?The first day had been a blur of orange sparks and the bone-shaking percussion of fifty hammers striking in unison. As the sun dipped behind the jagged peaks of the Stone-Spire, the initial "Thump" of the competition died down. A few orcs, their muscles failing or their rough blanks already warped beyond repair, slunk away into the shadows of the mountain tunnels, their dreams of apprenticeship snuffed out by the unforgiving heat. Thraka, however, didn't leave until her hands were stained black with soot and her rough-shaped slab of high-grade steel was tucked safely under the cooling embers.
?The second morning arrived with a different sound: the high-pitched, metallic shriek of grindstones. During the night, the clan’s helpers had moved heavy, pedal-driven grinding wheels and fine-toothed rasps to each station.
?Thraka stood before her forge, her eyes narrowing. She wasn't rushing. To her left, the hulking orc with the facial scar was already aggressively grinding his falchion, sending a spray of white-hot sparks into the air. He was fast, his movements violent and confident.
?Inspect, Thraka thought.
?Item: Serrated Falchion In-Progress
Quality: refined
Note: The smith is removing material too quickly. Stress fractures are forming near the serrations.
?Thraka looked back at her own work. She wasn’t making a sword or a simple axe. She was drawing out the steel into a long, elegant curve—a blade that would eventually be mounted on a heavy shaft. A glaive. It was a weapon of reach and grace, a "Long-Fang" that required perfect balance. She spent hours at the grindstone, her foot rhythmically pumping the pedal. Every few minutes, she stopped to check her progress.
?Inspect.
?Item: Glaive Head In-Progress
Quality: Refined
Note: Symmetrical. Carbon distribution is even. Ready for final shaping.
?As she worked, she paced through the rows of forges, ostensibly to stretch her back, but her eyes were searching. She saw a young female orc struggling with a warhammer; the "Inspect" tool revealed a hidden air pocket in the head that would make it shatter upon the first impact. Another orc was crafting a beautiful set of twin daggers, but the tool warned that the tangs were too thin—they would snap in a real grip.
?Thraka felt a strange mix of pity and cold calculation. She was "slow and steady," but she was the only one who could see the invisible rot inside the metal. While the others relied on gut feeling, she was operating with the precision of a surgeon.
?
?By the end of Day Two, Thraka’s arms felt like lead, but her glaive head was beautiful—slender, sharp, and gleaming with a silver-blue hue. She met Grogmar at the edge of the plaza.
?"Father," she said, wiping sweat from her brow. "The metal in the plaza... it’s better than what we have at home. Why? You are the Master of Fangs. Your forge should have the best."
?Grogmar’s chest rumbled with a low, gravelly chuckle. "Follow," was all he said.
?He led her through the winding tunnels of their home until they reached a heavy iron door she had been forbidden to open since she was a child. He pushed it back. Inside was a forge that made the tournament stations look like toys. The anvil was made of pure star-iron, and the racks were filled with ingots that shimmered with a natural, oily luster.
?"Why didn't you let me use this?" Thraka asked, her voice a mix of shock and rising irritation. "I’ve been struggling with rusted scrap and brittle iron for years!"
?Grogmar picked up a piece of the high-quality steel. "A pup who learns to hunt with a blunt claw becomes a wolf who kills with a single bite when his claws grow sharp," he grunted. "If you can craft a weapon that kills from the garbage of the scrap pile, then the high-grade steel of the Chieftain will feel like clay in your hands. I did not make it hard to punish you, Thraka. I made it hard so that today, you would feel like a god among whelps."
?Thraka looked at her calloused hands. He was right. The tournament metal felt easy because she had spent years mastering the "impossible" iron. She wasn't just a smith; she was a smith who had been trained in a gravity-chamber of poor resources.
?
?The third day was the quietest. It was the day of the Quench.
?The air was thick with the smell of hot oil and the steam of water vats. This was where the "soul" was set. Thraka watched as the orc with the serrated falchion stepped up to his vat. He plunged the glowing orange blade into the oil.
?PING.
?The sound was like a high-pitched sob. When he pulled the blade out, the top third stayed in the bottom of the vat. The stress fractures Thraka had seen earlier had claimed the weapon. The orc roared in fury, throwing the hilt against the stone wall, but it was over. He was out.
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?Thraka stepped up to her own vat. She took a deep breath, visualizing the internal structure of the steel. She brought the glaive head to a cherry-red. Perfect. She plunged it into the oil. The surface flared with fire, and a thick plume of black smoke billowed up. When she pulled it out, the blade was dark, slick, and perfectly straight.
?Inspect.
?Item: Orcish Glaive Head
Rank: C+ Superior
Note: Perfectly tempered. The edge is exceptionally sharp and resilient.
?With the hardening complete, Thraka worked with feverish intensity during the final hours. She selected a shaft of ironwood, seasoned and heavy, and bored the socket for the tang. She secured the blade with reinforced rivets and wrapped the grip in cured drake-skin, ensuring the balance was exactly four inches below the blade's heel.
?As the sun hit the horizon, the War Chieftain stepped onto the balcony.
?"Drop your hammers!" the overseers shouted. "Leave your steel where it stands!"
?Thraka placed her completed glaive on the rack. It stood tall, its curved edge catching the dying light.
