Yurok Fortress loomed over the horizon, a colossal structure nestled between jagged plateaus that rose like an impenetrable wall of stone. Massive metal chains supported the stone bridge that spanned a treacherous quicksand berm. Giant tusks flanked the gate while human skulls swung ominously from the beams above, rattling softly in the cold morning wind.
Yurok's trumpets blared at dawn, their echoes carrying to Jyala. It wasn't just a call—it was a demand. The villagers understood what was expected: a perilous journey through thick morning fog, hearts heavy with the burden of tribute. The scent of wet earth mingled with the damp air, marking the beginning of their slow, somber procession toward the fortress.
Carriages creaked forward, pulled by weary horses, buffalo, and donkeys, while an undercurrent of fear dimmed the villagers' excitement. Though they longed to see their imprisoned loved ones, a gnawing anxiety hung over them. Hrakas gripped the reins of his cart tightly, his knuckles white against the leather. Each jolt of the cart sent a ripple of dread through him.
What if they found something?
He glanced at the villagers around him, their eyes flickering with worry. The creaking wheels, the snorts of restless animals, and the crackling branches underfoot were the only sounds that broke the uneasy silence.
As they neared Yurok, the plateau walls seemed to close in on either side, and the trumpets' calls became louder, more insistent. At the quicksand berm, Erabis' soldiers—hulking lesser Puaka resembling Orcs—stood waiting.
The Orcs towered at nearly ten feet, their hulking, muscular frames forged for battle. Their tough, rugged, and scarred green skin bore the marks of countless brutal conflicts. Clad in jagged iron plates and hardened leather armor, they looked ready to crush anything. Their tusks jutted from snarling mouths, and their sharp, blood-red eyes gleamed with a cruel, malevolent look. They carried massive iron clubs or axes slung over their shoulders, and their presence alone sent a shiver down the spines of the villagers. Even the horses pulling the carriages grew nervous, their ears twitching and their hooves stamping restlessly.
As Hrakas reached the edge of the quicksand berm, he felt the weight of fear settle in his gut.
The trumpets blared once more, signaling the time for inspection. The air thickened with tension as the Orcs began their checks, their large, rough hands inspecting each offering with slow, deliberate menace.
When Hrakas's turn came, his pulse quickened. His hands were slick with sweat as one of the Orcs approached his cart. The creature's heavy boots thudded on the ground, chains clanking with each step, echoing in the cold, misty air. Hrakas swallowed hard, his heart racing as the Orc's small, cruel eyes narrowed on the large wooden barrels in his cart.
Without a word, the Orc gripped the barrel's lid with its massive hands, muscles rippling beneath its scarred skin as it wrenched the cover off. Hrakas held his breath, praying. The Orc leaned over, scanning the contents. Relief washed over Hrakas when the barrel contained only thick, brown satay sauce filled with chopped onions. The Orc growled softly, unimpressed, and brought the lid down with a resounding thud.
The equally massive and menacing second Orc opened the second barrel swiftly. Hrakas felt a wave of nausea rise in his throat as the creature inspected the contents. The seconds stretched into an eternity until, once again, only peanut sauce greeted the Orc's scrutiny. After a long, tense pause, the Orcs exchanged a glance, their expressions unreadable, before grunting in approval.
They signaled Hrakas to proceed. Hrakas urged his carriage forward with a steady hand, crossing the massive bridge and entering the fortress.
The Orc camps sprawled beneath the menacing shadow of Yurok Fortress, a landscape of unrelenting savagery. Only the flickering flames of the torches and the eerie glow of cauldrons broke the darkness, casting dancing shadows across the path.
Nearby, prisoners wailed in agony as they were tortured—some hung by their wrists, others forced to fight in blood-soaked arenas. Disobedient merchants were dragged into rusted cages; the gruff, guttural laughter of the Orcs drowned out their cries.
