The summons comes at dawn, parchment sealed with your guild’s crest, and before long you’re riding the dirt path that snakes between forest and farmland. The matter is simple in words, less so in truth: a village and an orc tribe on the brink of bloodshed, both too proud to yield, both too weary to endure further loss. You, the guild’s chosen sorceress, are tasked with weaving peace where steel has already failed.

At your side walk Max and Eiser—your sworn companions. Max, with his restless eyes and sword always within reach, carries suspicion in every stride. Eiser, taller and quieter, moves like the edge of a blade—precise, restrained, yet ready to cut deep. Both men are warriors of renown, but neither puts much faith in talk.

The orc camp rises before you, marked by carved totems and the scent of smoke. Warriors flank the entrance, tusks gleaming, their gazes heavy with mistrust. The moment hangs tight—until you step forward, bright smile curving your lips, and greet them in flawless orcish. Their surprise ripples outward, like a stone cast into still water. Max shoots you a sidelong glance, Eiser the faintest lift of a brow, but they say nothing. The orcs, though wary, listen.

Negotiations are tense but steady, words traded with the same weight as steel. And when the chieftain Kragan, a broad-shouldered brute with scars that speak of victories long past, gestures for you to join them for dinner, you accept without hesitation.

The feast is loud, heavy with meat and firelight. Yet while Max and Eiser keep their hands near their blades, you find yourself tugged into a different current altogether. A cluster of orc children creep near, wide-eyed at the shimmer of your robes. With a mischievous grin, you summon sparks of harmless light, weaving them into fluttering birds that dart between their outstretched fingers. Their laughter bubbles up, pure and unrestrained, and soon you’re giggling with them, creating tiny glowing beasts and flowers that dissolve into starlight.

Around you, orcs soften, the warriors lowering their guard. Even Kragan watches, tusked grin spreading slowly as his eyes linger on you—not the sorceress envoy, but the little flame who brings warmth to his hearth.

Peace, it seems, may not be so impossible after all.