---
The deeper they trekked into Avernal, the more the air weighed like molten iron. Garrick tugged his collar loose, muttering as his boots clacked against the blackened ground.
"It's… like standing in a volcano that forgot it's supposed to erupt," Garrick muttered, squinting ahead. "Heat's constant but not explosive. Just—simmering."
Oliver wiped sweat off his forehead. "So basically… we're cooking slowly."
"Pretty much," Garrick replied, deadpan.
---
Sorrel, balanced on Oliver's shoulder, squinted toward the horizon. His little paw pointed forward. "There. See that glow between the ridges?"
They all followed his direction.
Beyond rivers of lava, half hidden by pillars of obsidian, rose a fortress carved from volcanic stone. Its towers were jagged and black, topped with braziers that bled endless flames into the air. But surrounding its outer walls was a sight none of them expected—a bustling Orc settlement.
Figures moved about with purpose: tall, broad-shouldered Orc women with gray-pink skin and tusks, their hair braided in molten tones of red and gold. They carried golden swords on their backs, bows slung casually across shoulders, or baskets of smoldering fruit. Meanwhile, the male Orcs—stockier and shorter—hauled ores and guarded the towers, trading words with the passing caravans.
"…They look…" Anne whispered, clutching her staff. "…more civilized than I thought."
Sorrel adjusted his glasses. "Don't mistake them. Orc societies vary. But these ones? Fire-resistant to their bones. Traders. Fierce. And dangerous if provoked."
---
Aether crossed his arms, his sharp eyes scanning the movement of goods and guards. "Notice what they're carrying?" He pointed toward a cart rattling by. Garnets—glimmering red gemstones—spilled out of its open crates like candy.
"Garnet," Sorrel confirmed with a nod. "Avernal's lifeblood. They love it more than gold. And in this realm, it grows like weeds."
"What do garnets get us?" Oliver asked.
Aether listed them off like a commander reading inventory:
"Avernal sticks—good for stabilizing enchantments."
"Potion ingredients. Fire resistance. Healing boosters."
"Weapon upgrades—swords, arrows, bows."
"Strings and threads—they're surprisingly valuable here."
"Cloaker orbs. Hide your presence. Rare and priceless."
---
Oliver's eyes widened. "So basically… garnets are like currency."
"Exactly," Sorrel agreed. Then his whiskers twitched. "But don't get too excited. Orcs don't trust outsiders easily."
Zack, leaning lazily against a jagged stone, gave a sharp grin. "Then don't dance around it. We go in, show strength, and get what we need. Straightforward. Fear's universal language."
"Or stupidity," Garrick cut in sharply. "You ever think about what happens if we make enemies here? We're outnumbered and in their territory."
Anne hesitated, then softly said, "Maybe… instead of scaring them, we could impress them? If they respect strength, maybe they'd respect deeds too."
The group fell quiet for a moment, the argument hanging in the sulfur-thick air.
---
Oliver shifted, scratching the back of his head. "So we've got three strategies." He raised fingers as he spoke. "One: trade fairly and hope they don't hate us. Two: show strength, which sounds like starting a war. Three: impress them—somehow."
Aether's broadsword glimmered faintly as he glanced at the fortress. "Impressing them won't be easy. Orcs don't care about words. They care about action. We'd have to prove ourselves—combat, craft, or cunning."
Zack's eyes narrowed, a shadow crossing his face. "Then we find their test… and crush it."
Anne bit her lip but didn't argue.
Sorrel sighed, tail flicking as his gaze lingered on the fortress walls. "Whatever we do… one thing's certain."
He looked at Oliver.
"The Orcs are the gatekeepers to Avernal's deeper paths. Without them, we don't reach the heart of this realm."
---
The group stood at the ridge, the glow of the fortress flickering across their faces. The question wasn't if they'd confront the Orcs—only how.
---