CESAGA

Yurok Fortress loomed over the horizon, a colossal structure built for defense, nestled between jagged, towering plateaus. These natural barriers, rising like waves of stone, formed an impenetrable wall.

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.

At dawn, Yurok's trumpets blared, their echoes carrying all the way 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.

As they gathered their goods, 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, buffaloes, and donkeys, while the villagers' excitement was dimmed by an undercurrent of fear. Though they longed to see their imprisoned loved ones, a gnawing anxiety hung over them.

With every step, the air grew colder, droplets of dew clung to their faces, and the wind whispered through the trees, warning them of the dangers ahead.

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 stole a glance 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 journey.

As they neared Yurok, the landscape grew even more forbidding. The plateau walls seemed to close in on either side, and the trumpets' calls became louder, more insistent.

At the base of the stone bridge, 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, green skin, rugged and scarred, bore the marks of countless brutal conflicts.

Clad in jagged iron plates and hardened leather armor, they looked ready to crush anything in their path. 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 they reached the edge of the quicksand berm, Hrakas 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 was revealed to contain only thick, brown satay gravy filled with chopped onions. The Orc growled softly, unimpressed, and slammed the lid back onto the barrel with a thud.

The second Orc, equally massive and menacing, opened the second barrel with a swift motion. 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 gravy 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. With a steady hand, Hrakas urged his carriage forward, 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, their cries drowned out by the gruff, guttural laughter of the Orcs.

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 that illuminated 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.

Despite the hostility, the fleet pressed on, 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. The square was heavily guarded by armored Orcs, their presence a constant reminder 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.

Hrakas and the Celestial Twins were ready to face the darkness that lurked within Renok Castle.