Borg had taken over the orcs in this region through cunning, deception, and a blade through Kragg's back in the dead of night—a kill that still haunted his dreams with the old chief's gurgling death rattle and the weight of blood-soaked hands. The transition of power should have been seamless, the strong replacing the weak as orc tradition dictated, but the reality was far messier than Borg had anticipated.
He sat in Kragg's former tent now—a sprawling structure of reinforced hides and wooden beams that smelled of old sweat, smoke, and the lingering presence of a leader who had commanded through sheer force of will. But Borg didn't command the same respect. The orc warriors looked at him with thinly veiled skepticism, their eyes measuring him constantly, waiting for the first sign of weakness to pounce. He was too calculating, too political, not enough raw power radiating from his frame to inspire the primal loyalty that Kragg had wielded like a weapon.
