Two? Perhaps you would like to find out.”
Garr’khan’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, I thought I might have overplayed my hand. But then his gaze flicked briefly to the golden glow emanating from my sword, and his posture shifted—a subtle wariness creeping in. He didn’t trust me, but he wasn’t ready to test me, either.
“You play a dangerous game, Hydra,” he said finally, his tone even but laced with venom.
“Danger,” I replied, allowing a faint smirk to curve my lips, “is what makes life interesting.”
The goblin’s sharp intake of breath was audible, his suspicion turning to something closer to fear. He shuffled backward slightly, his hunched form retreating into the shadows.
Garr’khan’s eyes never left mine. “You speak of assets. Of intrigue. What is it you truly want?”
“To ensure I am not wasting my time,” I said simply. “Your operation is... adequate. But adequacy is not enough. Impress me, Garr’khan, and perhaps you will find yourself under the protection of powers far greater than these petty kingdoms.”
His eyes flicked over me again, searching for cracks in my composure. I gave him none, standing as still as stone, my grip on the sword relaxed but deliberate. Inside, my mind churned, cataloging his movements, the positioning of the guards, the placement of weapons in the tent. Every detail mattered. Every second bought time.
Finally, he nodded, though his expression remained guarded. “Very well, wizard. You may observe—for now. But if this is a game, I promise you, Hydra, it will not end well for you.”
The implicit threat hung in the air, but I met his gaze unflinchingly. “I look forward to it,” I said softly, turning my back on him and walking toward the entrance. Every step was deliberate, measured, as though I owned not just the tent but everyone in it.
Behind me, Garr’khan’s voice rumbled. “Keep your eyes on him,” he ordered his men. “And prepare for trouble.”
I allowed myself the faintest of smiles as I stepped back into the night. The golden wisp flickered at my side, and I felt the tension ease ever so slightly. For now, the performance held. But the real test was just beginning.
As I stepped out of Garr’khan’s tent, the weight of the exchange lingered like a heavy cloak on my shoulders. The camp was a quiet hum of activity, but I could feel the tension rippling beneath the surface. Slavers and soldiers alike cast furtive glances my way, their expressions a mix of fear, suspicion, and unease.
Good. Fear was a tool, and right now, it was my best weapon.
The golden wisp flitted at my side, faint but steady, its light just enough to draw attention without blinding. I let it hover there, adding to the mystique of my "wizard" persona. The act wasn’t over—not by a long shot. Garr’khan might have agreed to let me observe for now, but I could feel his eyes boring into my back, his mind undoubtedly churning through contingencies, strategies, ways to kill me if I proved a threat.
As if sensing my thoughts, one of the professional-looking guards fell into step behind me. He wasn’t subtle about it, his heavy boots crunching against the dirt as he kept a measured distance. I suppressed a smirk. They were already playing into my hands, assigning someone to "watch" me as though that wouldn’t give me an advantage.The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.
The captives were my next goal. I needed to assess their situation, their condition, and—if possible—their spirits. Were they cowed into submission, or did they have fight left in them? That would determine how best to approach this rescue once Khaz’ara returned with reinforcements.
I moved through the camp like I belonged there, my posture straight, my steps measured. It wasn’t bravado; it was calculated. I kept my hood low, my face obscured in shadow, and my glowing sword sheathed but visible. The aura of golden light around me pulsed faintly, a steady reminder of my "otherworldly power." Every step was deliberate, projecting calm authority.
Slavers stepped aside as I passed, their unease palpable. A pair of humans whispered to each other, their voices barely audible over the crackle of the central bonfire.
“Who is he?” one muttered, his tone hushed but urgent.
“Wizard,” the other replied, spitting the word like a curse. “Keep your head down. You don’t want that kind of trouble.”
I let the corners of my mouth twitch upward into a faint smirk, though I didn’t break stride. The longer they bought into the act, the more time I had to keep them guessing—and distracted.
The wagons holding the captives came into view, their battered frames illuminated by the firelight. Most of the prisoners were orcs, their broad shoulders slumped and their hands bound with coarse rope. A few goblins were scattered among them, their small, wiry forms huddled together. Their faces were a mixture of exhaustion, fear, and defiance.
One of the goblins caught my eye. His sharp features and quick movements set him apart, his beady eyes darting toward me before snapping away. There was something calculating about him, something that suggested he wasn’t as beaten down as the others. Interesting.
“Move along,” barked a soldier stationed near the captives, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He was younger than most of the others, his armor ill-fitting but polished.
I turned my head slowly to face him, letting the glow around me intensify just slightly. My gaze locked onto his, and I tilted my head, my voice calm but laced with cold authority. “Do you presume to give me orders?”
