The humans hesitated for only a moment before their ranks parted, and from the mass of steel and banners stepped a single figure on horseback.

The emissary wore polished plate armor that glinted in the faint light, adorned with the sigil of a golden griffon perched atop a crimson shield.

He carried himself with the haughty air of someone who had never known fear or doubt in his life.

His horse, a magnificent white steed with golden barding, trotted forward with a confidence that mirrored its rider’s demeanor.

Volk, standing tall at the forefront of his formation, watched the emissary’s approach with faint amusement.

His crimson eyes flickered, a sardonic grin playing on his lips as he noted the man’s utter lack of hesitation.

Does he not see us? Volk thought, his gaze sweeping over the ranks of Orcs and towering Ogres behind him. Is he blind to the hulking forms and gleaming weapons? Or is he truly that foolish?

The emissary reined in his horse just beyond the reach of any arrows or thrown weapons, raising a gauntleted hand as if to demand silence.

The human soldiers behind him straightened, their discipline evident in their rigid stances.

The air was thick with tension as every Orc, Ogre, and human waited to see what this solitary rider would say.

The emissary’s voice rang out, sharp and imperious, cutting through the silence like a blade.

“Horde of Orcs and beasts! I am Sir Reginald Godfrey, emissary of the Kingdom of Aelinthor and representative of its might and divine right!”

His voice carried an air of absolute authority, tinged with a sneering condescension that set Volk’s teeth on edge.

“You stand upon land that does not belong to you,” Sir Reginald continued, his tone dripping with disdain as his piercing gaze swept over the ranks of Orcs and Ogres.

“You foul creatures have trespassed upon the sacred territory of our realm, and for this act of insolence, you will answer with your lives—unless…”

He paused dramatically, his lips curling into a smirk that Volk found almost comically arrogant. “…you surrender immediately.”

The Orcs behind Volk bristled, growling low in their throats.

The Ogres tightened their grips on their weapons, their massive forms shifting restlessly. But Volk raised a hand, silencing them with a single gesture. He wanted to hear this human out.

“Your crimes are numerous!” Sir Reginald declared, pointing an accusing finger at Volk as though he were lecturing a disobedient child.

“You have dared to rise from the filth of your hovels, dared to breathe the same air as men of honor, and dared to dream above your station! Your very existence is an insult to all that is good and pure in this world!”

His voice rose with righteous indignation, his words laced with venom.

“You vermin have slaughtered Baron Geisler, a noble protector of this land, and for this heinous act, the kingdom demands recompense!”

Volk’s grin widened, his fangs glinting as he leaned slightly forward. This man is either incredibly brave or completely mad.

Reginald continued, oblivious to the growing tension among the Orcs and Ogres.

“Therefore, by the decree of King Aldemar III and the divine will of the gods, you are hereby ordered to lay down your arms, bow before the might of the kingdom, and submit yourselves to our mercy.”

He spat the last word as if it pained him to offer even that much. “Failure to comply will result in your complete and utter annihilation.”

He shifted in his saddle, his smirk deepening. “And for your crimes, your leader—” his gaze settled squarely on Volk, “—this abomination who dares to call himself a Warchief, will be executed publicly as a warning to all other beasts who dare to challenge human supremacy.”

The Orcs erupted in furious growls and snarls, their hands clenching their weapons tightly.

The Ogres stomped their feet, the ground trembling beneath their massive weight. But Sir Reginald was not finished.

“Furthermore,” he added, his voice rising above the commotion, “all female Orcs and beasts will be taken into custody to ensure they no longer propagate their vile spawn. Your males will be culled, and any survivors will be enslaved to atone for their sins!”

He laughed coldly, his eyes gleaming with malice.

“That is, if any of you survive the might of Aelinthor’s army. Which I highly doubt.”

The sheer audacity of the man left even the Ogres momentarily stunned.

One of the female Orcs, standing near the front, let out a guttural snarl, her hand twitching toward her weapon, but Volk raised his hand again, commanding silence.

His grin had transformed into a full, toothy smile, his crimson eyes glinting with a dangerous light.

Sir Reginald leaned forward slightly, as if daring Volk to challenge his words. “Well? What say you, beast? Do you have the sense to surrender, or shall we proceed to grind your pathetic horde into the dirt where it belongs?”

The silence that followed was deafening. For a moment, even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

Then Volk, still smiling, threw his head back and let out a booming, guttural laugh that echoed across the battlefield like thunder.

The sound was so sudden, so unexpected, that even the confident Sir Reginald faltered, his smirk slipping for a fraction of a second.

