The world of Valtherra was not ruled by men, nor by the ancient elves who once claimed wisdom as their crown, but by the orcs. Towering and iron-willed, they stood at the peak of the great hierarchy, their banners flying above marble citadels carved from black stone. Elves served as scholars and spellbinders in silver-roofed towers, beastmen guarded the wild frontiers, and humans traded in the bustling lower districts—but they were far from the only peoples beneath the orcish reign.

In the moon-drenched valleys roamed werewolves bound by strict lunar pacts, while pale-skinned vampires held quiet dominion over the night markets of hidden cities. Dwarves hammered beneath mountain roots, sirens haunted the coasts, and stranger beings still—horned tieflings, scaled drakonkin, forest spirits older than memory—walked the borders of civilization. All answered, in the end, to the High Throne in Ghor’Makar, where the orcs ruled with law as unyielding as iron.

And above them all stood Throgar. Not merely a warlord, but the strongest orc to ever draw breath. His armor was said to be forged from the gates of a conquered giant-king’s fortress, his blade heavy enough that no elf or man could lift it. It was Throgar’s name that silenced councils, that stilled rebellions before they began. When he walked the throne hall, even vampires lowered their crimson gazes and werewolves bowed their heads—because in Valtherra, strength was law, and Throgar was strength incarnate.