The soldier paled, his hand dropping from his sword hilt as he took a half-step back. “N-no, sir. I—uh—I didn’t mean—”
“Good,” I said, cutting him off with the faintest curl of my lips. “Then I suggest you remain silent.”
He nodded quickly, his face pale as he stepped aside. I didn’t look at him again, turning my attention back to the captives. My eyes scanned the wagons, taking in every detail—the bindings, the guards, the placement of the captives. Their restraints were simple but effective, the ropes frayed from use but still sturdy. The guards were stationed in pairs, their postures relaxed but their eyes sharp. These weren’t amateurs.
One of the orc prisoners, an older male with scars crisscrossing his face, met my gaze. His expression was wary but not cowed, his dark eyes glinting with a spark of defiance. I held his gaze for a moment, letting the golden glow around me pulse faintly before I moved on. A seed of doubt, perhaps. Or hope. Either would do.
The goblin from earlier shifted, his movements quick and jittery as his gaze flicked between me and the guards. He was nervous, but there was something more—a curiosity that set him apart from the other captives. I made a mental note to keep an eye on him. He might prove useful.
“Keep them quiet,” I said, my voice low but carrying enough weight to make the nearest guard flinch. “Their usefulness diminishes if they lose their tongues.”
The guard nodded stiffly, clearly unsure whether to be terrified or annoyed. I left him to stew, turning and walking away without another word. My back prickled with the sensation of eyes following me, but I didn’t look back.
The golden wisp hovered just ahead of me as I made my way toward the edge of the camp. The air was heavy with smoke and tension, the bonfire casting jagged shadows across the ground. My mind raced, cataloging every detail, every face, every movement. Time was slipping away, and I needed to be ready for whatever came next.
Khaz’ara, you’d better hurry. This act won’t hold forever.
The golden glow around me pulsed faintly as I moved through the camp, my steps measured and deliberate. Every move was calculated to keep the slavers on edge, to reinforce the illusion of power and control. But my mind wasn’t on intimidation alone—it was on sabotage.
If Khaz’ara and the reinforcements were going to stand a chance, the camp needed to be weakened. The guards, soldiers, and slavers were too well-equipped and alert. I needed to tilt the odds in our favor.
As I walked, the golden wisp bobbed faintly ahead of me, a constant reminder of my own power. Behind me, the watchful guard—the same professional-looking soldier who had escorted me to Garr’khan’s tent—trailed me at a measured distance. His presence was an annoyance but not unexpected. Garr’khan wouldn’t leave me unwatched.
Fine. Let him watch. He’d see exactly what I wanted him to see.
I passed by the central bonfire, slowing as I neared the camp’s makeshift kitchen. The "kitchen" was nothing more than a few blackened pots and a roughly constructed spit over a fire pit. The smell of cooking meat and boiled grains wafted through the air, mingling with the acrid tang of smoke. A few slavers milled about, tending to the food with the kind of distracted efficiency that came with repetition.
Perfect.
My mind flicked back to my encounter with the snake-bitten orc hunter in the village. The knowledge I’d gained then—the effects of toxins, the way a body reacted to infection—blossomed into an idea. EMT training and field experience had taught me the importance of recognizing slow-moving but debilitating illnesses, and one in particular came to mind. Clostridioides difficile.
It was a nasty bacterium, the kind that could incapacitate without outright killing. C. diff caused relentless gastrointestinal issues—enough to weaken even the strongest fighters. And it could be introduced subtly, especially if you knew what you were doing. Lucky for me, I did.
I approached the fire pit, my posture straight and my golden glow flaring faintly. The slavers tending the food froze as I drew near, their hands hovering over their work like they were afraid to move. One of them, a wiry man with a face scarred from burns, glanced up at me nervously.
“Wizard,” he stammered, his voice cracking slightly. “Do you need... something?”
I tilted my head, letting the hood cast my face in deeper shadow. My voice was calm, detached, and tinged with the authority I’d been cultivating. “Your cooking,” I said simply. “I trust it’s not poison?”
The man paled, shaking his head rapidly. “N-no, of course not! It’s good food, I swear.”
“Good,” I replied, my tone cool. “I dislike interruptions caused by incompetence.”
I let the words hang for a moment, watching as the slavers’ anxiety deepened. Then I leaned forward slightly, just enough to make them flinch, and gestured toward the pots. “Continue.”
They scrambled to obey, their hands moving quickly as they stirred and turned the food. I pretended to lose interest, letting my gaze wander over the camp. My trailing guard stood nearby, his posture stiff and alert as he watched me. He wasn’t stupid—his eyes tracked my every move, suspicion simmering just beneath the surface.
I needed to work fast and subtle.
As the slavers worked, I focused on the fire pit, letting my mana flow in a delicate, invisible thread. The glow around me dimmed slightly—just enough to make it seem like I was conserving my energy. With a flick of my will, the mana-thread extended toward the pots, invisible to the naked eye but under my complete control.
