The air was thick with the scent of roasting meat and the deep, guttural chants of the lizardmen. Fires crackled, casting flickering shadows across the gathered warriors. The feast was not just a celebration—it was a test. A ritual of blood and honor, where strength and camaraderie were measured in the way one held their ground among their allies.
Leonhart sat at the head of the gathering, his monstrous frame looming over the smaller goblins who sat near him. Sshorak, the lizardmen chief, observed him with a knowing smirk. "Eat, fight, drink," he rumbled. "Prove your worth, Leonhart. This is our way."
Leonhart took a bite of the raw, crimson meat before him, its juices staining his fingers. Around him, his lieutenants participated in their own trials. Drog, ever eager to display his strength, engaged in a wrestling match with one of the lizardmen warriors. The ground shook as the two locked arms, muscles straining against each other. The lizardman warrior snarled, his scales glinting in the firelight, but Drog held firm, grinning even as his feet dug into the dirt.
Bruk, on the other hand, took a different approach. Rather than engaging in contests of brute force, he sat among a group of lizardmen elders, speaking in hushed, deliberate tones. Leonhart caught snippets of their conversation—discussions of tactics, human movements, and potential weaknesses in the empire's supply lines. Bruk was proving his worth in another way, demonstrating the intelligence that made him invaluable to their growing force.
Leonhart watched it all unfold, his mind absorbing every detail. These warriors were more than mere allies. They were the foundation of something greater.
⸻
Sshorak motioned for Leonhart to follow him, and the two stepped away from the revelry, into the shadowed edge of the encampment.
"The humans will come," Sshorak stated, his reptilian eyes gleaming. "They do not forget, and they do not forgive. You know this."
Leonhart nodded. "I don't intend to wait for them to strike first. We need to grow stronger. The lizardmen are fierce, but we are still too few."
Sshorak inclined his head. "You seek the orcs."
Leonhart met his gaze. "Yes. If we unite them under a single banner, we can carve out a true stronghold for our people. A kingdom of our own."
A low, approving growl rumbled from Sshorak's throat. "You think like a warlord, Leonhart. But warlords die if they lack resources."
A new voice cut in. "Then we get more."
Leonhart turned to see Gurruk stepping forward, his injuries still evident in the stiff way he moved. His eyes burned with determination. "We can't fight on empty stomachs. Nor with broken weapons. If we want to stand against the humans, we need supplies."
Leonhart studied his wounded lieutenant. "You should be resting, Gurruk."
Gurruk scowled. "Resting won't prepare us for war. I won't be left behind."
Leonhart let out a quiet chuckle, pride swelling in his chest. "Then let's see if you're ready."
⸻
Bruk and Drog stood opposite Gurruk in a makeshift sparring ring, the onlookers forming a loose circle around them. The lizardmen watched in silent curiosity as the goblins tested one another, their sharp eyes gleaming in the firelight.
Drog struck first, lunging at Gurruk with a sweeping kick. Gurruk barely dodged, his weakened body sluggish compared to his usual speed. Bruk followed up with a feint, drawing Gurruk's defense before twisting and aiming a blow at his ribs.
Gurruk absorbed the hit, gritting his teeth through the pain. Then, with a guttural roar, he countered—grabbing Drog by the arm and flipping him onto his back with surprising force.
The onlookers erupted in cheers.
Bruk grinned. "Still got fight in you."
Gurruk wiped blood from his lip, panting. "Damn right I do."
Leonhart nodded in satisfaction. His warriors were sharpening themselves. They would need every ounce of their strength for what was coming next.
⸻
Leonhart called a meeting as the fires burned low. His people, the lizardmen, all turned their attention to him.
"We have two paths ahead," he declared. "Fortify our position or move to claim more power."
Bruk spoke first. "Fortifying means preparing for the inevitable counterattack. The humans will come looking for us."
Drog countered, "But waiting lets them dictate the fight. I say we hit them first. There's a human outpost nearby—if we raid it, we gain weapons, food, and armor."
Leonhart nodded, considering. "Sshorak, what do you think?"
The lizardman chief's tail flicked. "The outpost is weak. Its destruction would send a message."
Leonhart made his decision. "Then we strike."
⸻
A sharp hiss shattered the quiet of the night. A scout sprinted into the meeting, his breathing ragged. "Humans. They march."
Sshorak's eyes narrowed. "How many?"
"A detachment. Knights and foot soldiers. Tracking us. They will be here by dawn."
Leonhart exhaled slowly, the tension crackling in the air. "They think they're the hunters."
Drog grinned, his fingers flexing. "They have no idea."
Leonhart turned to his gathered warriors. "We strike first. No one leaves alive. We make sure they remember what it means to hunt monsters."
The lizardmen snarled in agreement. The goblins clenched their fists. The flames of war had been lit, and Leonhart stood at the heart of it, ready to claim his place in the world.
Tomorrow, the humans would learn.
And they would fear.