Brother’s Quarrel:

  Rocka walked the hallway toward his room when Goram stepped into his path, blocking him with an arm.

  “Rocka. Hold. We must speak.” His voice carried that familiar mix of authority and disappointment. “You are my brother—bound by blood and loyalty. Father sacrificed much to keep us alive in this world. Yet you’ve neglected everything he fought for. Anyone can see you’ve chosen the wrong path. With your potential, you could have been a formidable opponent.”

  Rocka exhaled sharply. “I’ve already heard this spiel from the old man.”

  “Listen to me, brother.” Goram’s tone tightened. “You’re aware of Malika?”

  “The female you fancy?” Rocka muttered.

  “Aye, her.” Goram’s jaw clenched. “During our courting, and whenever we were among the clans, I saw her disdain for you. And it’s not just her. Many in her family, in the stronghold look on you with contempt.”

  “I remain an orc,” Rocka snapped back. “Proud of our lineage.”

  Goram shook his head. “I beg to differ. You’ve strayed into decadence—and now Tengwar is upon us.”

  Rocka scoffed. “Bah, Tengwar. Maybe Hamskr’s right. Maybe Tengwar is barbaric.”

  “Hamskr?” Goram’s eyes widened. “The Norseman? That is precisely my grievance. Your constant visits to Jorgentown have poisoned your mind. Do you think you’re one of them? The Norse see us as beasts. You risk becoming an outcast—with nowhere to turn. That is, if you survive tomorrow.”

  Rocka waved him off. “Focus on your own preparations, brother. I’m not your only opponent. Tragnash, Garsom, Lukren, Grash—our cousins and battle brothers—they’re all formidable. How do you plan to best them?”

  “I trust in my training,” Goram said, frustration rising. “But discipline must come from within—something you lack.” He stepped closer. “Rocka, you must muster every ounce of courage and dig deep. No one will show mercy. Not me. Not the stronghold. Not the world. And certainly not father. This is three?fold in light of the reputation you’ve cultivated.”

  “Yes, yes, I get it!” Rocka snapped. “Are you going to let me rest, or keep me up with tales of how I’m unworthy, how I’ll never lay with a female, or how I’ll be lucky not to be made an example of?”

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  Goram turned to leave, but paused in the doorway. “I’m only being gentle because mother is here. If it were up to me, I’d have dealt with this long ago.” He looked back, eyes hard. “Strength isn’t just muscle, Rocka. It’s courage and conviction.”

  Rocka watched Goram disappear down the hall, the echo of his brother’s footsteps fading into the longhouse. He pushed open the door to his room.

  It was modest, almost bare. Weapons and gear sat in the rack, a thin layer of dust softening their edges—silent proof of months of neglect. His bed was neatly made, linens pulled tight. Alkaia’s touch. She always tried to keep order where he left none.

  His knapsack rested by the cabinet beneath the small window, the last light of dusk spilling over it.

  Rocka lowered himself onto the bed, the straw mattress creaking under his weight. He stared out the window at the night sky—cold, distant, uncaring.

  A long breath escaped him.

  “One way or another,” he murmured, “I will endure.”

  Goram walked down the hallway, still simmering from his quarrel with Rocka, when he noticed Traken—the youngest—standing by a cupboard, reading from a set of old clan scrolls. The boy’s lips moved as he recited:

  “With his final breath, Gra?Gon fell. Mau?Lak rose—the true leader of the broken, of Clan Bhoar.

  Traken the Wise stepped forward, bearing the fallen chief’s axe.

  ‘Hail, clan leader. May you lead Clan Bhoar to glory, Master Mau?Lak Bhoar.’”

  Goram couldn’t help but smile. “Seeking might beyond might through Mau?Lak’s glory, are you? Fret not. Though you share his name, you’ve never given in to sloth. Like him, you are wise—and more than ready for tomorrow.”

  Traken lowered the scroll. “What ever became of Traken Bal?Grog?”

  Goram folded his arms, recalling the tale. “After Mau?Lak’s final journey, Clan Bhoar became Stronghold Bal?Grog, as you know.”

  “Aye,” Traken said, “but it wasn’t Traken who became battle master. It was his son, Ar?Lak.”

  “True,” Goram nodded. “But Traken found glory all the same. His beginnings were rough, yet he carved out might beyond might and became a legend. All orcs have that potential—but only if they seize it through effort. Those who don’t perish to weakness.”

  Traken’s expression soured. “Then why does father—who understands this better than anyone—not enforce it?”

  Goram’s tone hardened. “Father is a great man, a legend in his own right. He taught the three of us discipline, tactics, and the will to rise. He gave us every tool we needed.”

  Traken shook his head. “Tell that to Rocka.”

  Goram snorted. “Never mind Rocka. The keg?belly has made his choice. You focus on your own merit. Mau?Lak watches and judges.”

  Traken rolled up the scroll and slid it back into the cupboard. “Might beyond might, then.”

  Goram placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “Might beyond might. Tengwar awaits.”

  Traken nodded once and retreated to his room without another word.

  Left alone, Goram cast one last look toward the garden where Kraken had meditated earlier—where they had received his final council.

  What would become of them? Of Rocka? Of the stronghold itself?

  Tengwar would decide.