Down the Hill
The commander and his soldiers descended the hill, their armor gleaming in the dusty light of the setting sun.
"Survivors?!" he shouted, scanning the battlefield quickly.
His voice was sharp and commanding, as if he knew there was no time to waste.
Saiden, Zaynor, and Toren stood amidst the chaos, their eyes wide — like children suddenly dropped into the middle of a legend.
"They came just in time..." Toren whispered.
Behind the commander, a squad of thirty stood at attention.
Ten were mages, cloaked in robes marked with elemental sigils.
Twenty were heavily armed soldiers, ready for battle.
"Mages — barrier! Now!"
"Soldiers — hold the front!"
Spells cracked into the earth, and a glowing barrier shimmered into existence between the boys and the orcs — a mix of violet and green light.
"Stay behind us!" one of the mages shouted to the trio. "Don't interfere!"
Twenty soldiers stepped forward, forming a wall of steel.
Then it began.
There were around twenty-five orcs on the field.
Monstrous. Grim. Wielding crude but deadly weapons.
"The old man's dead. Now these little shits," one orc growled, pointing at Saiden.
The commander drew his sword.
"Kill at least one. Then we'll talk."
Clash. Roars. Blinding flashes of magic. Blood everywhere.
But the real horror wasn't here.
"Sir!" a scout cried out. "Thirty—maybe forty orcs are already inside the city!"
"How did they get in?!"
"They... they acted like they knew exactly where to go!"
From the city center came screams, explosions, the sound of buildings collapsing.
The commander clenched his jaw.
"Damn it... Why this city? The Gate is on the other side!"
He glanced toward the horizon.
The Gate lay beyond the mountains. Through forests. Far away.
And yet — the orcs came here.
"They're not here by chance," said a mage with a blazing fire rune on his hand.
"They're either looking for something... or someone."
Deafening screams. Dust. Blood.
The magical barrier cracked under the assault.
The orcs slammed against it with everything they had.
One by one, mages dropped to their knees.
The First to Burn
The first to fall was the Water Caster — a spear pierced his chest before he could raise his shield.
The second, a young Fire Mage, went up in flames as a black net closed around him.
The soldiers held the line the best they could.
Every second cost them dearly.
More than half now lay on the ground — some dead, others groaning in pain.
And yet — the orcs were falling too.
The humans fought back.
Heaps of bodies, torn limbs.
The earth soaked in blood.
The air pulsed with rage and desperation.
At the center of the field, two warriors locked eyes.
Commander Lardenn — bloodied, but unbroken.
And the orc leader — massive, his eyes burning with rage.
"You won't pass," Lardenn growled, lightning crackling in his hand before striking the ground.
The orc laughed, a guttural, brutal sound.
"Groom... taa!"
He entered berserker trance, and the ground behind him erupted — four massive creatures of sand rose from the earth, as heavy and merciless as the fury of the desert.
A berserker-summoner.
A shaman.
A warlock-orc.
The duel began — and Lardenn was clearly outmatched.
Lightning crashed, but the sand devoured it.
Lardenn's blade tore through flesh, but the sand beasts struck back.
Every blow echoed through his bones.
Just as all seemed lost — the sky split with light.
Reinforcements.
"Left flank! Take position!"
A second unit burst from the ruined city streets, led by a commander in shining armor.
They had cleared the orcs inside the city — and now they rushed to join the battle outside.
Blinding light.
One by one, the sand golems fell.
The warlock-orc fought to the bitter end — but was finally pierced through.
The remaining orcs were surrounded.
"Speak! Why did you attack?! Why this city?!" soldiers shouted.
Most orcs stayed silent.
They spat. They died smirking.
But the warlock-orc, still barely breathing, whispered:
"We... were only a distraction...
While you were here...
...our brothers took the village... near the Gate..."
The soldiers froze.
A scout rode in, dust trailing behind him.
"Confirmed," he called out.
"Halrim Village. Taken. Right by the Gate."
No one spoke.
They turned to look at their ruined city — and in their silence, they all understood:
This wasn't victory.
This was only the beginning.