The Unmaker Claims the Throne

Karak'Grom rises ahead on the flat Ironflat plain, all spiked timber, iron bands, and smoke-stung wind. Delfarius walks toward the West gate with calm, measured steps, his smirk barely shifting in the cold air.

The gatewatch notices him at once. Orc guards on the wall lean over their rails, eyes narrowing, spears held but not lowered. Beyond them, the city hums with hammers, barter, and distant voices.

Inside the palisade, Nara and Rova are visible near the inner lane, their attention caught by the familiar shape of him at the gate. Their debate breaks mid-breath as they turn to look.

The West Gate Guard glances inward, then back to Delfarius, waiting for the answer that will decide whether the iron leaves or stays shut.

Delfarius answers in flawless Orcish, and the words carry cleanly up to the wall. The West Gate Guard’s jaw tightens as the title lands, while the inner lane stirs with a few sharp glances.

He folds his arms, and the guard shifts his spear a handspan lower, not in welcome, but in caution. Nara’s mouth quirks at the corner, and Rova studies Delfarius as if weighing whether he is joking or warning.

Delfarius gives the sisters a quick wink. Nara lets out a short laugh under her breath, and even Rova’s sternness thins into reluctant amusement.

The guard’s grip eases by a fraction, but his eyes stay hard. He reaches over the rail and taps the timber with two knuckles, a dry summons for proof, not surrender.

Delfarius lifts cleanly off the ground, arms still folded, until the guard is forced to meet him at eye level instead of below it. The air around him seems to tighten as his words ring out in flawless Orcish.

The name lands hard. Drok's spear hand falters, and the little crowd inside the gate draws a sharp breath as if the question itself has weight.

Drok's jaw sets again, but not with contempt. He glances once toward Nara and Rova, then back to the floating figure before him, wary respect beginning to edge out refusal.

Delfarius lets the silence stretch, then tips his gaze to the lever beside Drok. The guard sees the look, sees the old iron waiting in his hand, and understands the message without a word.

Drok swallows, his spear lowering another inch. He turns his head toward the lever, then back to Delfarius, measuring the cost of refusal against the weight of being watched.

With a hard breath, Drok grips the gate lever and throws it. The iron locks groan, then release, and the west gate starts to open.

The opening widens, and the mood on the wall shifts with it. What was caution becomes uneasy recognition, as if Karak'Grom has just admitted Delfarius is not a passing problem but a force to be answered.

Delfarius settles back toward the roadway and crosses under the lifting gate with measured ease. Above him, Drok keeps one hand on the lever, while the gate lane opens into a smoky welcome of packed earth and watchfires.

He moves inside and the sisters turn with him, their attention following his approach instead of the gate. His chuckle sits low in the air as the last iron clunk of the mechanism fades behind him.

Drok says nothing, but the tension in his shoulders eases into watchful deference as the gate stays open behind Delfarius. Inside the city, the path clears without protest, and the sisters wait for whatever he means to say next.

The answer lands cleanly, and the two women accept it with easy, knowing looks. Delfarius turns the moment into motion, and the three of them drift deeper under Karak'Grom's smoke and old stone.

Ahead, a carved totem of the old path rises beside the lane, tusks and helms worn smooth by weather and hands. Delfarius smirks at it as if it remembers him.

The gate behind them stays open, Drok’s silence held in place by deference rather than force. The lane ahead clears, and the sisters keep pace, waiting for Delfarius's next answer.

Delfarius lifts his gaze to the totem’s crown. Carved high above the older tusks and helms, a storm sigil bites into the weathered wood, dark clouds coiled around a narrow eye. It is not faded. It is maintained.

The lane keeps moving beneath him, but the symbol answers his look with old, deliberate permanence. Someone here has chosen to remember the storm.

Ahead, the lane widens into a guarded rise, and the city’s inner stones swallow the last open stretch of daylight. The open gate behind them feels smaller already.

Drok’s silhouette remains above at the lever, watching the three of them pass into his city. The storm mark hangs over the route like a silent reply, and both sisters glance between Delfarius and the carved crown, waiting for him to speak to what Karak'Grom has chosen to honor.

Delfarius lets the smirk stay, then strolls deeper under the smoke-dark lintel. The sisters match his pace for a few steps, both watching him more than the road.

Nara's grin widens at the question, while Rova's eyes narrow in amused appraisal. Ahead, the guarded rise opens into a broader lane lined with stone and iron horns.

Their attention settles on him, not hostile, not quite yielding either. Karak'Grom's inner streets hold their silence, waiting to see whether Delfarius claims it or merely passes through.

The lane widens around them, iron horns looming over the path while smoke drifts low across the stones. Several nearby orcs glance over, then look away, pretending not to listen.

They guide him onward without argument, the city’s first suspicion bending into tense recognition as the hall ahead waits for his arrival.

The sisters slow with him beneath the iron horns. Ahead, the guarded hall swells larger through the smoke, while the open gate behind them grows distant and small.

They reach the first steps of the gate-father’s hall. The doors stand ready above them, and the sisters wait for Delfarius to decide whether this history opens the way or hardens it shut.

Delfarius gives the brothers a faint nod and turns toward the hall, his smirk still in place. Nara and Rova fall in beside him as the open gate recedes behind their shoulders.

The guards at the house door straighten as Delfarius stops below the lintel, and the younger orc at the window leans closer to the glass.

The nearest guard blinks, then reaches back and raps the doorframe with the butt of his spear. Inside, the child vanishes from the window in a flash of movement.

A second guard, broader and older, steps into the doorway’s shadow and studies Delfarius's face with open caution.

From the hall beyond the door, a low orcish voice answers before the guards can press further, and both men go rigid at once.

Delfarius gives the guards a slight shake of his head and steps through the doorway without slowing. The house takes him in at once, smoke and iron replacing the street behind him.

Zorm Bloodrake stands just inside the hall, broad as a pillar, his attention fixed on Delfarius with hard, measuring calm. Behind him, the room opens into torchlit shadow and carved beams.

One guard eases back from the threshold, letting the door stay open behind Delfarius. Outside, the sisters pause in the entry light, their voices dropping to a low murmur as they watch the exchange.