The path ahead was laden with grief and fury as the orc marched onward, his crimson-streaked greatsword glinting menacingly in the dim light of dusk. The air was heavy with silence, save for the crunch of his boots against the dirt and the occasional rasp of his breath. His destination was clear: Eryndor, the heart of the high elves' dominion. But first, he would follow the blood trail of the lone survivor from his earlier confrontation—a trail that would lead him to his brother's remains.

The faint trail of blood wound through rocky outcroppings and sparse forests, a grim map pointing him toward closure. Hours passed before the orc finally reached the site of the slaughter. There, sprawled amidst the carnage, lay his brother's lifeless body. His once-mighty form was now lifeless, his chest impaled by a spear that had ended his life. His face, however, bore no fear—only defiance.

The orc knelt beside his fallen kin, his massive frame trembling as he reached out to close his brother's unseeing eyes. The battlefield around them reeked of death. For a moment, the orc's rage was eclipsed by sorrow. He removed a simple amulet from his own neck—a crude piece of metal shaped into the sigil of their tribe. This, he placed around his brother's neck, securing it tightly as though it could shield him even in death.

With his massive hands, he dug a grave beneath the shadow of a great oak. The process was grueling and slow, but the orc refused to relent. When the grave was ready, he gently lowered his brother's body into it, arranging him with care as though preparing him for a warrior's rest. He stood for a moment, his gaze locked on the mound of freshly turned earth. Then, with a low growl that rumbled like distant thunder, he swore vengeance.

The journey to Eryndor resumed with renewed intensity. Each step was a deliberate act of defiance against the weight of his loss. The orc's blood-red eyes burned with determination, and the veins in his arms pulsed with rage. Nothing would stand between him and vengeance—not walls, not armies, not even death.

The gates of Eryndor loomed ahead, their intricate carvings depicting the storied history of the high elves. Guards patrolled the walls, their silver armor gleaming in the moonlight. The Orc's approach was not subtle. He made no effort to conceal himself, instead marching with the deliberate pace of an avalanche. As the first guard spotted him, a cry of alarm went up.

"An orc approaches! To arms!"

The orc paused only to unsling his greatsword from his back, the massive blade reflecting the light of the torches above. Then, with a guttural roar that echoed through the valley, he charged through the gate with brutal force destroying in in the process.

The first line of elven guards met him with spears raised, their expressions a mix of fear and resolve. It was not enough. The orc's blade descended like a thunderbolt, cleaving through shields, armor, and flesh in a single devastating arc. The force of the blow sent pieces of their shattered weapons clattering to the ground, their owners falling lifeless at his feet.

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Blood splattered the walls as the orc advanced, his strikes as unrelenting as a storm. Three guards attempted to flank him, but his sweeping blade cut through them as though they were nothing but wheat before a scythe. The battlefield became a macabre painting of violence, and the orc's bellowing battle cry carried far into the night.

Inside the council chambers, the high elven elders convened in panic. The room was a grand hall of marble and gold, its opulence a stark contrast to the carnage unfolding outside. The guards who had survived the initial onslaught burst into the room, their faces pale and drenched in sweat.

"Elders! You must evacuate immediately! An orc is attacking the gates!"

One of the elders, an aged elf with a flowing silver beard, scoffed. "An orc? Singular? And you would have us flee?"

"You don't understand!" the guard stammered. "He's already halfway here! He's slaughtering everyone in his path like they're nothing!"

A ripple of unease passed through the council, but one elder rose with a sneer. He was a retired general, his once-pristine armor now ceremonial but still bearing the scars of countless battles. "I will not run from an orc," he declared. "I will show him what it means to challenge the high elves."

"General Sylan, please reconsider," the priestess urged. "This is not the time for pride. We must leave while we still can."

"You may flee if you wish," Sylan retorted, striding toward the chamber doors. "I will remind this orc of his place."

Reluctantly, the other elders began their retreat, escorted by the guards. Sylan, meanwhile, donned his battered helmet and readied his blade. He positioned himself in the center of the hall, flanked by a handful of guards who shared his resolve, though their faces betrayed their fear.

The sound of splintering wood announced the orc's arrival. The great doors of the council chambers exploded inward, fragments flying like shrapnel. The orc stepped through the wreckage, his towering form framed by the flickering torchlight. He was a vision of fury incarnate, his blood-streaked armor and glowing red eyes striking terror into all who beheld him.

General Sylan faltered for a moment, the orc's sheer presence eclipsing even his years of battlefield experience. "What is it you seek, orc?" he demanded, his voice steady despite the trembling in his limbs.

The orc's voice was a low growl, each word laced with venom. "The elf you sent. Where is he?"

Sylan's pride got the better of him. "We do not answer to your kind."

Before he could utter another word, the orc's greatsword slammed into him with bone-shattering force. Sylan's body crumpled as he was hurled across the chamber, crashing into a marble pillar. His armor buckled under the impact, and blood seeped from his lips as he struggled to breathe.

The remaining guards fled, their courage evaporating in the face of such raw power. The orc strode toward Sylan, his steps heavy with purpose. "Where is he?" he repeated.

Coughing blood, Sylan finally yielded. "Eryndil... he's on his way to the Wood Elves in the eastern forest... please... spare me..."

The warlord sheathed his blade, his vengeance momentarily sated by the information. He turned to leave, but Sylan's broken voice called after him.

"Why? Why do this?"

The orc paused, his gaze burning with unrelenting hatred. "Because your kind must pay for what you did to mine. My brother's blood will not be the last."

With that, he departed, leaving the shattered remnants of the council chambers behind. His journey was far from over, but now he had a name and a direction. Eryndil would face the wrath of a n orc who had nothing left to lose.