The forest of the wood elves was exactly as Rukar imagined: tall, sprawling trees with massive trunks, their leaves shimmering in the faint light that managed to pierce the canopy. Yet, despite its beauty, he found it unimpressive. To him, these elves were just weaklings who hid in their trees, striking from the shadows rather than facing their enemies head-on. It was no wonder they rarely ventured out into the world beyond their precious woods.

As he pressed deeper into the forest, the sounds of clashing steel and anguished cries reached his ears. He crept closer, his heavy armor surprisingly quiet as he observed the battle unfolding ahead. What he saw made him pause. Groups of wood elves were fighting each other. At first, he dismissed it as some kind of civil skirmish—a quarrel among the tree-dwellers. But something was wrong.

Many of the combatants moved erratically, their eyes void of reason, their mouths muttering incomprehensible gibberish. These weren't warriors; they looked more like puppets. On the other side were wood elves who fought valiantly, their fear and desperation evident in their every move. The "possessed" elves, as he would later learn to call them, pressed forward relentlessly, their goal clear: to break through the defenders and reach the grand chamber visible in the distance.

Rukar's lip curled in disdain. "Elves," he muttered. "Always in trouble."

Still, something about the scene tugged at his instincts. He watched as one of the defenders fell, a blade piercing his side. His comrade's scream of grief echoed through the woods. The normal elves were outnumbered, and their line was faltering. Rukar's hand tightened around the hilt of his greatsword. He didn't care much for elves, but he did need information. Perhaps these defenders could tell him more about the high elf he sought.

With a roar that shook the trees, Rukar charged into the fray. His war cry was so thunderous that both sides halted, their heads snapping toward the massive figure barreling toward them. Despite his hulking size and heavy armor, Rukar moved with surprising speed. He gripped his greatsword with both hands, swinging it in a wide arc that cleaved through the first wave of possessed elves. Blood sprayed, and severed limbs flew as his blade carved a path through the chaos. His every strike was brutal, precise, and unrelenting.

The defending elves stared in shock before shouts of encouragement erupted among them. "The orc fights with us!" one yelled. "Hold the line! Push them back!"

Emboldened by Rukar's presence, the defenders rallied. Together, they pressed against the tide of possessed, their blades flashing as they fought side by side with the orc. Rukar's greatsword became a whirlwind of destruction, cutting down enemies with ease. Where the wood elves danced around their foes with agility, Rukar's method was sheer power—each strike sending bodies flying, leaving carnage in his wake.

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

Finally, after what felt like hours, the last of the possessed fell. The forest grew quiet again, save for the labored breaths of the surviving defenders. The ground was littered with bodies, the air thick with the stench of blood.

From the grand chamber, the Wood Elf King emerged. His golden armor gleamed, though it bore scratches from previous battles. His face was lined with exhaustion, but his eyes held gratitude as they landed on Rukar.

"Orc," the king said, his voice steady despite the chaos they had endured. "You have our thanks. Without your strength, we would have fallen to the numbers of the possessed ones."

Rukar planted his sword into the ground, leaning on it as he caught his breath. "Save your thanks. I didn't do it for you," he rumbled. "I need answers. Why were your own people attacking you? And what in the Void's name do you mean by 'possessed'?"

The king's expression darkened. He gestured for Rukar to follow him into the chamber. "Come inside. I will explain what I can."

The grand chamber bore signs of recent struggle. Furniture was overturned, scorch marks marred the walls, and a faint smell of sulfur lingered in the air. The king motioned for Rukar to sit, but the orc remained standing, his towering frame intimidating even in stillness.

"Many days ago," the king began, "strange things began happening to my people. At first, it was small—whispers of unease, elves speaking in tongues no one understood. Then, they began to turn on us. Their minds were consumed by a dark force, a possession unlike anything we have faced before."

Rukar's gaze narrowed. "And you've done nothing to stop it?"

"We tried," the king replied, his tone sharp with frustration. "A high elf named Eryndil came to our aid not long ago and helped us fend off a wave of the possessed. But the root of this evil lies in the north. A demon sorcerer is said to be behind this madness, spreading his corruption like a disease."

At the mention of the high elf, Rukar's hands clenched into fists. He forced his voice to remain steady. "This high elf. Where did he go?"

The king's eyes narrowed slightly, suspicion flickering across his face. "Why do you ask?"

Rukar shrugged, feigning indifference. "If he's fighting this sorcerer, he might need help. And if this sorcerer is the cause of your problems, then I have my own reasons to find him."

The king studied him for a moment before nodding. "He headed north, to confront the sorcerer. If you truly mean to help, that is where you should go."

Rukar inclined his head. "Thanks for the information." Without another word, he hefted his greatsword and turned to leave.

As he stepped out into the blood-soaked forest, Rukar's mind was a storm of anger and resolve.

"Eryndil," he muttered under his breath, the name of the high elf burning like fire in his chest. "You'll pay for what you did to my brother."

With his destination clear, Rukar set off to the north, his massive frame disappearing into the shadows of the trees.