Grot groaned as he sat down at the little round table that had become relaxing in its own strange way. Across from him sat Merdon, the adventurer turned general, a twist the orc wouldn't have guessed after fighting him a year ago in that ravine. The hume that had come asking for help from the “monsters” to the North was nothing like the confident man that sat before him now. Sure, his features hadn't changed, except for that burn mark, his hair was as short cut and clean as ever, and he hadn't grown a beard or an extra limb, but the way he carried himself had shifted dramatically. It was in his posture, the way his shoulders rested, in his every glance and look around. Sarel wasn't much different.

The thief turned assassin and spy had changed the least, Grot felt, but she moved like Shade did, on silent, swift feet. How she held herself in public was different, a stance more than anything. Quickclaw was all but gone, the thief sinking into the waters of Sarel, and Sarel was a kobold with purpose beyond rebellion. It was a similar shift to what Skyeyes had undergone, now that he had a whole regiment of healers under his command. A sense of responsibility echoed through everyone that sat at the table in Verist's tower. Which applied even greater pressure to Grot to help guide them.

Of the most changed was Ironhide. Not only had his name changed, but he'd lost a vital part of himself, a physical part, and it had forced his hand. The green-scaled kobold had spent weeks in the infirmary, and then one day he was done. A talk with the witch of the white tower and he was back on the fields clad in steel and swinging his sword. Grot wouldn't have exactly replaced one of his soldiers with the little one, but he felt the knightly kobold could be trusted to watch his back if push came to shove. Ironhide was capable now, in some capacity, a true warrior, an echo of what Merdon had been before. He was unsure, untested, and only time would tell if Ironhide could square his shoulders and stand tall, or if he would find reason to abandon his path once his kind were free. Unlike Merdon, the kobold yet had a choice.

Then there was Red, whose temper had become much more controlled in recent months. Whether he could attribute that to Verist or her saintly verakt, Grot didn't know, but the change was just as remarkable as Verist's own. The witch still believed she was some paragon of intellect and foresight, despite her plans going awry, but she was much more willing to admit her faults. Which seemed to be what this meeting was about, judging by the look she had on her face. Eyes down, a slight frown, just a bare tugging of her lips, and the awkward silence they were sat in, all things telling Grot that the witch was about to do something uncharacteristic for her, although not unheard of.

Verist took a deep breath and told them, “I wish I had gone looking for something like this before. These orders from the king are much more damning than the Eyes orders.”

“More damning than murder and conspiracy against his own people?” Grot huffed. “You humans are something else.”

“The conspiracy only really affected those in positions of power,” Verist told the orc. “Why would the king care about some commoner, such as Merdon, betraying the country? That was his oversight, looking back. He never expected an adventurer could grow into a storm like this. The aristocracy, however, have troops of their own, influences outside of Avant. If there was anyone to raise the elves and Rastar against him, to shed light on his actions and bring down Avant's treaties, it was one of them.”

“We've stopped them from interfering at least,” Merdon noted. “Our scouts haven't returned word of marching forces from either the elven lands or Rastar.”

Verist smiled. “My own visions have shown much the same. The elves are sickened by what the king has done and are awaiting the conclusion to this war. Regardless of who wins, however, they plan on attacking when we're at our weakest.”

Grot wiped his face with a hand. “Problems for later,” he told them. “Focus on the battle at hand first. The elves won't be our problem if the Avantians bury us in a mass grave first.”

“So you think these will get the people on our side?” Skyeyes asked hopefully, flipping through the two pages of orders back and forth.

“The king ordered cheap supplies taken to the outer villages and distributed to the peasants,” Merdon reiterated. “Not to help them, but as roadblocks to slow us down and wear us out.”

Shade added, “All so the army ahead can fortify positions around Ardmach and dig in for a siege.” The only thing Ardmach was good at being so far removed from the world. “We need a plan.”

“I agree with my mate,” Grot said with conviction. “We should ditch this three-sided attack, the subterfuge has failed. Our forces should gather via teleportation and we can smash through one of their barriers with incredible force.”

Verist groaned. “Do you know how much time it would take to put all of your forces together with magic?” the witch asked. Even Red sighed.

“It's not hard moving a few troops at once,” the kobold mage told them. “But moving entire armies? We'd need flat land for each group and a lot of chalk.” It would require a sigil to move each army together.

