Antilorwe waved as she saw my form stumbling back towards our makeshift camp.

“Have you slept well? Did the early morning walk relax your senses?” she fired her barrage of questions barely pausing to receive a response. Or rather, she was not interested in my answers.

As I slumped on the chair that she so carefully reserved for my esteemed presence, the slight and very faint scent of lavender mingled with oakmoss glazed through my nostrils. I took another deep breath, drawing in the strong current of her scent. Her breath carried a fresh minty odour. No sweaty or pungent smell nor was the subtle fragrance of lavender and oakmoss, a prime choice for overriding such smell.

“Must be difficult sleeping alone in a strange place?” I asked. Her eyes twinkled in the morning light filtering through the canopies. She flicked her tongue over her peachy plump lips and gingerly raised an eyebrow in the direction of Zelaphiel.

Her raven black dark hair fell in waves as she extended her neck, flexing her shoulders. Her fingernails, clean and clear of dirt or dead skin beneath, glistened as she stretched her hands feigning fatigue.

“I burned the midnight oil reviewing the terms and conditions,” replied Antilorwe, “Such is the demands of administrative work. But I wonder if the Orc Overlord rested well?”

So she slept alone, without the company of a certain orc.

Despite the charming and ever-welcoming smile that Zelaphiel perpetually had on his face, most of the orc and the goblin skirted and scurried away from his presence; their inherent self-preservation screaming at them to avoid the Paladin. Only Taltil made the bold move to approach, trailed by the ever shadowing Theko. I ordered two small seats for the two goblins. My intention to have them seated, sharing the same table, in the presence of the exalted Paladin was met with scornful eyes. Yet, I remained unwavering in my demands, to test the residual veracity of their modesty.

The civility of their station won over their innate prejudice, as the domestic staff of Zelaphiel, set two chairs for Taltil and Theko. As the smaller goblins slowly heaved themselves over the high-backed chairs designed for High-elven delicate posterior, a small amused smile, more of a twisted sneer of someone witnessing opprobrium flashed for a brief instance, through the valet’s expressionless face.

Taltil stared at the morsel of flesh floating in hot steaming broth, served on the silver plate. Theko had the brilliance to imitate Zelaphiel. He grabbed the fork and knife in his pudgy fingers mimicking the Grand Paladin Champion’s gestures perfectly but failed in execution. A lingering thin smile resided on Zelaphiel’s face as he saw Theko struggle to slice his breakfast. I expected the Grand Paladin Champion to revel in his cultural superiority, to direct scowls that could melt stone at the goblins and take indirect jobs at their voracity. The Aasimar proved my belligerent attitude wrong. Instead, he took the knife from Theko’s dirt-covered hands and sliced the morsel of flesh into tiny pieces to be shared with the goblins.

My thoughts slowly drifted towards Maapu, the only absent member of the three, unquestionably either commanding his company or engaged in an inanely fatuous argument, like the one he got with Colby over the gnome’s new pet project. Colby! A flash raced across my mind but was not quick enough to evade the grasp.

Gyrocopter! That was the name of the strange contraption that Colby designed to fly. A simple toy for the young gnome inventor, but in my hands -- a diabolical contrivance, scorching alchemical flames to immolate the opposing army leading to a decisive victory; if it can be deployed advantageously; if the gnomish miracle can be produced in bulk; if I have the available funds.

Snapping from my thoughts, I reclined back on the high-backed chair. Despite the soft leather padding, the stile and the cross rail bite into my back. Just like the slithering company of vipers that I am forced to collude with.

The battle for the High-Crag pass has, in fact, already begun. The firm grasp of steel gauntleted hands wielding bloodied swords alone is insufficient. The outcome of this war is equally affected by the stroke of a quill on the parchments and the firmly tightened knot on the coin pouch. And right now, before me, with lovelorn eyes, sat the High-elven diplomat, holding the strings to the coin pouch.

