Ragon's palm pressed against Grel'thak's chest, silver light crackling through flesh and bone. The orc leader's body shook under the weight of it, but his eyes still burned with defiance.
"Someone begging for their life shouldn't waste time," Ragon said coldly. "Speak now, or I'll end this. If your words hold weight, you live. Unlike you orcs, I don't deal in lies."
Grel'thak coughed blood, but forced a crooked smile. "Beg? No. Orcs do not beg. But even a warrior knows when a fight is lost. So I bargain."
Ragon narrowed his eyes, pressure increasing. "Bargain with what?"
Grel'thak winced, his voice rough but steady.
"Back in the Roc lands, before your cursed barrier fell weak, we were told of a place hidden under the roots of the great tree that divides your world from ours. A ruin, you might call it. The elders said it was left by powers older than men or orcs."
"A ruin," Ragon repeated, suspicious.
"Yes," Grel'thak growled through clenched teeth. "Said to hold strength..spells, weapons, secrets.
The kind that could end your kingdoms and crown a conqueror. That is why I crossed. Not for blood alone. Not for my brother. For the ruin."
Ragon's gaze sharpened. "Strange. You've only been in the human world a week, yet you talk as if you've stood on its stones yourself."
Grel'thak shook his head, breath ragged.
"I've not set foot there. Not yet. But when your outburst against Graknar cracked the barrier, I felt the pull. The ground trembled, the air split. It was close....too close to be false. The ruin is real. Kill me now, and you'll never find it."
For a long beat, silence. The only sound was the hiss of silver light burning into skin. Then Ragon's lips curled faintly.
"You're proud, even while broken," he said. "But you're still bargaining for your life. I'll take your word on my terms."
With a sudden twist of his palm, Ragon pulled. Grel'thak arched in pain, roaring as a glowing core tore from his chest and shot into Ragon's hand. The orcs watching staggered back in shock.
"What have you done?" Grel'thak gasped, eyes wide, voice trembling between fury and fear.
Ragon inspected the pulsating orb calmly. "I've taken your core. Without it, you're no threat. With it, you'll think twice about crossing me. Guide me to this ruin, and perhaps you'll live long enough to see it."
Grel'thak stared in shock. A boy from an outskirt village shouldn't have known anything about warrior cores, much less how to rip one out. That kind of knowledge was supposed to be reserved for the sages and scholars of the mystic arts.
A core wasn't just energy. It was the source of a warrior or mage's strength, the center of their cultivation. Without it, a fighter was crippled barely able to defend themselves.
His own core, the strength of a peak three-star warrior, now sat in Ragon's hand.
Ragon bound the core in a shimmer of silver, tucking it away. He leaned close, his voice low and sharp. "Then don't waste my time. One lie, and you'll wish I ended you here."
Grel'thak bared bloodstained teeth. "I don't need lies. The ruin is truth enough."
Ragon stood tall over Grel'thak's broken body, the glowing core pulsing faintly in his hand. The silver light spilling from his eyes painted him as something more than human..something the orcs had no name for, but instinct warned them not to challenge.
Around him, hundreds of orc soldiers growled, weapons clutched tight. Their leader had fallen, but their numbers dwarfed the few men at Ragon's side.
Ragon's voice cut through the silence.
"You've seen what I can do. Your chief thought me weak. Look at him now stripped of the very core that gave him strength."
He raised the glowing shard of energy high, its light reflecting in every orc's eyes. Murmurs rippled through the ranks.
"You fight for blood, for conquest," Ragon said coldly. "But strike at me again, and you'll meet the same fate. One by one, I will rip the cores from your bodies until not a warrior among you remains."
The words weren't shouted. They were delivered with calm certainty. That made them worse.
Ragon let the cheering fade. He stepped down and walked toward the men already busy at the camp edge. Not everyone stood still a few squads were already binding prisoners, hauling broken weapons, and making piles of gear. That movement steadied him.
"Quiet," Ragon said. The men shut up at once.
He looked over the line of orcs thousands in one place, many still stunned, many still dangerous. A handful of his men had the first ropes and shackles ready. Others watched the prisoners, keeping their distance.
"We won a fight," Ragon said plainly. "But we did not win the job. We have to move them. Alive."
Joren, a broad-shouldered captain, wiped sweat from his brow and stepped forward. "We can't chain all of them, not with what we have your Majesty"
"I know," Ragon said. He crouched and drew a grid in the dirt, quick lines. "Listen and do this exactly."