“But we'd save weeks of marching,” Merdon argued. “I know it would be a pain, but consider the alternative of giving Avant more time to prepare.”

Shade, however, informed the mages, “You only need to move one army.” The table looked at her with confusion and surprise. “My detachment can stay where they are while my spies push forward. While they watch our orcs and kobolds start a slow march towards the others, Merdon and Grot's forces can group up and make a sudden push into enemy territory. They'll be off guard, and we can keep stealing information.”

“Not to mention how effective you've been,” Sarel remarked. “I think your infiltrators have killed more than Grot and Merdon's forces combined.”

“Only because they haven't attempted to raise a real army against them,” Shade said sourly. “They're playing coward tactics until they've gauged how strong we are, then they'll try and wipe us out with one big battle.”

“Just like before,” Grot stated. “Except last time it was because they couldn't fight us head-on."

"This time it's thanks to the elves being out of the conflict," Verist replied with a small smile at her own tactic bearing fruit. "That doesn't mean the Avantian's won't try and reason with them."

Merdon rubbed his face, exhausted, and looked at the map again. "So we have a timeline to play with," he said to no one in particular, or perhaps the whole table at once. "If the king can convince the elves to join in, our casualties will jump unacceptably."

"That's a big if," Skyeyes muttered.

"If they can," Merdon said again, firmly, "We'll be in trouble. If they can't, we still have the people of Rastar to worry about. They'll be much easier to convince, even if they hate Avant right now." They hated kobolds more, even more than the elves.

Grot sat forward, his eyes joining Merdon's on the map. "Then we have to secure the capital as soon as possible. Cut off the peace talks, and dig our heels in. Assuming we take it by winter..."

"By the gods," Verist whined. "A whole war in a year?" That was a tall order even for someone of her skills.

"Not a war," Merdon corrected her. "We have to take the capital, the king, that's all. We need a way around the walls of Ardmach. Once the king has been dealt with we can squash the remaining forces later."

Shade picked up on that with a grin. "Sabotage," she hissed, her claws clacking on the table. "I like it, but how?"

The group looked to Verist for answers about the wall, which made her nervous. "I'll figure out something," she promised cautiously.

Across the world, a dark mirror of the meeting was happening in one of the castles of Ardmach. A knight adorned in armor with a supernatural glow stepped down the stone halls towards a well-lit meeting room where the king sat with reports in hand. The guards at the door were swift to admit the second in command of the Eyes of Ethral when he approached. He gave a sturdy salute and waited to be addressed before speaking as the door closed behind him. It was a short wait that only felt longer in the silence of evening. The king held his council alone, preferring papers he could parse in moments to rambling advisors and their opinions. The knight across the room was an exception to the rule.

"The orcs of fewest numbers massacre the most of our men," the king muttered, "Yet somehow they do so in safety. Hundreds of bodies, all our own men, and not a drop of orcish blood."

"Assassins, sir," the knight replied through his helm. "Our mages have revealed the smallest group is comprised largely of kobolds."

The king sneered and tossed the page aside. "Kobolds," he spat. "Filthy creatures committing heinous and cowardly acts. A perfect fit for those monstrous orcs."

"Indeed, sire," the knight agreed readily. "I've also come with information regarding the traitor."

The king sat forward at those words. "Yes? I've been wondering just who this Whisperer is supposed to be. Some magician playing a role?"

The second in command shook his head. "The man's name is Merdon, as you have heard from our reports. He was an adventurer here in Avant, a knight in service to himself. There are no reports of magic or unnatural powers regarding him."

"So, he's a man. A plain, ordinary man?" It seemed hard to believe some commoner had rallied a whole race of slaves to buck the trends so prevalent in their world.

Yet, the knight nodded in confirmation. "His father served yours, and his mother was known as the Amazon of Steel."

"That's quite the relationship," the King noted. "I'd heard those two had retired together, and I believe they passed some years back, yes?" He waited for no response. A question sprung to his mind as the words passed his lips. "How have you learned all of this? I had been told his closest associate lied about his objectives. What rock were these hiding under?"

"I only needed to confirm who he was," the knight told his liege. "I've had my suspicions since the attack on the slavers here in the capital. The wounds were too methodical and familiar for me to shake. We're brothers after all, my lord. I wouldn't misread his swordsmanship."