Lucille gingerly and cautiously sat on the other side of the table. The stone-melting scowl on his face at the sight of the two goblins dining was only kept in check by the residual tolerance radiating from Zelaphiel.

Antilorwe is still young, ambitious and aching to climb the ladder of success. Today, she is about to learn an important lesson. A hard lesson on acceptable allies.

“I must confess, Lord Lucille,” I engaged the only human seated at the table, “I was a bit surprised to see you involve yourself in this meeting. I always thought your sense of valour pointed in a different direction.”

“Did you think my sense of valour would not allow me to attend a war council?” he replied with amusement and befuddlement in equal measure.

“On the contrary,” I slowly pushed the words out, a dull mist condensed from the cold of the early morning and pushed its way from my lips with every word, “I had the distinct impression that your sense of valour is to raise a bloodied sword high while pushing forlorn troop fearless into the breach, dragging them through muddy trenches, blood and gore and hence I was surprised to see you in the war council.”

“That is true indeed, Countess Rylonvirah,” I toyed with the well-cooked pea on my plate while silently admiring his veracious stupidity, “if you don’t mind me calling you by your future title.”

I leaned forward, darting my neck while my eyes flicked from Zelaphiel to Antilorwe. The Paladin slowly returned to his own plate while Antilorwe’s eyes subtlely roamed elsewhere.

“His Grace, needed to show his commitment to the cause and hence has ordered my humble presence,” continued Lucille unaware and oblivious to the abyssal trap that he is about to stumble into. Fools, always rush in.

Zelaphiel and Antilorwe, both took a mouthful and chewed with their lips closed. This is the moment.

“Assuming we just drop the defense and rush down the other side, slaughter every last abomination and pile their skulls. How big of pile would you wager, Lord Lucille?” I asked.

“Three hundred thousand skulls piled up will be a glorious sight.”

Lucille, by virtue of his existence at the table, lowered the collective intelligence of their fragile alliance by a lot. No, he dragged it through the mud.

But the numbers staggered me. My heart raged like an untamed beast against my breastbone. My fingernails dug deep into the armrest as the very rocky ground melted under my feet. An unseen python of despair coiled around my lungs, constricting my ability to draw breath. The breakfast, I swallowed suddenly felt like hardened stone.

Three hundred thousand! Three times my initial estimate. The scale of the engagement is different now. Steel and hard grit will not win the day anymore.

“You are not alone. The full might of the alliance is stationed at Fort Halcyon, supporting your endeavour,” uttered Antilorwe as she nudged closer to me with open palms raised upwards.

Every time a group of Ashen Bulwarks wandered by, Antilorwe inhaled a strong current of air, more than the lungs encased in her willowy frame, could hold. Her hazel eyes peered anticipatingly through the din of the orcs. she caught the sight of Urganza barking orders. Her heart hammered aggressively inside her rib cage at the distant presence of Urganza.

Urganza caught Antilorwe stealing a glance and waved back, with a long grin exposing the root of her tusks. Her exposed tusk revealed something both primal and savage yet held in awe. Creases soon ran from the sides of her lips, raising up toward her deep sunken yet hellishly beautiful eyes that appeared like orbs of amber fire to the elf. Antilorwe’s chest squeezed tight, her nostrils struggled to gather breath, to fill the fast depleting air in her lungs. Despite the cool morning breeze, pearls of incandescent sweat sprouted over the supple skin of her chest, slightly above her well-formed cleavage. Antilorwe gently drew a silken handkerchief from her pouch and wiped her sweat while her eyes remained fixed on the primitive savagely defined orc.

