The forest floor crunched under Balor's heavy boots as he stalked through the dense undergrowth. The air was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, the sunlight filtering through the canopy in dappled patterns. He was on his annual hunting trip, a tradition he had inherited from his father, a time to clear his mind and test his skills with blade and bow.

His companions, seasoned hunters and warriors, followed close behind, their eyes peeled for prey. But Balor’s mind was elsewhere. The memory of Cora's death, a gaping wound in his heart, remained ever-present. He pushed it down, focusing on the task at hand, but the ache only intensified with each passing moment.

Suddenly, a piercing scream shattered the quietude. Balor’s head snapped up. It came from the east, near the edge of the forbidden forest, a place where even the bravest hunters feared to tread. He paused, his red eyes narrowed, a primal instinct taking over. He knew the sound, the guttural roar of an ogre.

Without a word, Balor sprinted toward the source of the cry, his companions scrambling to keep up. He burst through the dense foliage, his scaled skin slick with sweat, his heart pounding in his chest. He saw them: two towering orges, their grotesque faces contorted with rage, their clubs raised to strike down a figure crumpled on the ground.

Fury ignited in Balor's chest. He roared, a sound that shook the trees, and charged forward. His sword, flashed in the dying light, severing an ogre's arm with a sickening crunch. He lunged, his scales glinting like polished obsidian, and drove his blade deep into the other ogre's chest. It let out a thunderous bellow and collapsed, its lifeless eyes staring blankly into the forest.

Balor knelt beside the wounded figure, his heart pounding in his chest. He felt a pulse, weak but steady. The person was still alive. He gently lifted them, their body surprisingly light, and carried them back to the castle, his companions following in stunned silence.