Kano watched Grimtar and Revena vanish into the dark and knew—it was only the beginning. He felt eyes on him. Heavy, brimming with discontent. The swell of displeasure was rising; he saw it in faces, in clenched fists, in the way many lowered their gaze or, on the contrary, stared at him with barely veiled anger.
And, just as he'd expected, Lianel was the first to snap.
—"Kano, this... this is madness!" — her voice trembled with outrage. —"She's a demoness! We all know what they are! We all know what they're capable of!"
—"All what, exactly?" — Kano turned to her, and though his voice wasn't loud, it hushed the entire hall.
—"All of them killers? Monsters? Creatures without honor? Is that it?"
Lianel didn't answer, but her gaze stayed hard.
—"They aren't like us," she hissed.
—"And we're better?"
His voice came out flint-hard.
He shifted his gaze to Naira.
—"Orcs... a great, noble people. Isn't that right? True warriors. Then tell me, Naira... how many towns have they burned in the last thousand years? How many people butchered in their own homes?"
Naira didn't move.
A few orcs at the table exchanged uneasy looks.
Kano took a step forward.
—"I've heard plenty about how hordes of your 'mighty warriors' stormed human villages, tortured the men, dragged off the women for sport, then left them all to the fire of their burning homes. Not only that—how their bodies hung on stakes along the roads, how their heads were thrown at the feet of their own children. Is that the honor of warriors?"
He saw Naira's fists tighten.
—"You say orcs have honor? Fine. Where was that honor when your clan chiefs sold their own brothers into slavery to humans and dwarves for a handful of gold? Where was it when you betrayed your alliances just to grab a better patch of land?"
Naira didn't answer. She couldn't.
Kano looked to the others.
—"Humans? The pinnacle of civilization, are they? A people who never kill, never torture, never grind the weak underfoot?"
Selina pressed her lips together; her eyes darkened.
—"History is full of humans selling their own children into slavery to pay their debts, of kings executing their brothers simply because they threatened the throne. I know how humans have fought not for honor, not for freedom, but for someone else's greed—dying in the mud for those not worth the leather on their boots."
Kano's voice sank lower; these themes had haunted him in the world where he was born.
—"They call it the 'proper order.' They call it 'law.'"
He paused, letting it land.
Then his voice hardened further.
—"And what about the others? What about the kingdoms that refused to recognize beings born on their soil as equals? What about the peoples who call themselves pure—because they're loftier, smarter?"
His gaze lingered on Lenor for a beat.
—"What about the elves? They—"
Lenor stepped forward.
—"Enough, Kano. We understand."
Elgot shot him a quick glance, and Lianel looked away.
Kano looked Lenor straight in the eyes.
—"Do you?"
Lenor gave the slightest nod.
—"Yes."
Kano exhaled and looked around them once more.
—"You all want to believe we're better. But we are all the same."
His words fell like a blade cutting the air.
—"I'm not building just a city. I'm building a home—for everyone who refuses to live in a lie."
He lifted his chin, and his voice rang louder than ever.
—"This city won't be merely a new home for orcs. It will be something more. And if anyone disagrees—leave."
His words cracked like thunder in clear skies.
"I'm not here to rule a herd. I'm here to lead those who want to change this world. And those who want the old laws can get out."
He didn't wait for an answer. He simply turned and walked in silence toward his residence.
No one moved.
Lenor and Elgot traded a look.
—"He's changed," — Lenor said quietly.
Elgot sipped his ale and shook his head.
—"The question is what he'll become."
The women still stood in silence: Lianel turned away, Selina wrung her hands, and Naira stared into the fire as if it might hold an answer.
Meanwhile, in the lands of the beastfolk. A settlement sprawled in a green valley, hemmed in by majestic mountains. High, jagged peaks speared the horizon, and along their slopes fell a cascade of terraces—meadows and fields. Clean streams ran beside the main path, winding through grass and stone, cool moisture freshening the air.
The beastfolk houses were built of wood, stone, and clay, folded into the landscape. They weren't primitive—on the contrary, they were sturdy and enduring, something between hunting lodges and temples, strong enough to weather a storm. Some had broad wooden verandas where elders sat, watching the life of the tribe.
There was ample open space, but it could hardly be called exposed. At the settlement's edge stood massive wooden palisades braided with lianas and bone talismans to ward off unwanted guests.
At the village center rose a great round house, its roof layered thick with dried plants and animal hides. It was the elder's dwelling—the heart of the tribe, where decisions were made and the wisdom of generations kept.
