Time flew swiftly. Six weeks passed like fleeting days. Now, the ogre armies stood ready to march.
King Draganov, clad in obsidian armor, strode through the grand gate of Castle Umbra. Awaiting him at the gate were his loyal servants, his queen—Agony—and their son, Mork, all gathered to bid him farewell.
Draganov paused beside Queen Agony. He gently caressed her cheek, his eyes locked with hers. She tilted her head, resting it softly in his hand. He smiled faintly, kissed her forehead, and then turned to Mork, who stood quietly beside her.
Resting his large hand on Mork's head, he said with a smirk, "Grow well, my champ. And try not to trouble your mother too much."
With a final look at his family, Draganov turned away and mounted his massive warhorse. He gave a firm nod—the silent signal for the army to move.
The ground rumbled as thousands of ogre soldiers began their journey.
---
It was a grueling march. Through shattered valleys, cursed forests, and treacherous mountains, they pressed on. Six long months passed before they reached the borders of their destination—the Kingdom of Eith.
They set camp near the edge of the borderlands that night.
Unbeknownst to them, a group of Eithian scouts had already spotted the army's presence. Alarmed by the sheer size of the force, they rode swiftly back to the capital to inform their superiors.
By dawn, the ogres marched once more. After two more days of steady advance, they reached the outer plains of the capital. There, the human army awaited them—armored, armed, and ready.
Both forces faced each other in a vast open field, the city's spires looming in the distance.
From the human lines, a lone rider galloped forward. A royal messenger, his banner white with gold trim, stopped before Draganov at the frontlines.
He spoke loud and clear:
"Our lord, King Alov, bids you to turn back. Withdraw your armies, and we shall pretend this never happened. I don't wish for anyone to die today."
Draganov's gaze was cold.
"Then your king should've thought of that before he burned our forests. Before he butchered the Cres of the Woods. Before he broke the peace treaty between humans and beasts."
His voice grew thunderous.
"You killed the breath of the forest. And now... I'm here to take its revenge. For my kind. For all fae-kind."
The messenger hesitated, but then turned and galloped back, face grim.
Moments later, the horns of war echoed through the plains.
The humans raised shields. Swords clanged. Arrows were nocked. The battlefield tensed.
Draganov dismounted. A soldier rushed over and placed a massive, double-bladed sword into his hand. He donned his horned helmet, then surged forward in a blur of motion.
The ground trembled under his charge. His soldiers roared and followed.
In a flash, he met the frontlines—slashing through five soldiers in a single swing. His blade sang through steel and flesh. Before the humans could react, Draganov was already deep in their ranks, a trail of blood in his wake.
Panic spread. The ogres crashed into the army like a storm unleashed.
As the humans faltered, King Alov stood at the walls, watching.
"Fire the arrows!" he barked.
One of his generals hesitated. "But... sire, our men are still—"
Alov glared. "Are you giving me orders now?"
The general lowered his eyes. "N-no, my lord. Forgive me."
With a wave, the order was given.
A moment later, hundreds of arrows darkened the sky.
Draganov sensed the shift in wind and instinctively grabbed a nearby human soldier, lifting him as a living shield. The arrows fell like rain, piercing bodies—foe and ally alike.
When the storm ended, silence reigned.
Amid the field of corpses stood a towering figure, covered in arrows—but unmoving.
As the dust settled, the figure shifted.
Draganov threw aside the dead soldier he'd used as a shield. Blood dripped from his armor, but not a single wound marked his body.
He whispered beneath his breath:
"Coward humans."
A surviving Eithian general raised his voice in panic:
"Attack!"
But before the word finished, Draganov hurled a spear from the ground. It whistled through the air and pierced straight through the general's open mouth, silencing him forever.
Then came the true charge.
The two armies collided again. A wave of dust exploded into the air—and when it cleared…
The battle was over.
The ogres stood victorious, bloodied but breathing. The fields were painted red with human blood.
And at the center stood King Draganov—his armor soaked, his sword gleaming—holding the severed head of King Alov.