"Oh!...Hello there guys," Aron greeted casually, waving a hand at his companions.

"Don't just 'HELLO US!', sir!" Leo snapped, unable to contain the frustration simmering within him. "You vanish for hours, and now you simply wave at us like it's no big deal?"

'And to make matters worse, I had to endure Codex's nagging during that time,' he added inwardly.

"My Lord, are you well?" Lyra inquired, her voice laced with concern. She started to move closer to Aron, but then suddenly they were surrounded by a horde of orcs.

"More Humies?" an orc spoke, scanning Lyra from head to toe. "Ooh! A she-humie."

"And a fine one, all tender 'n juicy!" another orc leered, licking his lips. "Can we keep 'er?"

"HEY, YOU GIT! I saw her first!" an even uglier orc by orc standards bellowed from the side, his eyes gleaming with greed.

'Stupid orcs... I'm not some prize to be claimed,' Lyra thought, tightening her grip on her lance and pulling out her tower shield from her back. She was ready to fight the horde if necessary.

Leo, Bard, and the other watchers tensed, their hands instinctively going to the hilts of their weapons. However, before anyone could react—

"Hiss!" A colossal, dark, ethereal serpent materialized out of thin air above them.

The orcs fell silent immediately, their eyes widening in terror as they felt the serpent's crimson gaze pierce their souls. Other than Bard, the rest opened their eyes wide as they recognized the serpent.

"What do you think you're doing?" a dark, chilling voice boomed through the camp. The orcs gulped audibly, their gazes slowly turning toward the source of the terrifying voice. They saw their new chieftain, Aron, staring at them with an expression that sent shivers down their spines.

"War-Warchief..." one orc stuttered, his voice filled with unease. "We... we meant no disrespect."

Aron's eyes narrowed, and the serpent hovering above him let out a low hiss, its crimson eyes fixed on the orcs. "You dare lay your eyes on what is mine?" Aron's voice was like the whisper of the grave, sending shivers down the spines of those who heard it. "You forget your place, scum?"

The orcs paled, their eyes flicking between Aron and the serpent, their fear palpable. "F-Forgive us, Warchief" one of them stammered. "We did not know she-humie belonged to ya'."

Aron, with the same icy gaze, waved his hand dismissively, and the ethereal serpent glided through them before vanishing. The orcs felt like their very souls were being ripped out, and they immediately collapsed on the ground, pale and sweating profusely.

"All are mine," Aron declared, retracting his dark aura, "never forget that."

A tense silence followed Aron's declaration, broken only by the sound of the orcs' labored breathing. The dark aura that had enveloped the camp dissipated, but the oppressive atmosphere lingered.

Aron turned to his companions, his expression softening. "Are you all alright?" he asked, his voice gentle now, a stark contrast to the chilling tone he had used moments before.

Leo sheathed his sword, his anger momentarily forgotten. "We're fine, but what the hell was that Aron?" he asked, excitement evident in his voice. After all, he had only heard about the ethereal serpent from his elf friend, since Aron had knocked him out cold.

Leo assumed the serpent was some kind of spectral familiar and intended to ask Aron how to obtain one for himself; after all, it reminded him of a favorite character from his old world.

Bard and the watchers sighed with relief, seeing that everything had ended without a fight, while Lyra kept her gaze fixed on her lord, struggling to control the whirlwind of emotions within her.

'He declared me as…his!' she squealed internally. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she desperately tried to suppress a goofy grin.

"BWAHAHAH!" Morgash suddenly burst into laughter, before raising a big green thumb to Aron. "Well done! A powerful display of your authority as the new Warchief!"

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"That wasn't my intention," Aron said coldly, his eyes shifting to the collapsed orcs. "If any of them lay a hand on my companions, they will die."

Morgash's grin widened. "That's even better," he said, gesturing for Aron to follow. "Come, share our food."

Aron raised an eyebrow, examining the food laid out on a nearby table. "You mean my food," he corrected, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. "After all, these supplies were stolen from us, so technically, it's my food."

"Hey, I claimed this food fair and square!" Morgash protested, slamming his chest with a meaty fist. "So, it's my food now."

"..."

"Make sense" Aron's smile turned mischievous. "Ah, but considering I'm the new Warchief, that makes it my food, wouldn't you agree?"

"Eh?" Morgash scratched his head, clearly puzzled by Aron's logic. He opened his mouth to retort, but no words came out.

The female orc who had been silent this whole time couldn't help but chuckle at the exchange. "I think he's got you there, Father," she interjected.

"Yeah, you're right," Morgash conceded with a defeated slump.

