Commander Urma, an Ursarok known for his heavy, unyielding patience, stood by the tall, arched window of his office in Stonehorn Crossing's command tower. Below him, the town's main thoroughfare was eerily silent. Just a month ago, this marketplace had been a chaotic, vibrant river of merchants, travelers, and local villagers. Now, it was a drought-stricken plain. Stores were boarded up, stalls were empty, and the only traffic was the shuffling of a few weary guards making their perimeter checks.

The citizens and merchants had scattered, their fear of becoming another Hearthglen—a victim of Lupen aggression and subsequent chaos—driving them back to their smaller, more defensible villages. The looming threat of the Kobold Union army staging in the eastern border forests only solidified their decision.

Urma exhaled, the sound heavy like air escaping a forge bellows. The price of political folly, he thought. Only a few town council members, either too stubborn or too devoted, remained.

A sharp, disciplined knock came at the door.

"Come in," Urma said, turning from the window.

Captain Luma entered, her white Lupen fur a striking, luminous contrast to her polished, dark blue plate armor. She carried herself with the coiled readiness of a spring trap.

"Commander," she said, her voice a low murmur, "A Rogina merchant caravan came by. They delivered a letter. For your eyes only."

Urma sat, his armored bulk groaning softly into the leather chair. He took the missive. It was thin, surprisingly light, and perfectly white—not the thick, coarse yellow parchment used by most Hillkin scribes.

"This is a letter?" Urma muttered, turning the sheet over. "It's lighter than parchment. It feels like silk that's been stretched taut."

Luma smiled, a flash of white teeth. "I was surprised, too, Commander. But when I saw this symbol," she nodded toward the corner, where a stylized Necro Corp skull was subtly pressed into the paper, "I knew it could only be from them."

Urma nodded slowly. "There's no one but them who could pull off such revolutionary object, but them." He peeled the wax seal and opened the letter.

As he read, Urma's eyes widened, and the weariness that had marked his face evaporated, replaced by a slow, calculating, and chilling smile. He muttered the words aloud, tasting them.

"Beelzebub steel, huh? What a perfect timing from that lich." Urma smile widens.

Luma, despite her professional discipline, felt a prickle of curiosity. The Commander's sudden, menacing cheer was unnerving. She knew only the Necro Corp could evoke such a powerful reaction.

"I'll be outside when you need me, Commander," Luma offered, respecting the confidentiality of the letter.

"No, no, I'll need you to do something for me, Luma." Urma gestured for her to stay.

Luma sat in the visitor's chair, her ears attentive. Urma prepared his quill, ink, and a fresh sheet of ordinary parchment. He wrote rapidly, his pen scraping against the rough surface. After he finished, he rolled the parchment tight and affixed his personal seal.

"Luma, I need you to give this to Lord Baron Silverfury," he said, his eyes intense. "He's at The Wall to the south. I apologize in advance, since you are the fastest out of all of us. You'll need to deliver it with haste. It may be the only way we can quickly end this war."

Luma's eyes slightly widened, a rare show of surprise. She simply nodded, taking the parchment. She thought: What has that lich gotten into this time?—and then she was gone, a blur of white fur and polished steel, sprinting out of Stonehorn Crossing toward the south.

Three days later, life at The Wall—the massive fortification protecting the valley, managed by the Vanguard of Spinebride—was never dull.

Since declaring independence from the corrupt Hillkin Alliance, the Vanguard had become a beacon of pragmatic unity. Ursaroks, Lupens, Foxkin, and even former Kobold mercenaries stood shoulder-to-shoulder. They had continuous support from loyalist nobles like Baron Silverfury, who provided supplies of raw ore, food, and weaponry, allowing them to finally stop having to "mine their own steel."

The atmosphere was one of grim, unified purpose. Everyone here, from the rawest Ramari recruit to the grizzled Ursarok general, understood that this wall was the last defense against slavery or slaughter.

High on the battlements, a squad of mixed-race soldiers watched the treeline. The Bloodtusk Orcs were relentless, but today's attack felt different—more targeted, more violent.

"They've definitely kitted out a new batch of Breakers," grunted Brem, an Ursarok knight, his brow furrowed as he reloaded a heavy ballista. "See how they move? Faster than the last wave. Less like hulking brutes, more like—well, bigger brutes."

Below, the orc line surged forward, led by three towering, mutated Breakers—orcs roughly the size of a small cottage. They were encased in crude, jagged bone armor and wielded massive, two-handed stone mauls, slamming them into the outer palisade.

"They learned their lesson after the Titan got vaporized," replied Kael, a Foxkin crossbowman standing beside Brem. Kael wiped black grease from his weapon, which he and his squad had salvaged from abandoned Alliance armories. "These are manageable. They can't just walk through the curtain wall. We just have to grind them down."

"Easy for you to say, Foxkin. You're firing bolts, I'm waiting to catch a maul in the face if they get over this first defense," Brem countered, but without heat.

Grizelda, a Lupen levy holding a shield slightly too large for her, chimed in, her voice tight with adrenaline. "They look like they're hitting the west flank harder, the section with the compromised mortar joint. Do they know that's our weak point?"

"They probably do," Brem said dismissively, hauling the ballista string. "The orcs have spies, same as anyone. But they don't know that Baron Silverfury's lads spent the last two nights reinforcing that joint with the new iron blend. It'll hold."

Kael adjusted his grip on the crossbow. "Still, that's two more Breakers than we saw in last month's skirmish. Minur is definitely spending those demonic pearls wisely. Ready the black water!"

Down the line, a small squad prepared the highly flammable black oil (sourced from the Black Lake) for the catapults. The gritty survival of the Vanguard depended on utilizing every resource they had, no matter how foul or simple.