The C. diff spores I needed wouldn’t be naturally present here, but the camp’s conditions—unsanitary and rife with potential contaminants—provided me with an opportunity. Using my mana, I directed the heat of the fire to "awaken" the bacteria likely lurking in the improperly cleaned pots. Foodborne pathogens could easily mimic the effects of C. diff when handled correctly. All it needed was time to brew.
“Everything to your satisfaction, wizard?” the scarred man asked, his voice shaking slightly.
I turned my head slowly to regard him, letting a faint smirk curl at the edge of my lips. “For now,” I said, my tone calm but vaguely threatening. “Do not disappoint me.”
The slavers nodded hurriedly, their attention shifting back to the food as I straightened and stepped away. My trailing guard followed, his boots crunching softly against the dirt as he maintained a careful distance.
“Do you always take such an interest in the camp’s meals?” he asked, his voice carefully neutral.
I didn’t look back at him, keeping my gaze forward. “It is prudent to ensure one’s allies remain... capable. A poor meal can sap strength faster than a blade.”
The guard grunted but didn’t press further. He was disciplined, I’d give him that, but he was also just a man. And like most men, he had a pattern—one I was beginning to recognize. His attention, while sharp, wasn’t constant. When I paused to "inspect" something, his eyes would flicker away briefly, scanning the area around us before returning to me.
I used that to my advantage, pausing by a barrel near the fire. The slavers had been using it to store water—a necessity in this environment. As my guard’s gaze shifted momentarily, I let a thin thread of mana slip from my fingers, seeping into the barrel. I couldn’t directly contaminate it, but I could accelerate the growth of the bacteria already present, ensuring it reached its peak potency by the time the water was consumed.
By the time my guard’s gaze returned to me, I was already stepping away, my posture calm and unaffected.
“You seem... thorough,” he said cautiously, his eyes narrowing.
I glanced back at him, tilting my head slightly. “A habit born of necessity,” I said evenly. “A wizard who fails to anticipate problems does not remain a wizard for long.”
He didn’t reply, but the faint flicker of unease in his expression told me I’d hit the mark. I turned away again, continuing my slow circuit of the camp. Each step, each pause, was deliberate, designed to reinforce my persona while planting the seeds of sabotage.
By the time I returned to the outskirts of the camp, the golden wisp had begun to pulse faintly, as if urging me onward. I cast one last glance over my shoulder, taking in the uneasy slavers, the flickering bonfire, the poisoned water and food waiting to take effect.
A slow smile crept across my face as I turned away. The pieces were in motion. Now all I needed was time.
“Your move, Garr’khan,” I murmured under my breath as I disappeared into the shadows of the camp.
+++++++++++
The forest edge loomed around us like a protective shroud as the warriors crept into position. Grok’an signaled for silence with a sharp hand gesture, his massive axe resting heavily on his shoulder. We had spread out in small groups, using the natural cover to flank the camp. The faint light of the central bonfire flickered in the distance, and the chaotic hum of slaver activity reached our ears—a camp on edge, but not prepared for what was coming.
I scanned the camp, searching for him. The golden glow was faint, but my sharp eyes found him near the bonfire. He stood tall, his hooded cloak casting shadows over his face, his golden aura flickering like embers in the dark. He moved with that same confident arrogance he’d shown when I left him—a mix of calculated calm and reckless flair.
Then I saw it: the mischievous smile playing on his lips, the slight twitch of amusement as he glanced at the slavers bustling around the camp. My chest tightened with a mix of exasperation and admiration. ‘What did you do, traveler?’
“Khaz’ara,” Grok’an’s voice rumbled low, pulling me back to the moment. “We’re in position. Your group takes the left flank. Wait for my signal.”
I nodded, gripping my axe tighter. My small team moved silently toward the side of the camp, weaving through the underbrush. As we neared the edge of the clearing, the faint smell of smoke mixed with something sharper, something acrid. It wasn’t until we saw the first slaver clutching his stomach and running toward the treeline that I realized what was happening.
“What in the ancestors’ names...?” one of the warriors muttered.
The camp was breaking into chaos before we’d even begun. Slavers doubled over, their faces twisted in pain. Some stumbled into tents or behind wagons, groaning loudly. Others looked on in confusion, shouting at their afflicted comrades. The smell of sickness carried on the wind, and my lips twitched in realization.
‘Of course he did.’
I motioned for my team to hold, watching the chaos unfold. The slavers weren’t ready for an attack—they were too busy dealing with whatever sickness the traveler had unleashed. Grok’an’s signal came moments later—a single, sharp whistle cutting through the night air.