"Father?" Aron repeated, raising an eyebrow in surprise.

The female orc stood tall, her posture radiating confidence. "Indeed, I am Morgash's daughter, Kira'tar," she introduced herself, bowing her head slightly. "Once again, I extend a warm welcome, Warchief."

"Thank you," Aron acknowledged with a nod, making his way toward the chieftain's tent. He casually sat on the large throne-like chair, and no one dared to question him.

"Release them," he commanded, pointing towards the female soldiers, whose eyes sparkled with unrestrained joy.

Two orcs sprang into action, unlocking their restraints. Aron then inquired in a loud voice, "Where are the others?" The healers were missing, and he hadn't spotted them on his arrival, leading him to believe they were imprisoned elsewhere.

Kira'tar approached the table before responding. "The healers are on the opposite side of the camp, tending to our wounded."

Aron narrowed his eyes. "Tending to them from what?"

Kira'tar's expression turned serious. "Our tribe was recently attacked by a rival orc clan. We suffered heavy casualties, and many were injured. Furthermore, the harsh winter weather has been particularly unforgiving for our elders and younglings."

"I see," Aron leaned back on the chieftain's chair, contemplating the situation. "Then let them put their skills to good use, Kira'tar. Send someone to inform the healers that they are no longer captives." He then shifted his gaze to Bard. "You're familiar with the healers, Bard. Go and ensure they comprehend the new situation. Make certain they treat the orcs as well."

Bard nodded, grateful for the opportunity to check on his comrades. "Yes, My Lord. Immediately," he said, swiftly following an orc guided by Kira'tar.

Aron then focused his attention on Morgash, who had comfortably settled on the seat to his left and was gleefully devouring a succulent roasted meat.

"Morgash, tell me, how many orcs do you have under your command?"

Morgash swallowed his mouthful of meat and wiped his hands on his trousers before answering. "We have roughly eight hundred able-bodied warriors, give or take a few," he replied, a hint of pride evident in his voice. "However, if your healers were able to revive our wounded warriors, the number would surge close to two thousand."

"Whistle!" Aron whistled softly, truly impressed by the potential size of their fighting force. "That's quite the army you have here. But if I may inquire, why did you ambush my caravan with only two hundred orcs?"

"Hehehe…" Morgash chuckled slightly before answering, "If we attack with big numbers, the humans will perceive us as a significant threat that needs to be dealt with. But if we attack with small numbers…."

"It would appear less threatening, more like a band of raiders rather than an organized army." Aron finished his sentence, realizing their strategy. More importantly, he realized that these orcs, particularly Morgash and his daughter Kira'tar, were far more intelligent than their dumb kin.

A heavy silence descended upon the tent as Aron became lost in thought. The orcs and the humans exchanged nervous glances, not daring to break the quiet, except for Morgash, who continued devouring his meal with gusto. Finally, Aron rose and addressed Morgash and his daughter.

"Morgash, I want you and the orcs to help me defend the wall against the monster waves. In return, I will grant you a permanent settlement, a place you can call home."

Morgash paused a piece of meat halfway to his mouth, and looked up at Aron, his eyes narrowing in contemplation. Kira'tar, standing beside her father, studied Aron carefully, assessing the sincerity and feasibility of his proposal.

A slow smile spread across Morgash's face, then widened into a booming guffaw. He tossed the half-chewed meat aside. "You're the Warchief now, lad. We will follow you to death and beyond!"

"Excellent!" Aron grinned in response. "But why do I have the feeling that you're happy to relinquish the chief position?"

"Cough....Cough" Morgash coughed violently, his green face turning red as he tried to dislodge the piece of meat that had gotten stuck in his throat.

"Ugh, me humie talk not good 'nuff to understand ya well," he said in orcish, turning his face away to avoid Aron's eyes.

Kira'tar shook her head, a slight smile playing on her lips. She understood her father's predicament. For years, he'd been pressuring her to challenge him in the Mak'Gora for the Warchief position, a feat she wasn't strong enough to accomplish at the time. Then, the rival orc clan's attack forced them to relocate, further delaying the inevitable.

With a newfound sense of authority, Kira'tar stepped forward and addressed Aron with the utmost respect: "What are your orders, Warchief?"

For a moment, Aron's gaze lingered on Morgash's back as the orc tried hard to avoid his eyes, fearing that he would throw the position back at him.

'I'll punish him later,' Aron promised inwardly.

Sighing deeply, Aron turned to Kira'tar and ordered, "Prepare everyone for relocation. We have until dawn."