He pointed as he spoke. Short, clear steps.
"Step one...weapons out. Armory teams, break shafts, dull blades, put all bows to the fire. No throwing away store it. Use carts as armories. Make sure nothing sharp leaves the camp."
A group near a pile of spears were already snapping shafts. They glanced up, nodding.
"Step two....leaders in the center." Ragon pointed to the orcs' officers.
"Pull the chiefs and the lieutenants into a tight ring. Put their hands behind their backs. Put one guard on each chief, two men each. Keep them visible Grel'thak goes where they can see him. If they try anything, their chiefs are the first to lose power."
"Step three.. columns. Make three long columns to march. Each column has a guard line left and right, and one behind. Guards stand five paces apart. Use rope between guard lines as a low divider. Don't let anyone break the line. Narrow the route where you have one lane at a time."
Joren barked, "Wagons?"
"Wagons carry the weak and the leaders," Ragon said. "Don't try to cram many into one cart. Keep weight low so wagons don't break.
The rest march. Two hours on, one hour rest. Move slow. Keep the road narrow. Scouts go ahead. Scouts post two lookouts each mile."
A smith unrolled a sheet of metal and waved. "Chains?"
"Short shackles where we can make them," Ragon said. "If we can't make irons, use rope to bind wrist-to-wrist or wrist-to-neck for short times. Reuse what we cut from cart axles or spare fittings. Prioritize chiefs and the violent ones for metal."
A young man called out, "What about food?"
"Rations," Ragon said. "Portion it. Take from camp stores. Give water at set points only. If a group tries to raid the food, stop the whole column. Hunger controls more than force."
Two fighters had the orc weapons pile under watch. One of them raised a hand and asked, "If the city won't take them?"
Ragon's face hardened. "Then we keep them and put them to work rebuilding what they burned. Or we trade them. We don't kill, not now. We need hands and goods. The city will decide. For now, move."
He looked over the men who were already tying down prisoners and hauling off gear. "Shadow teams... you're on containment. If a group panics, you cut them off and isolate. Net teams..cover the rear. Medics treat the wounded and keep them quiet. Forge teams make a hundred short shackles now. Wagon teams spread out the wagons and check axles."
Men were already running to tasks. The smiths took hammers. A team dragged a wheel to the forge. Others began measuring ropes and marking the route.
"One more thing," Ragon said, raising his hand so they would listen. "No looting except what we need to keep. No killing prisoners unless they try to break or kill. If anyone disobeys, I will deal with them."
"Hold up," Ragon said, and the men paused mid-motion. He pointed to a covered wagon where the saboteur crew had set out their gear. "What did you do with the guns?"
The saboteur captain stepped forward, grim-faced. "We packed them on two wagons, sir. Loaded with powder and shot. They're not pretty wood stocks and iron barrels, but they bite. We used them on the fifty earlier."
"Good," Ragon said. "Use them now..."
He gave quick orders, fast and simple.
"Wagon guns go to the front and the rear. Mount them on benches so they can fire from a stable platform
Their job is volley fire.... one loud shot every ten minutes. Not to slaughter, but to stop anyone from running toward the column. The noise will keep loose orcs down and scare enemy scouts away."
The captain nodded. "We'll use powder and scrap rounds. Close shots if needed."
"Right. Position the two gun wagons at the head and tail of the march.
Two men each, don't shoot into crowds. Aim low ground bursts and ricochet will cut charge momentum. If any gang tries to rush a wagon, you fire low into the ground to break their push."
Ragon turned to the men near the wagons. "Also load one wagon with spare wheels, chains, and chain-links. The blacksmiths will be on it. Wherever we stop, they make short shackles fast. No waiting."
He pointed to a pen where a kennel of enormou.s dire wolves rested, bridled and calm.
"Wolves," he said. "We use them to pull the heavy loads. Harness three to a wagon and you can haul twice what men drag. Use the wolf-handlers as mobile guards. Let the wolves flank the columns. One snap, one growl, and a man will think twice about breaking ranks."
A handler cracked a rope. The nearest wolf rose, a mass of teeth and muscle. It sniffed the air and snorted. Men murmured.
"Keep the wolves between prisoners and open ground," Ragon went on. "If a group bolts, turn the wolves into herders surround, bark, drive. Handlers keep a short leash. No reckless kills. We need bodies alive."