Around it burned ritual fires where the tribe's warriors sat. The air was thick with roast meat, spice, and smoke. Deep drumbeats throbbed—the beastfolk believed the rhythm kept their souls in step with the forest spirits.
From afar came the rush of a river spilling down the slopes, feeding the village with clear water.
This was no mere settlement. It was their refuge, their fortress, their home.
Outwardly the beastfolk resembled humans, but far larger and more powerful. Muscled bodies, broad shoulders, heavy arms—they looked born to war. Their skin ran sun-browned to light umber, made for a life in the wild.
But their most striking feature was the eyes—and the cast of the face.
Each beastfolk's eyes held a feral gleam—yellow, amber, or reddish brown. Their cheekbones cut sharper; in some tribes thin fangs pricked just beneath the lip.
They didn't have thick pelts like the classic anthropomorphic beastfolk, but a light down could appear on their forearms, neck, or cheeks—especially in the colder seasons.
The beastfolk wore simple yet sturdy clothing, mostly leather, woven fabric, and metal inlays. Knives hung from their belts alongside bone amulets and wooden charms.
Among the warriors stood a special caste—the tribe's wardens—who wore animal masks carved from wood and metal, symbols of their guardian spirits.
This was a people who didn't merely survive the wild. They were part of it.
Lurk stood atop the slope, studying the settlement's familiar lines. The earth still wore a veil of morning haze, and the air smelled of dew and wet grass. An eastern wind skimmed the valley, carrying the scents of firepits and roasting meat.
The settlement was already waking.
Warriors returned from the night patrols; some women coaxed flames to life for cooking; beastfolk children raced along the footpaths, playing with wooden spears. Morning life flowed as it always did, yet at his arrival everything seemed to slow.
A few steps—and the tribe's elder stood before him. Long silver hair stirred in the breeze; deep-set eyes shone with warmth and sternness at once.
—"Lurk..." — the old man tasted the name like each syllable held weight. —"You've returned. And not alone."
Lurk nodded and gestured aside.
From the tall grass still beaded with dew stepped two figures.
Siris and Lianisa.
Lianisa seemed calm, yet her bearing was that of someone used to royal carpets, not wild earth. Her hair caught the sun, and even in plain clothing she looked a queen among peasants.
Siris was different. She stood straight, but her movements were supple, light—as if she felt the world the way the morning wind felt its way through her hair. Her eyes slid quickly over warriors' faces, children, houses—measuring escape and danger alike.
The elder looked from one woman to the other.
—"Fine females you've found, Lurk," — he muttered with a sly smile. —"My congratulations; you'll sire strong offspring."
Lurk drew a tight breath; his hands clenched into fists.
—"No. They're not mine. They're fugitives—from the human continent."
The elder grunted.
—"One a fallen queen, and the other..."
He peered closer at Siris; the old man's eyes narrowed, as if he'd solved an ancient riddle.
—"And the other is of your blood. Isn't she?"
Lurk ground his teeth.
—"Yes."
The elder nodded, as though it confirmed a long-held suspicion.
—"And you want them hidden here?"
—"Yes."
The old man's fingers trembled as he rubbed his brow.
—"More and more, humans set foot on our lands—mercenaries, raiders, slavers... They've already burned three tribes in the south."
Lurk felt his gut knot with rage.
—"But you can crush whole armies. No one but you can save these women."
The elder gave a faint smile, but no joy reached his eyes.
—"You overestimate us, Lurk."
Silence fell.
—"I have to return to Drachenfest," — Lurk said, fists tight. —"There may still be a chance to save others. But I'll come back. As soon as I put things in order."
The old man nodded heavily.
—"Go. But remember: if we can't keep them safe... hope of finding them again will be thin."
Lurk swallowed the bitter lump in his throat.
—"I understand."
He stepped toward the hut set aside for the women. The door stood ajar; weak morning light pooled within, picking out the timber beams and a simple table.
Lianisa sat on the bed, slowly stroking the fine cloth of a cloak across her knees. Her gaze was far away, as if she still walked the corridors of her former life.
Siris stood by the doorway, facing the dawn.
The sun filtered through the leaves, gilding the ground with scattered light.
Lurk approached.
—"I'm going. You'll stay here. The elder will protect you."
Siris turned her head slowly.
—"Come back soon... I'll be waiting."
Those words struck harder than any blade.
No one had ever said such words to him.
He didn't answer. He simply turned sharply and walked into the thinning morning mist, already dissolving under the sun's warm touch.
Lianisa followed him with her eyes and said softly:
—"He likes you. He'll come back."
Siris didn't answer.
She only stood there, feeling the wind carry in a new day—one filled with the unknown.
—"I hope so."