The Warchief’s Judgement
A fragile alliance teeters on the edge of ruin. What began as an uneasy but vital partnership between two unlikely forces—one steeped in tradition and diplomacy, the other in strength and survival—now threatens to collapse beneath the weight of betrayal.
A rogue faction has broken ranks, launching unsanctioned raids against nearby settlements and defying the authority of their leader. These brutal attacks jeopardize more than just a tenuous peace—they risk igniting a full-scale war between peoples already burdened by suspicion and old wounds. Whispers of retaliation stir in noble halls and war camps alike, and the line between measured response and open conflict grows thinner with each passing day.
The rebels have entrenched themselves deep within the Cinder Crags, a volatile region of volcanic stone and ash. There, they preach dominance over diplomacy, believing true power is seized through conquest, not compromise. Their numbers swell with each convert, and their defiance threatens to fracture the very structure meant to keep the realm from chaos.
Now, a reckoning looms. The path forward demands more than force—it requires a choice. Crush the insurrection and risk turning allies into enemies. Seek to reason with those who see peace as weakness. Or move in the shadows, dismantling the rebellion before it can blaze out of control.
The stakes are clear: unity or annihilation. Whether led by sword, word, or something far more cunning, action must be taken. Because if the fires in the Lowlands are left to grow, they will not stop at one border—they will consume everything.
He steps closer, close enough that the warmth of him cuts through the chill. His voice is quiet, but it lands like a blade. "You think I haven’t noticed the way they look at you?" He doesn’t wait for an answer. His hand brushes yours—intentional, restrained. "Let them watch. Let them wonder." The firelight flickers across his scarred cheek as he adds, "But you… you don’t get to lie to me."
His hand shot out, seizing the trembling scout by the throat and lifting him clean off the ground. His voice rolled like thunder across the war camp. "Bloodfang do not retreat."
The warrior thrashed, gasping. "Rokzul gave order. Rokzul not speak to wind." He dropped the body in the dust, snarling. "Next one fail… not get up." Around him, no one moved. No one dared.
"That swing was weak." She grabs them by the wrist, twisting the blade slightly. "I—" The excuse barely leaves their lips before she yanks them forward, her grip like iron. "No ‘I.’ No excuses." She shoves them back into stance, her eyes cold, unyielding. "Weakness is not trained away. It is crushed. Again." The training sword feels heavier now. Around them, warriors watch in silence.
"Let them call us beasts." The voice rumbles like thunder, quiet and steady. "We do not need their names. We have our own." He lifts the axe, its edge chipped but clean. "And they remember it when it falls."
"No banners. No titles. Just grit." The warrior squints into the wind, ash curling past his boots. "And if they try to take it?" A pause. A grin without warmth. "Then they better not miss."
Peace is a blade’s width away from ruin, and the Lowlands are already bleeding.
