Carlos squinted against the wind, straining his eyes as he soared high above the landscape. Below, a sprawling camp of half-orcs spread out on the west bank of the Red Water River, their movements slow and deliberate in the fading daylight.

"What's going on down there?" Carlos muttered to himself, watching the half-orcs settle in. They weren't marching like an army on the move, but rather camping, as if waiting for something.

"Could it be a migration?" Carlos wondered, the idea of a large tribe on the move flitting through his mind. But as he urged Kaldor to descend and hover within the safety of the clouds, the truth became clearer. "No... this is an army. No elders or children among them."

Through the keen vision granted by his Dragon Eye skill, Carlos could make out the totems on the half-orcs' banners from a thousand meters in the air. The realization hit him like a blow. "They're preparing for something. I need to warn Roland."

…

"What? They’ve set up camp by the river?" Roland's voice betrayed his surprise. Orcs, with their usual brutish nature, would typically rush their enemies without much thought.

"They might be waiting for reinforcements," Reynold speculated, his face grim. "If they're waiting for other tribes from Gundaba and Dogordo to join them, we could be in serious trouble. Imagine an army of half-orcs hitting us from behind while we're engaged at the front. Even wasteland orcs with bone clubs could overwhelm us in such a scenario."

A heavy silence fell over the room as the weight of Reynold’s words sunk in. The implications were dire—if the half-orcs managed to flank them, the alliance’s defense lines could collapse like a row of dominoes.

"We need to consult with the Allied forces in Los Saint-Neil City," Carlos suggested after a moment's thought.

"No," Roland said sharply, rising to his feet. "Assemble the troops. We can’t afford to wait for them to strike first."

…

The flapping of giant wings announced the arrival of Peter Gros, who landed in the city atop a massive dragon. Roland couldn’t help but stare in awe. The dragon was magnificent, a 30-meter-long beast covered in dark blue scales that shimmered like starlight. Its underbelly was milky white, and its claws, as deep blue as sapphires, glinted ominously in the sunlight. But there was no dragon armor, only a simple saddle on its back.

"Knight Peter? What brings you here?" Roland asked, puzzled. Los Saint-Neil was under threat from Togoldo at any moment. Roland hadn’t expected help from them; the eastern front was his responsibility, even if the half-orc horde numbered in the tens of thousands.

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"I came to see if you needed any assistance," Peter Gros replied, eyeing the soldiers nervously assembling. "Looks like you're preparing to engage the half-orcs."

"That’s right," Roland confirmed with a tight smile. "We can’t let them come to us. We need to strike first."

"Agreed. It’s better to maintain the initiative," Peter Gros nodded. "Though I can’t offer you soldiers, I can fight under your command."

"No, the city of Los Saint-Neil needs its knights," Roland said, shaking his head. "We can’t risk weakening its defenses. We don’t know what tricks Togoldo might have up its sleeve. Your place is there, ready to defend against any sudden attack."

Peter hesitated. "But your forces are so few."

"We have no fear," Roland replied, meeting the dragon knight’s gaze with a calm confidence.

Peter studied Roland for a moment before nodding. "Very well. I’ll inform the two kings of your decision. May fortune favor you."

With a final salute, Peter Gros mounted his dragon, and in a flash of dark blue scales, the beast took to the sky, vanishing into the clouds.

"My lord, we’re severely outnumbered," Carlos murmured as he approached Roland.

"We have no choice, Carlos," Roland said quietly. "We’re stretched too thin. If the orcs from the north and south converge, we won’t stand a chance. We can’t let that happen—not again."

…

"Sir! All 1,047 soldiers are assembled, except for the El Nino Ranger and the Grassland Elves," Carlos reported crisply.

"Send the knights ahead," Roland ordered Reynold, who nodded and began issuing commands.

"Lord Ladir, Rapid City is in your hands. Organize a night watch with the youths. If we don’t return…" Roland’s voice trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid.

"May the Dragon God protect you, my king," Ivy whispered as she bowed deeply.

Roland forced a smile and turned away.

…

"Are we really doing this?" Vervill asked, his voice tinged with disbelief as he marched beside Roland.

"What’s this? Are the brave prairie elves feeling nervous?" Roland teased lightly.

"No, no! I’m just wondering if this is the best strategy. We’re going to charge right into them?" Vervill’s unease was palpable.

"When you’re this outnumbered, tactics don’t mean much," Roland replied evenly.

"But we only have enough provisions for three days! What happens if we can’t return in time?" Vervill’s voice rose in panic. The idea of running out of food in the middle of an enemy-infested wasteland was terrifying.

"Three days is enough. We’ll reach them within that time. If we win, Carlos will ensure we’re resupplied. If we lose… well, there won’t be any need to worry about food then, will there?" Roland’s calm demeanor did nothing to ease Vervill’s nerves.

"Damn it… You make too much sense!" Vervill groaned. He couldn’t help but feel sorry for the fate of the prairie elves, who had barely escaped one battle only to be thrust into another.

"Save your strength," Roland said quietly, noticing the worn and mismatched gear the prairie elves were carrying. Despite their best efforts at maintenance, their equipment was far inferior to that of other elves.

"We fight for our home," Roland thought to himself, steeling his resolve. "We have nothing to fear."

…

"What? A prairie elf scout found us and escaped?" Vervill , the orc king of the wasteland, roared in fury. His subordinates cowered before him, trembling as they delivered the bad news.

"They’ve been gone for days!" Vervill snarled.

"At least five sunsets, Your Majesty…" one of the orcs stammered, shaking in fear.

With a roar of rage, Vervill swung his massive warhammer, smashing the unfortunate messenger’s skull. Green blood and brain matter splattered across the ground as the orc’s body crumpled.

"Incompetent fools!" Vervill bellowed, his fury unabated. "Prepare to march! We move to the foot of the Lonely Mountain immediately!"

The orc king knew they couldn’t afford to wait any longer. The dwarves of the Lonely Mountain had likely been alerted to their presence, and delaying further would only give the allied forces time to prepare.

"Let’s go! Vervill howled as he mounted his Warg, leading his army into the night.

The storm was gathering. And soon, it would break.