The first volley of arrows rained down on the camp, silent but deadly. Slavers near the edges crumpled without a sound, and the camp erupted in shouts of alarm. The warriors surged forward, their weapons gleaming in the firelight as they fell upon the disorganized slavers. I led my group to the left, cutting through the panicked defenders with swift, brutal efficiency.
The slaver camp descended into complete chaos. The golden aura surrounding the traveler flickered faintly in the distance, a beacon amidst the confusion. Khaz’ara led her team with purpose, her axe flashing as they struck from the shadows. The slavers, distracted by both their own sudden sickness and the unexpected attack, barely put up a coordinated defense.
Her group moved with brutal precision, taking down guards near the perimeter before they could sound a proper alarm. Khaz’ara’s axe cleaved through a stunned human slaver, his weapon falling from his hands as he crumpled to the ground. She didn’t pause, her sharp eyes scanning for their next target.
Ahead, she saw the wagons where the captives were bound. Two guards stood before them, their attention divided between the fight breaking out in the camp and the groaning, incapacitated slavers around them. Khaz’ara gestured to one of her warriors, who notched an arrow and loosed it silently. One guard fell with a gurgle, an arrow lodged in his throat. The other barely had time to react before Khaz’ara was on him, her axe cutting through his guard and dropping him in a single, efficient motion.
"Move," she hissed to her team, her voice low but commanding. The warriors surged forward, cutting the bonds of the captives and ushering them toward the forest’s edge.
Khaz’ara glanced toward the bonfire and spotted the traveler. He stood amidst the chaos, his hood low and his glowing blade cutting through the smoke-filled air like a beacon. A guard lunged at him, and she saw the traveler pivot smoothly, his golden sword arcing with precision. The guard fell, clutching his chest, as the traveler turned toward another foe without hesitation.
Despite the situation, Khaz’ara felt a pang of admiration. He wasn’t just holding his own—he was thriving in the chaos. The golden aura around him pulsed with energy, his movements sharp and deliberate. She could see it now: the instincts of a fighter, a protector, honed through experience and pressure. He wasn’t just a strange outsider anymore. He was part of this fight, and he was proving his worth.
++++++++++++++++++
The camp was a storm of noise and motion, slavers stumbling over each other as chaos erupted around them. My glowing sword cut through the thick air, the golden light illuminating every swing. The sickness I’d carefully unleashed on them was working faster than I’d anticipated. Many of the slavers were doubled over, clutching their stomachs, their groans mixing with shouts of confusion and pain.
I focused on my movements, my body reacting faster than my thoughts. Each swing, each block, came instinctively, the golden energy coursing through me sharpening my senses and reactions. A guard lunged at me, his blade aimed for my side. I parried, the clang of steel ringing out, and stepped inside his guard, driving the hilt of my sword into his ribs. He crumpled with a grunt, and I moved on without hesitation.
The bonfire behind me dimmed as I extended my mana, snuffing its flames in a dramatic burst of golden light. Shadows surged across the camp, sowing further confusion among the slavers. My eyes scanned the chaos, tracking the movements of the orc warriors cutting through their disorganized ranks.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a figure charging toward me—a slaver, his sword raised high. Time seemed to slow as adrenaline surged through me. My body moved on its own, pivoting to the side and bringing my glowing blade up to meet his. The swords clashed, sparks flying, but I didn’t stop. I twisted my wrist, sliding his blade aside, and drove my knee into his stomach.
He staggered, but he wasn’t down yet. He swung again, wild and desperate, and I ducked, the blade whistling past my head. Rising, I brought my sword up in a sharp arc, the golden energy flaring as it sliced through his defenses. The slaver collapsed, his weapon clattering to the ground.
For a moment, I froze, staring down at the man I’d just defeated. The weight of the action hit me, the realization that I’d taken another life. My grip tightened on my sword, the golden light pulsing faintly. I forced the thought aside. This wasn’t the time for hesitation or regret. The captives needed us, and there was no room for weakness.
Another shout pulled me back into the fray. A slaver rushed at me, his axe raised high. I sidestepped his charge, my sword flashing in a quick, calculated strike. He fell, and I turned toward the wagons, where Khaz’ara and her team were freeing the captives.
“Traveler!” Khaz’ara’s voice cut through the noise, sharp and commanding. I turned to see her gesturing toward the forest. The captives were moving, stumbling toward safety under the protection of her warriors.
Behind me, a deep, guttural roar echoed through the camp. My heart clenched as I turned, knowing what I would see.
Garr’khan.
The massive orc emerged from the chaos, his broad shoulders towering over the slavers around him. His eyes burned with fury, his massive axe gleaming in the flickering firelight. He roared commands, rallying the remaining slavers to his side.
This was it. The real fight had begun.
With a steadying breath, I tightened my grip on my sword and stepped forward. The golden glow around me flared brighter, illuminating the darkness as I prepared to face Garr’khan head-on.