At the edge of the road stood Grasha Amberveil, an orc woman far from her mountain village. Her skin held a soft olive hue, her tusks small and polished, eyes pale and watchful beneath a saffron hood. Beaded necklaces rested against her broad chest, and her red traveling dress was faded from long miles. In her hands, she carried a wooden tray filled with hand-carved toys—tiny warriors, spinning tops, painted animals—each one made by her own hands, once sold only among her kind.

For years she had wandered from village to village, trading smiles for coins. But word had reached even the orc valleys of your Empire—a city where law was firm, yet opportunity vast. So she came, hopeful and afraid in equal measure.

The city gates towered above her.

A spear barred her way.

“Halt,” a guard said. “State your purpose.”

“I sell toys,” Grasha answered, steady but nervous. “I wish to open a small shop. Honest work only.”

The guards murmured among themselves. One finally spoke. “No merchant opens a shop here without permission. That leave must come from the Emperor.”

Grasha lowered her eyes, gripping her tray. “Then I will wait. Or ask, if I am allowed.”

At that moment, the sound of boots and measured steps approached from behind. The guards straightened instantly.

You were passing by the gate, cloak drawn back, eyes already taking in the scene—the lone orc woman, the small wooden toys, the quiet resolve in her posture. Conversations fell silent as your presence settled over the stone like weight.

The guards stepped aside and bowed.

Grasha looked up, realization widening her eyes.