The ground was littered with bones, kicked aside by lounging Orcs who sharpened their iron weapons, their tusked faces twisted with cruel amusement. Throngs of Orcs moved between camps, their gruff voices filling the air.
Hrakas, his heart pounding in his chest, kept his gaze locked forward. He dared not flinch, avoiding the malicious stares of the Orcs, who seemed to relish in his fear.
As Hrakas passed through the fortress, the grim scene of Yurok gave way to a steep, upward path. Sunlight filtered through the cracks in the plateau's surface high above, creating gentle beams illuminating the gravel path below, guiding the way forward.
The road broadened, unveiling a cluster of terraced limestone houses seamlessly carved into the rugged landscape. Once the homes of Jyala's villagers, these structures now served as residences for merchants bearing noble passes.
From their windows, the occupants jeered at the passing Jyala carriage fleet, pelting it with rotten vegetables and fruits—a cruel tradition upheld during these monthly visits. The fleet pressed on despite the hostility, moving past the terraced houses until the path led into a tunnel. This passage connected the residential area to a vast square designated for unloading tributes.
Bathed in sunlight, the square lay near the plateau's peak, open and exposed to the elements. Armored Orcs heavily guarded the square, their presence constantly reminding of the danger lurking within. At one end, a massive, iron-clad gate marked the entrance to Renok Prison, where Jyala's hostages were held captive. A winding, stone staircase spiraled upward from the square, leading to a lofty platform. Beyond this platform loomed the imposing Renok Castle, its ancient pillars and weathered roof piercing the sky. Once a symbol of peace, this majestic structure was now a sinister fortress, the ominous residence of the fearsome Erabis.
The Jyala villagers unloaded their goods under the watchful eyes of the Orcs. Hrakas, however, remained seated on his cart, unmoving in the center, his gaze fixed straight ahead. This defiance did not go unnoticed. A towering Orc bellowed at Hrakas, demanding he dismount and deliver his tribute immediately. The brute's roar echoed through the square, drawing the attention of villagers and Orcs alike. Steeling himself, Hrakas stepped down from his cart.
"Release my grandson," he said, his voice steady despite the fear gnawing at him. "I've brought something His Highness Erabis has long dreamed of. It's in the barrels—alive and dangerous. You'll need more guards."
The Orc's eyes flickered toward the barrels, noticing their faint tremble. Its suspicions piqued, and the Orc ordered Hrakas to step back. With a deep, guttural roar, he called for reinforcements. All the Orcs guarding the gathering square—nine of them, fully armored—approached, forming a tight circle around Hrakas's cart, their spears poised and aimed at the shaking barrels. The air grew thick with tension. All eyes were locked on the containers, waiting for whatever lurked inside to emerge.
Slowly, the barrels stopped shaking. One Orc, wary but determined, stepped forward. His massive hand gripped the wooden lid, and with a swift motion, he wrenched it open. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. The barrel's contents revealed only peanut sauce.
As the other Orcs leaned in to inspect the second barrel, Purnama and Suria burst forth, sending the thick, round wooden panels flying. A fiery spray of spicy sauce erupted with them, instantly stinging the Orcs' eyes and faces. The terrified villagers, wide-eyed with fear, huddled against the square's walls, gasping in surprise.
"What an entrance! Not comfortable, but you always have a flair for the dramatic, Purnama." Suria quipped with a smirk.
"Sometimes, a little discomfort sharpens the mind." Purnama chuckled, leaping nimbly from Hrakas's cart, his long brown wool cloak billowing around him.
"Don't overdo it, Suria," he cautioned. "Protect the others. I'll handle Erabis."
Suria's eyes gleamed with determination. A faint light began to glow at her fingertips—her Shakti ready.
"Too long have I waited to get my hands dirty—time to teach these lesser Puaka a lesson. Go, Purnama! I'll handle this."
As the Orcs wiped the stinging sauce from their eyes, Purnama sprinted up the winding spiral staircase to the platform above, heading to the castle.