Chapter 19: The Looming War

The Ogre encampment sprawled across a grassy plain, its countless tents pitched in perfect, disciplined rows. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the ground, light glinting off polished blades and sharpened armor. Smoke from dozens of cooking fires curled upward, carrying the smells of roasted meat, sweat, and iron.

At the center stood a towering wooden platform reinforced with thick beams. Upon it loomed Gorrak — a figure who could command silence with presence alone. His skin was a dark, weathered grey, muscles corded like tree roots, and his massive war-axe rested casually across his shoulder, as though it weighed nothing.

Below, a sea of warriors awaited him — the full force of the Ogre clan, along with their Beastkin allies and a scattering of mercenary bands. Notably absent were the Orcs, whose betrayal still lingered like a bad taste in Gorrak’s mouth. If their absence bothered him, he did not show it.

When Gorrak spoke, it was with the force of a war drum, each word landing heavy.

“Warriors of the forest!” His voice rolled across the camp, silencing all murmurs. “For too long the strong have been scattered, the proud divided, while the weak hide in their swamps and trees!”

A growl of agreement rippled through the crowd.

“Some,” Gorrak spat the word like venom, “have turned their backs on strength. The Orcs would rather cling to cowards than stand with warriors! Let them rot with the Lizardmen they now serve — their time will come.”

The crowd roared its disapproval at the thought of betrayal, stamping feet and rattling weapons.

“But we remain!” Gorrak lifted his axe high, sunlight flashing off its edge. “Ogres, Beastkin, and the clans who know what it means to take power with their own hands! We will crush the Lizardmen first, grind their bones into the swamp they call home, and then burn the Dark Elves from their trees!”

He slammed the haft of his axe against the platform, the thud reverberating like distant thunder. “When the battle is over, no one will dare challenge us again. This forest will belong to us — and the weak will kneel or perish!”

A wall of cheers erupted, the force of it making the air hum with raw energy. Beastkin howled, Ogres bellowed, and the smaller clans slammed weapons against shields in unison.

In the crowd, cloaked and hooded, stood the Princess. Her jaw was tight, hands hidden in her sleeves to keep them from trembling. The absence of the Orcs should have been a blow to her father’s pride, but he had twisted it into yet another rallying cry — and the others had eaten it up.

Her retainer stood silently at her side.

“This is madness,” she whispered bitterly as she pushed through the throng. “They cheer for slaughter like it’s a feast day.”

“You know there’s no stopping him now,” her retainer murmured.

“Then I pray the forest itself rises against him before it’s too late.”

Far from the roar of the crowd, she stopped before a small shrine — old, its wood split with age. Kneeling, she clasped her hands and pressed her forehead to them.

“If any spirits still listen to the cries of this forest… please, stop this. However you must.”

Her retainer remained a respectful distance away, unreadable.

Back at the platform, Gorrak’s voice thundered once more: “Tomorrow we march! And when the sun sets, the first of our enemies will be broken beneath our boots!”

Cheers erupted again as war drums began to beat, steady and relentless, echoing the march they would begin at dawn.

The Lizardmen village pulsed with life. Torches burned brightly despite the lingering daylight, their orange glow reflecting in the dark waters of the surrounding marsh. Warriors moved through reed-filled pathways in ordered ranks, scales polished and armor strapped tight. Unlike the chaotic fervor of the Ogres, this camp felt sharp, methodical — like a spear being honed for battle.

At the center, the Chief stood tall on a carved stone dais, his silhouette proud against the rising flames of the central bonfire. Thousands of warriors assembled around him, spears raised high, reptilian eyes gleaming like embers in the dark.

When the Chief spoke, his voice carried quiet authority, gripping the hearts of all who listened.

“Lizardmen of the swamp,” he began, “the time has come. The forest quakes beneath the footsteps of Gorrak’s horde. He seeks to drown us in his madness, to crush all who will not kneel. But we… will not kneel.”

The crowd hissed in agreement, tails lashing with anticipation.

“We have endured storms, droughts, endless battles against beasts and men alike,” the Chief continued. “Our scales have been tempered by the swamp itself. Our spears have never broken. And now, the Ogres come — thinking us weak, thinking us prey. They will learn, as all before them have learned, that the swamp devours the arrogant.”

A guttural roar rolled across the crowd as warriors slammed spear hafts against shields, the sound echoing like rain on stone.

The Chief raised a clawed hand for silence. “But we do not stand alone.”