Cautioned by the tension permeating the breakfast table, Urganza rushed to enquire. Deep veins bulged and throbbed under her mossy green skin as she rolled a small log, creating an empty seat for her at the table. With a powerful snap of her fingers, she beckoned an Ashen Bulwark; an act that summoned an orc as well as robbed Antilorwe of further breath. In a move befitting of the Overlord, Urganza made a slight nod, a polite sign of acknowledgement to the Paladin and the human at the far side of the table. As she nodded, a single nerve resurfaced, twisted and jumped in her jaw, invoking a razing liquid fire slicing through Antilorwe’s spine. When Urganza finally settled down and gave her undivided attention to the High-elf, Antilorwe shyly crossed her legs and wrapped her arms around herself but it did little to prevent the tremor racing down her body. Despite her obvious protests, undulation shredded her in ripples.

“I cannot defend an empty hold without support,” I said loudly, shattering the settled silence.

“Thrice the usual mercenary pay,” answered Antilorwe with a clear smile, “Sarenthill spares no expenses when it comes to protecting those who bring it honour.”

For Antilorwe, who excelled in drafting civil ordinances and revelled in tearing down the same, that was a deliberately worded vague response.

“And the additional logistics and civil expenses?”

“Place the order request with Fort Halcyon and the itinerary will be procured promptly,” answered Zelaphiel. Aware of my biting teeth, the muscles of my jaw clenching, he almost added it like a forgotten afterthought,” Sarenthill will bear the acceptable moderate expense, naturally.”

The Order of Latent Divinity will ensure the delay in delivery as well as affect the mediocre quality. Duke Lothmar would undoubtedly seize the opportunity, swelling his personal coffers at the expense of the lives of my mercenaries. Both unacceptable.

“Unagreeable. The resources needed will be bought from the orcs. Incurring expenses will be borne by Sarenthill. Price unnegotiated.”

Antilorwe raised her eyes and looked at me sharply. Anger seared in her eyes which promptly dissolved into a certain calmness upon noticing my fingers scratching; tracing deep long gashes on the finely polished wood.

“The city council cannot approve allocating funds to a sink without an audit trail. There are protocols and procedures in place. I cannot sanction such a request,” denied Antilorwe vehemently. Her words carried a waft of defense for her actions.

The raven-haired High-elf before me has a propensity to push the acceptable limits, to stretch within the confines of legality and now she is playing a different game where she gets to move pieces from both sides of the board.

“Then I am forced to raise the issue with the city council. Your ability to make decisions is hampered by your racial bias. I demand a mutually agreed ombudsman or a neutral arbiter.”

“I am your ally in the council. Trust me on this. Besides given your reputation, no dark-elf in Sarenthill is your ally.”

She could almost taste the bitter ash of apprehension as it twisted around her gut while she wrestled with the oozing echo that threatened, stalking her like a wild beast. She knew well how the Grand Paladin Champion would respond to her pulsating desire. He would fracture her. Gradually and mercilessly, shattering her very dignity and credibility, while the High-elven society jeers loudly, just like how they broke Celerim.

“The mage's collective remains neutral, I propose we settle for a certain reputable mage as the arbiter for sanctions.”

“But you have a shared history with the mage. So neutrality of the arbiter is questionable.” countered Zelaphiel immediately. Guilt and embarrassment festered on the Paladin’s face. His expression soured, twisted and rotten like a swollen pustule pregnant with stinking pus.

I focused on Antilorwe, ignoring the Paladin’s objections.

“This is your chance. The Grand Paladin Champion and Duke Lothmar have forged a historical alliance. Work with the mage and you will claim your place as the one who brought the orcs to this alliance table“

Antilorwe brow knitted in furrows at my words. Convulsive thoughts raced behind her hazel eyes.

“This is your chance. You can achieve things; greater things if you can tolerate the Orc Overlord’s endearment for the mage,” I coaxed her into accepting my suggestion.

“There is no need for such concern,” she answered with a mischievous smirk, ”I am not a prude. I could work with the Orc Overlord and your mage. I do not find Syrune repulsive.”

At that moment, my thoughts were not occupied with the concerns of voluminous rivulets of blood to be spilled, or with the fragile mordant alliance that I formed with Antilorwe, but rather on how Syrune would survive the combined attentiveness of Urganza and Antilorwe.