Joren folded his arms. "We can guard the wagons and use the guns to stop a surge. The wolves will make the prisoners stay in line."
Ragon watched the men set the plan in motion. The gun crews loaded, checking barrels and packing wads of cloth.
The wolves were restless. Huge, ugly things. They paced in the pen, teeth flashing, fur singed from the fires. No one had trained them—no handlers, no leashes. The men looked at the beasts like children about to burn down the house.
"How do we move them?" the saboteur captain asked carefully. "We can't hook wagons to wild dogs."
"No handlers," Joren added, voice low. "We could try ropes, but… they'd tear free, Your Majesty."
Ragon scanned the pen. He felt the weight of a hundred eyes on him his men, and the orcs' prisoners. He had no clear plan, but he had something else. The silver thing inside him, the part that moved when he didn't, the part that wasn't fully human.
He stepped forward. Boots crushed dry grass. The wolves lunged, snarling. One snapped close to his leg.
"Stand back," Ragon ordered. His voice carried. "No one touches them but me."
The soldiers pulled away instantly. Ragon set his feet. He breathed deep. He didn't know what he was about to do, only that something in him demanded it.
A pressure coiled in his chest, rising. He let it out in a sound, low and sharp, like wind tearing through steel.
The nearest wolf froze. Its ears twitched. The others went still seconds later.
Ragon drew out another tone, softer, lower. The sound vibrated through the dirt. The wolves' hackles lowered. The big male stepped forward, bowing its head.
The men whispered among themselves, stunned. Ragon raised his hand slowly, palm down. The wolves followed the motion with their eyes. When he crouched, the lead wolf leaned closer, as if waiting for him.
He set the rope through the harness. The beast didn't resist.
"Good," Ragon muttered, more to himself than anyone else. He gave a short, sharp command in that same strange tone.
The wolf moved. Ragon's soldiers sprang to work, fastening the chains, hooking the others in pairs. Soon five dire wolves stood in harness, steady and waiting.
The men glanced at one another in awe.
"Remarkable," Joren said, shaking his head. "None among us could have managed that your Majesty."
He turned back to his men, voice firm. "Form the column. Wagons front and rear. Guns ready. Keep the orcs chained and moving. No one breaks formation."
"Yes, my Lord!" the soldiers answered at once.
The wolves thrashed in their pen, growls rolling like thunder. Every soldier knew the truth—dire wolves belonged to the orcs. They were bred to their warbands, bonded to their voices. No leash, no whip, could turn them.
One of the captured orcs barked something guttural. At once, two wolves snapped their heads toward him, snarling but straining against the posts as if waiting for his command.
Ragon stepped between them. His voice cut the air:
"Silence him."
Chains rattled as the orc was struck down and gagged. Still, the men shifted uneasily.
"Majesty," Joren spoke carefully, "if they answer to the orcs' tongue, they'll never pull for us. We can't force beasts that are bound to another master."
Ragon's eyes narrowed. He stared at the wolves—their breath hot, their eyes full of fury. Then something in him shifted, a weight pressing from inside. He felt the same strange pull he had used against Grel'thak.
He stepped closer.The wolves lunged forward with a unified snarl...only to freeze mid-motion..
Ragon's voice came low, "You will not hear them anymore," he said, gaze fixed on the beasts. "Their words are broken chains. From this moment, you obey only me..and those I name mine."
The air trembled. A sound, half-growl and half-command, slipped from his throat without thought.
One by one, their snarls died down. The lead male bowed its massive head until its muzzle touched the dirt.
The orcs roared curses from their chains, straining as if their voices might break the bond. The wolves didn't so much as twitch toward them. Their eyes stayed fixed on Ragon.
The soldiers looked on in disbelief.
"It's done," Ragon said, turning to his men. "Harness them. They'll drag the wagons, and they'll not answer a single orc tongue again."
The saboteur captain hesitated. "Your Majesty, if they only heed you.."
"Don't worry they are wise and they know those that ours"
The soldiers snapped into motion. Chains were fastened, harnesses strapped tight. The wolves moved with uncanny calm, no longer straining toward the orc prisoners.
Ragon's men glanced at the bound orcs with grim satisfaction. The beasts they once ruled now pulled against their chains for another master.
Ragon walked at the head of the column, voice steady, eyes gleaming silver.
"Forward. To the city."