?The next morning, the plaza was filled with the remaining twenty smiths. The Chieftain stood in the center of the square, shirtless, his green skin a tapestry of scars and ritual tattoos. He carried no weapon.
?"A smith who cannot wield what they forge is a liar," the Chieftain boomed. "Pick up your weapons. All of you—against me."
?The smiths hesitated, but the Chieftain didn't. He moved like a landslide. He met the first orc—a massive brute with a greatsword—and caught the flat of the blade with his bare palm. With a sickening CRACK, the Chieftain’s fist shattered the steel into a dozen shards.
?He moved through the crowd like a ghost. He disarmed a young orc of his mace, swung it once to shatter a neighbor’s shield, and then dropped the weapon as if it were a toy. Both weapons disintegrated upon impact. One by one, weapons snapped, cracked, and failed under the Chieftain’s relentless pressure.
?Thraka kept her distance, using the glaive’s reach. When the Chieftain finally turned his eyes on her, he lunged. Thraka didn't try to overpower him; she used the ironwood shaft to deflect his blow, the drake-skin grip sticking perfectly to her palms. The Chieftain grabbed the head of her glaive, trying to snap the steel with his raw strength.
?The metal groaned, but the star-iron reinforced temper held. Thraka spun, using the momentum to pull the blade from his grip and reset.
?"Stop!" an overseer shouted.
?The Chieftain stood back, breathing heavily, a predatory grin on his face. Only ten orcs remained standing with weapons that weren't in pieces. Thraka was among them.
?"Welcome to my Personal Guard," the Chieftain announced.
?Thraka blinked, her mind racing. She had thought the apprenticeship meant becoming the next Chieftain—a position that would tie her to this realm forever. But the Guard? The Guard were the elite defenders, the teachers, and the enforcers.
?A wave of relief washed over her. As a member of the Guard, she would receive the Chieftain's personal training in every weapon known to their kind. And when her work here was done, she could leave this realm without collapsing the tribe’s leadership.
?She looked at her father in the crowd. Grogmar was grinning, his arms crossed over his massive chest. She had master the scrap, she had mastered the steel, and now, she would master the fangs.
?The years passed in a blur of clashing steel and the heat of the forge. Each year brought a new weapon to master, and Thraka became a true force of nature, regardless of the steel she held. Even with her bare fists, her technique had grown lethal. She began joining the Great Hunts, though she secretly stashed away trophies—teeth, talons, and marrow—from the beasts they fell.
?Daily life in the Stone Spire revolved around the sparring pits. The orcs were restless, always seeking to prove their dominance. Thraka played a dangerous game of balance; she fought well enough to remain in the top three of the Guard, but she purposefully conceded the top spot. To be deemed the best was to be the presumed heir to the Chieftain, a spotlight she didn't want to claim. Under this stable leadership, the Stone Spire orcs prospered, their numbers swelling until the mountain settlement groaned under the weight of their growing horde.
?One afternoon, while tracking game through the jagged foothills, Thraka’s party stumbled upon a pack of massive Dire Wolves. Thraka’s eyes narrowed, she inspected their threat. Most were Stage Two Warriors, but the Alpha was a Stage Three Vanguard Commander—a beast of pure muscle and malice.
?Before her kin could even draw their bows, Thraka charged. She wielded the same glaive that had earned her a spot in the Guard, the blade whistling through the air. In a series of blurred, surgical strikes, the Alpha was decapitated before it could even snarl. The rest of the pack froze, tails tucked, bodies trembling in the presence of a superior predator. Thraka approached a massive grey wolf with a snowy white underbelly. It stood nearly as tall as her. She placed a firm hand on its head, her voice low and commanding.
?"You will make travel much easier for us," she grunted.
?
?The ride back to the settlement was a thunderous display of newfound power. The orcs, born with an instinctive grip and iron thighs, adapted to the wolves' gait with predatory ease. As they crested the final ridge overlooking the Stone Spire, the sentries sounded the horns—not for an attack, but in sheer confusion.
?The Chieftain stood at the gates, his tusks baring in a mix of wariness and wonder as Thraka led the pack inside. The heavy scent of wet fur and wolf-musk filled the crowded stone streets.
?"You bring pets into my halls, Thraka?" the Chieftain boomed, his eyes lingering on the blood still dripping from the Alpha’s head lashed to her saddle.
?"Not pets, Chieftain," Thraka replied, sliding off the grey wolf's back with fluid grace. "Cavalry. The mountain is too small for us, and the plains are too wide to walk. Now, we don't have to."
?A murmur rippled through the gathered horde. By bringing these beasts to heel, Thraka hadn't just completed a hunt; she had changed the way the Stone Spire would wage war. She saw the "best" of the Guard looking on with a flicker of jealousy. She had kept her rank low, but her influence was becoming impossible to hide. She needed to leave this situation before she was expected to take the cheiftain role.
A plan formed quickly in Thraka’s head. Tonight when the moon was high in the sky. She would take her trophies out of her stash and put them into a wooden chest for Cosmo to convert. The rest of the day seemed to be weighed down with silent sorrow. Thraka felt a strange attachment to this orc horde. But she knew she must go.
Later that night Thraka’s face was lit up by the light of the moon. Her beast trophies already within the wooden chest. Thraka pulls the glowing recall crystal out of her stash and with a last heavy breath. She crushes it and the world of orcs fades away.
