The hunters returned at sunset, burdened with poles bending under the weight of fresh game. The sun, a great red wound in the sky, cast their long, triumphant shadows across the village square, but already voices rose in disbelief.

"By Venethra's flame, look at that haul! Where did they find so much?"

"Kama meat—when was the last time we had kama? Not in a generation!"

"Rabbit, too? That's enough to feed the whole village!"

The excitement soured as eyes fell on Schalezusk. His one arm was dark with sweat, his musket slung casually across his back. Whispers, sharp as stones, cut through the air.

"It was him," one muttered. "That outsider."

"The Bloodtusk cripple," another hissed, distrust clinging to the words.

But then the younger hunters who had gone with him broke ranks, their voices tumbling over each other in a cascade of frantic excitement.

"You didn't see it! He pointed that stick—"

"And then BOOM!"

"Thunder split the sky and the deer fell where it stood! It wasn't even a fight! One shot, and it was done!"

"No spear, no arrow—just fire and thunder! It's Venethra's own sound!"

Their enthusiasm was so wild that even the suspicious ones faltered. A ripple of unease and curiosity spread through the crowd. Simon stood near the treeline, stunned. Just two nights ago, his brother had been spat on. Now orcs clustered around him, eyes wide with awe, hanging on his every word.

Schalezusk lifted his hand for silence. He had a brief, fierce urge to take all the credit, to let them see his power. But he saw Simon watching him, and he remembered the patient voice. "It wasn't me. It was all of us. Spears, bows, the stick—we hunted together. Alone, I'd have brought nothing."

The humility disarmed them. A few clapped him on the back, the first time they had touched him without a threat. Others eyed the musket hungrily, their pride melting into a desire for the same power.

Word traveled fast. Soon, the tribe pressed close as Schalezusk reluctantly handed the musket over in turns. He showed them how to pour the powder, how to ram the ball down the barrel with a rod. His voice was sharp with warning: "This isn't a toy. It doesn't need a strong arm, but it needs a quick mind. Handle it wrong and it'll bite your face off."

They nodded solemnly. Then the first one fired at a distant tree. Thunder cracked, a sound so loud it seemed to shake the very earth, and a great chunk of wood splintered from the trunk. Orcs staggered back, covering their ears—then erupted into cheers.

"It spits fire!"

"A weapon blessed by the goddess!"

"Boomstick! That's its name!"

The word stuck instantly. They chanted it, laughing, urging the next hunter to fire. Each shot drew more cheers, more wonder. Even the proudest among them, who scowled and crossed their arms, couldn't hide the twitch of envy in their jaws.

By nightfall, the square glowed with firepits. The tribe, united for once, butchered the haul. Kama ribs sizzled, rabbits roasted whole, and fat dripped into the flames. For the first time in moons, the scent of feast smothered the scent of hunger.

Simon appeared with a small pouch. As the first skewers came off the fire, he sprinkled the contents onto a slab of meat and passed it to a doubtful orc.

"What's that? White pebbles?" the orc asked, sniffing it warily.

"Looks like crushed bone," another added, suspicious.

"You trying to curse me, outsider?" a third snarled.

"Salt," Simon said simply. "Taste."

The orc bit. His eyes widened, then he let out a guttural growl of pleasure. His face contorted in an expression of pure, unadulterated shock. "By Venethra—this is… it's alive on the tongue! It makes the meat… feel more real!"

Others surged forward, holding out raw cuts, begging. "Put it on mine!" "Don't hold back, outsider!" "Here, here!"

Soon the entire square was alive with laughter and noise, salt hissing on fat, orcs tearing into meat with greasy hands. The simple spice had done what weeks of hunger could not—it had dissolved the last of their cold resentment.

Questions followed, sharp beneath the cheer.

"Where'd you get this salt?"

"And the powders for the stick?"

"Don't tell me you raided beastkin traders."

The mood teetered, the joyful moment threatening to sour. Suspicion rose like a dark cloud. Elder Skrall's voice boomed over the noise. "Let him speak."

Simon stood, the firelight painting his face in gold and shadow. "We did not raid. We did not steal. We have an ally. Westward. A merchant."

"A beastkin?" Skrall pressed, his one good eye narrowed.

Simon shook his head. "No. An undead."

The word landed like a stone. Gasps. Spitting. A few orcs rose, fists clenched. "Lies!" one roared. "The dead do not trade. They kill!"

But Skrall's heavy hand silenced them. His brows furrowed. "I have heard whispers. Old tales of the Undead Legion. Skeletons that walked as soldiers. If there is truth in these…"

Simon seized the pause. "It is truth. He lives, he trades, he helps. It was he who gave us food when we starved. It was he who armed us with boomsticks."

The whispers turned, uncertain, wavering between fear and hope.

Simon pressed on. "Tell me, Elder Skrall—do you not struggle to trade with beastkin? Do they not turn away from you, refuse your coin, because you are orc?"