Figures approached the dais. At their head strode a towering Orc, tusks gleaming in the firelight, armor scarred from countless battles. Behind him marched a contingent of Orc warriors, banners raised high, painted with clan symbols.

The Chief gestured toward him. “Our brothers from the Orc tribes have cast aside Gorrak’s lies and chosen the path of honor. They march with us — against tyranny, against slaughter without purpose. They fight not for conquest, but for survival and freedom.”

The Lizardmen erupted into cheers, their hissing cries blending with the Orcs’ guttural roars.

The Orc commander stepped forward, voice booming like thunder.

“Warriors of the swamp! We have seen Gorrak’s arrogance! He would make all races his slaves, his fodder, his meat shields. But the Orcs are no one’s slaves! We fight by your side, and together we will break the chains before they are ever forged!”

He raised his axe high, firelight gleaming along its chipped edge. “The Ogres call themselves the future — but we are the present! We are the unbroken! We are the storm that will shatter them!”

The roar of approval nearly shook the marsh itself. Lizardmen stomped clawed feet in rhythm with Orcs pounding weapons against chests, their cries rising together in a unified chant.

The Chief let the noise crest before speaking again.

“Tomorrow we march. Tomorrow we fight. Not for power, not for conquest, but for the right to live free in the forest that bore us!”

The response was thunderous — voices raised in a single cry, weapons lifted toward the night sky, the swamp alive with drums and the heartbeat of a united force.

Among the warriors, the Chief’s son stood silently, awe filling his eyes. For once, there was no foolish grin or dramatic pose. Only pride — not for himself, but for the people he would one day serve.

The night air over the Ogre encampment pulsed with drums. Their thunder echoed across the plains, rhythmic and relentless, like the pounding of a giant’s heart. Tents collapsed one by one, packed into carts or slung over shoulders. Torches lit the camp in an eerie glow, shadows stretching long and jagged across the trampled grass.

By morning, nothing would remain — only the marks of an army on the move.

Gorrak stood before his people, arms folded across his chest. His presence alone commanded the attention of hundreds. Warriors scrambled, shouting orders, preparing wagons of weapons and rations. Beastkin howled at the sky, their voices melding with the chants of Ogres.

But Gorrak’s eyes were not on the crowd. They were on his chosen few.

They stood together in the firelight, each a monster in their own right. Gorrak regarded them with pride, his chest swelling. These were his weapons, his chosen monsters, proof that he was destined to rule the forest.

“You are my fangs,” he said, voice low but heavy. “Tomorrow you will carve my will into the flesh of this forest. The Lizardmen think themselves warriors — show them what true warriors are.”

Each gave their answer in their own way — a growl, a nod, a grim smile.

From the edge of the firelight, the Princess watched. Hidden beneath her hood, her hands trembled as she clutched the fabric. Each of Gorrak’s Elites radiated strength so overwhelming it made her skin crawl.

They were unstoppable, each in their own way. And tomorrow, that unstoppable force would be unleashed against the Lizardmen. Against the Dark Elves. Against everyone.

Her chest tightened. She could not scream — not here, not now. Her father would call it weakness. Her people would call it betrayal. So instead, she whispered beneath her hood:

“Spirits, if you have any mercy… do not let this war be won by monsters.”

Her retainer stood at her side, his jaw tight, but he said nothing.

The drums shifted — faster now, urgent. Orders were barked, wagons creaked forward, warriors slung packs across their shoulders and hefted weapons with renewed vigor.

The army was moving.

The Princess closed her eyes as the ground began to tremble with the synchronized steps of thousands. The sound was overwhelming, a living tide of war.

Gorrak lifted his axe high, his voice booming over the thunder of marching feet.

“TO WAR!”

The roar that followed was more than sound. It was a storm. It shook the plains, made the earth tremble, and carried into the night sky like a challenge to the heavens themselves.

And at the heart of it, the Princess clenched her fists beneath her cloak and prayed once again.

The march thundered on into the night, the horde rolling like a dark tide across the plains. Every step carried the weight of inevitability, every howl a promise of blood.

But not everyone shared that fire.

At the fringes, the Princess clenched her fists until her nails bit into her palms. Her hood hid the storm raging in her eyes. Her retainer walked silently at her side, glancing toward her every few moments. Watching. Waiting.

Finally, she stopped walking.

“Princess?” he asked, halting beside her.