A massive, bone-armored Breaker slammed its maul into the palisade, sending splinters flying high. The impact jarred the entire wall section.

"He's getting close to the gatehouse! Fire the ballista, Brem, aim for the legs!" Kael yelled, already sighting his crossbow on the orc's exposed shoulder joint.

"I see it!" Brem roared, releasing the ballista. The heavy, iron-tipped bolt shot forward, hitting the Breaker's knee with a sickening CRACK. The massive creature roared in pain and stumbled, momentarily opening its chest.

Kael fired his crossbow bolt, followed by a volley from his squad. The combined impact of the sharp, forged steel was enough to make the Breaker stagger back, favoring its injured knee. The coordinated discipline worked, proving that two skilled soldiers from different races, relying on good gear, were worth a hundred disorganized levies.

The battle raged on, a ceaseless, brutal reminder that the Wall was their only life and death was always just a single Breaker blow away.

Just as the sun began to dip, casting long, bloody shadows across the battlefield, a lone, swift figure arrived at the inner fortress gates, covered in trail dust and sweat.

It was Captain Luma. She dismounted, her fast journey complete, and asked a sentry to take her immediately to Baron Silverfury.

She carried Urma's rolled parchment, now slightly rumpled, knowing she held information that might just change the entire course of the war.

Baron Silverfury was not where Luma expected to find him. Instead of being on the battlements, he was in a small, well-lit study within the inner keep of Tallowshade, pouring over detailed maps of the region.

The Baron was a giant beast, even for an Ursarok, his presence dominating the room. His face, usually marked by deep, strategic thought, was currently focused on the map of the Eastern Forest, where the Kobold army was rumored to be consolidating.

Luma was shown in, and she immediately went to one knee, offering the parchment. "My Lord Baron, I am Captain Luma of Stonehorn Crossing. Commander Urma sends this with the utmost haste."

Silverfury's deep, resonant voice held a note of fatigue. "Rise, Captain. I heard you made exceptional time. I trust Commander Urma is well, despite the increasing isolation?"

"He is well, My Lord, but concerned. The town is nearly empty. The people fear they are next."

Silverfury nodded grimly, taking the scroll. "A justifiable fear. Hearthglen's fate was a warning. Now, let's see what Urma has to say that warrants such a swift journey."

He broke the seal. Luma watched as his eyes scanned the parchment, then lingered near the bottom. The Baron's mouth did not smile, but a subtle, dangerous light entered his eyes.

"Remarkable," Silverfury murmured, placing the parchment on his desk. "So, the Lich—or rather, the Ghoul Karl Leech—has finally decided to offer us a proposition. It seems Urma's old partnership with the Necro Corp has borne fruit at a critical moment."

"Necro Corp, My Lord?" Luma asked, surprised. "Commander Urma only mentioned a Rogina caravan."

"The Rogina Merchant Company is merely the messenger, Captain," Silverfury explained. "They are the Lich's primary economic ally. The true author is this Karl. And this… this is a formal proposal for an Arms Trade Agreement between the Vanguard of Spinebride and the Necro Corp."

The Baron walked to a small table where a jug of water sat. "Commander Urma's letter is not just a delivery; it is a carefully worded, almost-too-eager acceptance. He agrees to the terms and asks for a meeting with a Necro Corp representative immediately."

Luma stood still, processing the implications. Trading with the undead—with the infamous Dungeon Lord of the North—was heresy according to the old Alliance teachings.

"The terms, My Lord? What could the Lich possibly offer that Urma would accept so readily, given the potential political fallout?"

Silverfury took a slow sip of water, his gaze returning to the parchment. "He offers to supply us with his revolutionary Beelzebub Steel—a high-density alloy, apparently stronger and lighter than anything the Ursaroks can forge. And a new, specialized, high-velocity weaponry: the Lightweight Mana-Rifle, along with a contingent of craftsman and engineers to staff our armories and train our men."

Luma gasped, taking a step back. "Engineers? My Lord, that is a profound security risk! And the Lich is notorious for his exorbitant prices."

"The price is simple, Captain, and that is why Urma jumped at it," Silverfury said, his face hardening slightly. He tapped the parchment. "Karl Leech demands three things in return: First, the exclusive right to all Bloodtusk Orc corpses collected from the battlefield, for 'research and material processing'—a grim but manageable request."

He held up a second finger. "Second, a guaranteed safe trade route which we can easily provide as we control the entire Tallowshade valley."

"And third?" Luma asked, dreading the answer.

Silverfury's eyes, the color of molten gold, narrowed. "Third, he wants me to personally guarantee the deal. He knows I am the only one outside the Lich's circle with the political autonomy and strategic vision to secure the long-term success of this alliance."

Silverfury ran a huge hand over his bearded jaw. "This is a deal with a devil, Captain. The Necro Corp provides the tools to end the orc siege and, simultaneously, provides us with the necessary power to completely eclipse the collapsing Hillkin Alliance. It is a terrifying risk, but the Orcs are growing stronger, and Jorah's siege has revealed the true weakness of the Alliance military. I believe the time for polite politics is over. Only the Lich's power can truly protect our people."

"What is your response, My Lord?" Luma asked, ready to be dispatched again.

Silverfury returned to his desk, picking up a pen. "My response is that of a beastkin with no other choice. We accept. We will meet with his representative, Rogina, at the town of Oakhaven in two days. Luma, you rest for the night, and tomorrow you will ride out at dawn with my official response. This time, take a full knight escort. This parchment is too important to risk."

He began writing his reply, his signature large and confident—an Ursarok's pledge to the undead Ghoul.

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