Skrall gave a slow, reluctant nod.

"Then trade with him. With my ally. He cares not if you are beastkin, orc, or even Bloodtusk. To him, there is only coin. With him, you'll have salt, powder, and steel. With him, you'll have choice."

The silence cracked. "If he gives boomsticks, I'll trade!" one shouted.

"And salt!" cried another.

"And food!"

The crowd surged, laughing, clapping each other's backs. Even the proud ones stared, their envy raw.

Skrall rumbled with laughter, raising his voice over the din. "Perhaps fate has sent you here, outsiders. Grayhorn may yet prosper through this… ally."

Simon bowed low. "He is no ally, Elder. He is family."

The night air was thick with the smell of roasted meat, woodsmoke curling up into the stars. Orcs lingered around the great fire, some laughing quietly, others silent with thought. Elder Skrall shifted his old bones, leaning forward on his staff. His eyes fixed on Simon, sharp as an axe though softened by age.

"Simon," Skrall said, voice deep, "you carry your father's will. I see it in the way you speak, and in the way you hold yourself. You want to gather the tribes again."

Simon hesitated but nodded. "If they can be united, we can stand against anyone. We don't have to live scattered, fighting scraps."

Skrall's lips curled into something between a smile and a sigh. "You think as your father did. He had the mind of a leader, but he wore it like a burden. Your brother carries his strength." He gave Schalezusk a glance, who bristled at being mentioned but said nothing. "Together, you are the echo of the Old Bull."

Simon lowered his head. "I never thought I could match him."

"No," Skrall said firmly. "Do not measure yourself against him. Your father's aura… it drew orcs like moths to flame. He was proud, yes, but never cruel. He never wanted a throne. All he wanted was to see orcs walk as one people. That was his father's dream before him. To unite us all under one banner, without division of horn, tooth, or scar."

Schalezusk grunted, chewing on his rib bone. "And look how that turned out. Orcs fight. It's what we do. Dreams don't change that."

Skrall turned his heavy gaze on him. "And yet your father changed it, for a time. Even the Redhorn bent the knee to him. Do not mistake bloodlust for destiny, boy."

The fire crackled, and silence followed for a long breath. Then Simon asked quietly, "If I am to try… who are the tribes now? Where do we even begin?"

Skrall leaned back, letting the firelight dance across his weathered face. "Listen well. To the east, beyond the Black Lake, lies the Ironjaw tribe. Crafters, builders, hammer-mad fools. They live for the ring of steel and the crack of stone. They are more than just warriors; they are obsessed with wheels, gears, and intricate contraptions. Their forges burned hot when others went cold, and their walls, made of the blackest iron, have never fallen."

An orc in the crowd muttered, "Ironjaw don't talk sense. You'd lose your ears before you win their trust." A few chuckled, and Skrall gave a thin smile.

Simon leaned forward. "But they are builders? We'll need walls. Weapons. If they could be convinced—"

"Patience will be your weapon with them," Skrall interrupted. "And respect. They value neither words nor strength, only the clang of iron and the weight of a well-made blade."

He shifted his staff, pointing southeast. "Further, under the hills, dwell the Hollowfang. Trappers. Scouts. Ghosts in the dark. They hide in tunnels and shadow, snares around every path. They are hard to find, harder still to convince, for they have chosen to live in the quiet dark. They will not march to war, not unless they are dragged from their burrows, for their entire culture is built around avoiding conflict."

Simon frowned. "But they are still orcs. Why hide like vermin?"

"They have seen enough blood," Skrall said simply. "They choose peace in the dark over pride in the sun. Do not expect them to change."

Grumbles passed through the Grayhorns listening. One spat into the dirt. "Cowards, the lot of them."

Skrall silenced him with a look. "They are alive. That is more than can be said of many tribes."

Finally, his gaze shifted eastward, past the fire, as if he could see across leagues of land. "And beyond the Ironjaw are the Redhorn. The Old Bull's warriors. His fiercest sons. They were his shield and his spear, and they mourned him in blood. Fierce, violent, yes—but bound by honor. They will never follow words. To win them, you must prove your strength in battle, for they only respect a leader who can break the will of a foe."

Schalezusk sat up straighter, eyes glinting. "Then they will know me. I'll fight them one by one if I must."

Skrall's staff struck the ground. "Do not mistake eagerness for worth. They will test you, and if you fall, they will not shed a tear. The Redhorn will follow only a true leader, one whose strength is not just in their arm, but in their spirit."

Simon looked from his brother to the elder, the weight settling heavy on his shoulders. "Ironjaw, Hollowfang, Redhorn… they sound as divided as we are."

"They are," Skrall admitted. His voice grew quiet, almost like a prayer. "But they are still orc. And that means there is still a chance."

The fire crackled, and around it, the Grayhorns murmured—some scoffing, some thoughtful, some hopeful despite themselves.

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