The Orcs and Ogres behind Volk erupted into laughter as well, their voices mingling into a cacophony of deep, mocking bellows that drowned out the human emissary’s indignant spluttering.

Volk lowered his head, his laughter subsiding into a wicked chuckle as he met Sir Reginald’s gaze.

“You humans,” he said, his voice low and filled with dark amusement, “never fail to entertain me.”

Sir Reginald’s eyes narrowed at Volk’s laughter, his face darkening as the echoing mockery from the Orcs and Ogres rolled across the field.

He pulled his horse to a sharp halt, his grip on the reins tightening as his jaw clenched.

Then, with an exaggerated sniff of disdain, he raised his gauntleted hand to silence the humans behind him.

“You dare laugh?” he said, his voice dripping with incredulity and rage. He turned his horse in a tight circle, making a show of his composure as though to reassert his authority.

“You dare mock me? You dare mock the Kingdom of Aelinthor? You dare mock civilization itself?” His voice rose with each question, until it was practically a roar.

The human soldiers behind him stood straighter, feeding off his anger as they pounded their shields in rhythmic unison.

Sir Reginald pointed an accusatory finger at Volk, his tone turning colder, sharper.

“Do you not understand your position, you grotesque abomination? You and your filthy horde of brutes and savages stand at the mercy of the most powerful kingdom this world has ever known.

“You stand against the finest warriors, the most skilled mages, and the divine favor of the gods themselves! Do you truly believe that your pitiful, crude weapons and primitive tactics can stand against the might of Aelinthor?” Enjoy new chapters from empire

He pulled his horse closer, his sneer deepening as he spat the next words like venom.

“You are not warriors. You are beasts—mindless animals who happen to walk upright. You are parasites, blights upon this earth, whose very existence offends all that is noble and just! And you have the gall to laugh in the face of your executioners?”

The Orcs growled lowly behind Volk, and even the Ogres grunted in irritation, their massive fists tightening on their weapons. But Sir Reginald wasn’t finished.

“You do not speak,” he snarled, his voice filled with scorn.

“You do not mock. You do not breathe without the permission of your betters. You and your kind should be grateful we even offer you the mercy of surrender!

“If it were up to me, you’d all be slaughtered like the vermin you are, your corpses burned to ash and scattered to the winds so that no trace of your filth remains.”

Sir Reginald sat taller in his saddle, his voice dripping with exaggerated righteousness.

“But, alas, the king in his infinite mercy believes there is value even in trash. So here you stand, granted the undeserved privilege of choosing whether to live on your knees or die on your feet.

“And yet, instead of groveling for forgiveness, you stand there laughing, as though you have even the faintest hope of survival.”

He leaned forward, his sneer transforming into a twisted smile.

“Let me make one thing perfectly clear. You are not negotiating from a position of power. You are insects standing before the boot that will crush you. You are carrion waiting to be feasted upon by crows.

“Your fate is sealed, and whether you surrender now or die screaming later, the result will be the same. The Horde of Volk will be nothing more than a forgotten stain on the pages of history.”

Reginald straightened, his tone becoming mockingly cordial.

“But do go ahead and make your little jokes. Laugh while you can, Warchief. It will make your inevitable fall all the more entertaining.” He paused, his smirk deepening as he let his final words sink in.

“And when you are begging for mercy, remember this moment. Remember the chance you squandered. Remember that you could have spared yourself and your people this fate.”

With that, Sir Reginald pulled his horse around with a flourish, his polished armor gleaming in the fading light.

He gave a dismissive wave of his hand, as though Volk and his horde were beneath even his contempt. “Harumpf,” he snorted loudly, the sound echoing as he spurred his horse back toward the human lines.

Volk watched him go, the smile on his face now a tight, dangerous line.

The human soldiers erupted into cheers as their emissary returned, their morale surging as they clanged their swords against their shields in deafening unison.

Their war cries grew louder, and the rhythmic pounding of their armor reverberated like a drumbeat of impending war.

“HAH-HAH-HAH!” The humans shouted as one. “GLORY TO AELINTHOR! GLORY TO THE KING!” Their voices rose into a cacophony of screams and chants, their confidence swelling like a tidal wave.

Volk turned his head slightly, his crimson eyes gleaming as he leaned closer to an Orc standing just to his right.

His voice was low, barely audible above the human din, but filled with an unmistakable edge.

“Here’s what you gotta say,” Volk murmured, his lips curling into a small, wicked smile. “Say these, say that…”

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