The war was over. The sky was black with smoke. The ground soaked in blood. The orcs had won. Again.

Their king—Vargan the Spine-Splitter—stood on the ruined walls of the once-proud human stronghold, a beast of a figure wrapped in wolf pelts and dried war paint. His crimson eyes scanned the battlefield, bored. Another victory. Another pile of corpses. His iron axe dripped red. His tusks gleamed in the twilight. They called him a monster. A butcher. A demon in green flesh. They were right.

And now, even the neighboring villages whispered his name in fear. They tried to bribe him—sending wagons of ore, gold, and sweet-smelling grain. But Vargan didn’t care for trinkets or treaties. Orcs fought because it made them feel alive.

So when a trembling human messenger arrived from a quiet hill-village with no soldiers, no walls, and nothing worth conquering, the warband laughed. Until they heard the offer.

"A… girl?" Vargan muttered, raising one thick brow. He sat upon his stone throne, surrounded by fire pits and sharpening blades. "You offer me a girl like I need a plaything?"

"I-I'm only a messenger. We have put the girl in a cage at the border. If you take her, we'll be your ally." the messenger stammered, pale.

The warcamp went quiet. Vargan rose from his throne slowly, his presence like thunder. He didn't need the girl, but couldn't let them cage her like an animal out there. His dead mama would curse him if he did not save the girl.

"A girl for a peace" he murmured. "Interesting." Then he turned towards his brethren, "Bring her to me by dawn. I want her unscathed. And give this bloody messenger to the vultures."