Her breath caught — and then it escaped in a raw, broken shout.

“I can’t do this anymore!”

Her voice cracked over the drums and marching feet. A few nearby soldiers turned, startled, but one glare from her retainer sent them scurrying back into formation.

The Princess ripped her hood down, crimson eyes blazing. “I can’t stand beside him another moment! He’s leading us all into ruin, and they cheer for him like fools drunk on blood! I will not watch my people burn for his ambition!”

Her retainer said nothing. He only stood steady while she vented years of bottled frustration.

She struck her chest with her fists. “Every word he speaks is poison! And they drink it again and again, until they can’t even see how close to death they march. They call it glory. I call it madness!”

Her voice dropped to a bitter whisper. “…I can’t stay in the same village. Not with him. Not anymore.”

She turned sharply, cloak swirling, and began walking away from the marching horde.

The retainer blinked once, then twice, before hurrying after her. “Princess! Where are you going?”

“To the outskirts,” she snapped. “Away from this madness. If I must live in exile to keep my sanity, so be it.”

“That is… rash,” he said.

“Do you think I care? I’d rather live among stones and trees than rot in the shadow of that tyrant!”

By then, her other retainers had caught up — men and women who had served her since childhood. They exchanged uneasy glances as her words sank in.

“You’re… leaving the village?” one asked.

“Yes,” the Princess said coldly. “I refuse to call that monster my father anymore. Let him have his war. Let him choke on it.”

Her retainers hesitated. One cleared his throat. “…So. Does this mean… we leave too?”

“Of course you do,” she replied without pause.

A beat of silence. Then another retainer scratched his neck. “With respect, Princess… that’s not exactly how choice works.”

Her glare cut like a blade. “Do you wish to remain in that camp?”

“…No, Princess.”

“Then there’s no problem.”

She turned on her heel. They followed — some out of loyalty, others out of sheer fear.

As they trudged into the night, one muttered: “…So this is exile, huh? I thought it’d be more… dramatic.”

“Shut up,” another hissed. “Do you want her to hear you?”

Too late.

The Princess whipped her head around, eyes blazing. “Did you say something?”

The unfortunate retainer paled. “N-no, Princess! Merely… uh… praising your leadership!”

“…Hmph.”

She turned back. Despite the tension, there was a strange energy in the air. For the first time in years, the Princess felt like she could breathe. She was stepping away from her father’s shadow, away from the slaughter he had chosen.

Her steps grew firmer. Her voice steadier.

“From now on, we live on our own terms. Far from the Ogre Chief. If he wishes to burn the forest, let him — but we will not be the ones to light the flames.”

Some retainers doubted. Some smirked faintly. But all of them followed. For even if she was rash, even if she was stubborn — she was still their Princess.

The Ogre army marched on, their chants fading into the distance.

The forest was alive. Not with birdsong or the chittering of animals, but with the heavy tension of thousands preparing for war.

Across the plains, the Ogres moved like a wall of iron, two thousand five hundred strong. Behind them surged the Beastkin — twenty-four thousand warriors of fang, claw, and muscle. Together they looked ready to devour the world.

The Swamps of the Lizardmen answered. Twenty thousand spears rose as one, scales glinting. Then the Orcs emerged — one hundred and thirty thousand strong, a living flood shaking the earth.

Numbers meant nothing against the ferocity of the Ogres, but the sheer scale of the opposition was undeniable.

The two forces halted within shouting distance, tension stretched like a bowstring.

“You scale-ridden cowards!” Gorrak’s voice boomed. “I’ll crush your bones and use your hides for boots!”

The Lizardmen Chief raised his spear. “Better boots than slaves to an Ogre pig!”

The Lizardmen hissed and slammed weapons against shields. The Ogres roared back. Beastkin snarled, fangs bared. Orcs stomped until the ground shook.

The insults flew sharper, louder. Warriors spat, cursed, hurled rocks — but still no one struck. Both armies waited for the spark.

From the Ogre side, Thurg, the Blade of Gorrak, raised his massive sword toward the enemy. “When this begins, there will be no mercy!”

On the other side, the Lizardmen elders hissed encouragement. The Chief raised his voice: “Today we break the Ogre yoke! Today we end their tyranny!”

A deafening cheer followed, shaking the battlefield.

For over an hour insults filled the clearing, hatred rising to a boiling point. Neither side would retreat. Neither side would compromise.

The war of the forest was about to begin.