“Ancients preserve us…” one of the elder warriors murmured, his voice a thread of dread amidst the cacophony.

“Quiet!” Garok hissed, his tone sharp as steel. The eldest warrior and their leader, Garok's eyes darted over the scene, taking in every potential threat. “We can’t fight them all. We need to get through unnoticed.”

Thaldor nodded, though a knot of fear tightened in his chest. His training had prepared him for spell duels and controlled battles—but this? This was chaos incarnate. His fingers twitched toward the staff strapped to his back, the magic within him surging as if responding to his unease.

They crept forward, staying low behind jagged rocks that jutted from the cavern floor. The damp air carried the acrid tang of sweat and smoke, stinging Thaldor’s nose and making his stomach churn. Ahead, a bonfire roared, the flames casting monstrous shadows on the stone walls. Around it, a rowdy group of orcs roared and slammed their weapons together, their voices mingling in a chorus of violence and merriment.

“They’re planning a raid,” one of the younger warriors whispered, his face pale under the dim light. “We might slip past if they’re too drunk to notice.”

Garok’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing as he considered their options. “It’s risky,” he muttered, though his voice carried the edge of a commander weighing impossible odds. “But it’s our best chance.”

Thaldor’s heart raced as he crouched behind a boulder, his breathing shallow. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something—someone—was watching him. But every time he glanced over his shoulder, there was nothing but the oppressive dark.

“Keep moving,” Garok ordered, his hand motioning them forward. The group pressed on, inching toward the far side of the cavern where an archway hinted at a path to the next level of the dungeon.

The ground beneath Thaldor’s boots grew slick with moisture, and he slipped, his knee striking the stone with a muffled thud. He froze, his eyes snapping to the nearest orcs. For a moment, his heart stalled—but the orcs were too engrossed in their revelry to notice. Relief washed over him, though his skin prickled with the knowledge that any noise could seal their fate.

As they reached the halfway point, a guttural roar split the air. Thaldor whipped around to see a massive orc rise from the bonfire’s edge, his crude armor clanking with every movement. He brandished a jagged axe that gleamed menacingly in the firelight.

“Who challenges the might of Grathak?” the orc bellowed, his voice carrying over the din. “I am the strongest! No one leaves this chamber alive unless I will it!”

The cavern fell silent, every orc turning toward their leader. The tension was suffocating, the air thick with anticipation.

Garok cursed under his breath, motioning for them to stay low. “We can’t afford to get caught in a fight now,” he whispered. “Thaldor, can you create a distraction?”

The young wizard’s pulse quickened. “I… I think so,” he stammered. The weight of Garok’s gaze pressed down on him, but he forced himself to meet it. “I can conjure fire. If I set something alight on the far side of the chamber, it might draw their attention.”

Garok hesitated, his face a mask of concern and calculation. Finally, he nodded. “Do it. Quickly.”

Thaldor clenched his fists, summoning the magic that hummed within him. Closing his eyes, he visualized the far corner of the cavern where a cluster of barrels sat, their contents unknown. He whispered an incantation, the ancient words slipping from his tongue like liquid flame. Heat surged through him, and when he opened his eyes, a fireball erupted in the distance, engulfing the barrels in a blaze.

Shouts of alarm and confusion erupted from the orcs. Grathak turned, roaring orders as his horde scrambled to contain the flames. The group seized the opportunity, slipping from their cover and making for the archway.

But as they neared the exit, an orc guard spotted them. With a guttural snarl, he sounded the alarm. The revelry gave way to chaos as the horde mobilized, weapons raised and eyes alight with bloodlust.

“Defend yourselves!” Garok shouted, his blade flashing as he met the first wave of attackers. The clash of steel and the cries of battle filled the cavern.

Thaldor raised his staff, channeling his magic into a stream of fire that sent the nearest orcs scattering. But for every enemy they felled, more poured from the shadows, their numbers seemingly endless.

The warriors fought valiantly, their blades carving arcs of defiance amidst the tide. Garok’s commands cut through the chaos, his leadership the only anchor in the storm. But even he could not hold the line forever.

Thaldor’s arms ached from the effort of casting spell after spell, and his vision blurred as exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him. He stumbled, narrowly dodging an orc’s club, and retaliated with a blast of fire that singed the air.

“Form up!” Garok yelled, his voice hoarse. The group rallied around him, but their numbers were dwindling. One by one, the elder warriors fell, their cries swallowed by the cacophony.

Thaldor’s stomach twisted as he saw Garok go down, an orc’s blade slicing into his side. “Thaldor,” the warrior rasped, blood staining his lips. “You… must keep going…”

The young wizard’s chest tightened, but he forced himself to nod. “I won’t let your sacrifice be in vain,” he vowed, his voice steady despite the turmoil within.

The horde pressed closer, their snarls deafening. Thaldor’s remaining companions were cut off, leaving him alone in a sea of enemies. He backed toward the wall, his spells growing weaker with each cast. The orc leader, Grathak, loomed over him, his axe raised for a killing blow.

Just as the axe began to fall, a voice cut through the chaos.

“Stop!” it commanded, firm and resonant. “I have an offer.”

Grathak hesitated, his brow furrowing as he turned toward the speaker. Thaldor followed his gaze, his breath hitching as he saw a lone orc stepping forward from the shadows. This orc was different—taller, with a measured, almost regal bearing. His armor, though battered, bore an air of authority.

“And who are you?” Grathak snarled, his axe lowering slightly.

The newcomer spread his hands, his expression calm. “Someone with information that might interest you,” he said, his tone deliberate. “But I will only speak if the wizard is spared.”

Thaldor’s mind reeled. He had no idea who this orc was or why he had intervened, but the leader’s pause gave him a sliver of hope.

Grathak considered the newcomer, his expression dark. “You tread on dangerous ground, stranger. Speak quickly.”

The mysterious orc met Grathak’s gaze, his confidence unshaken. “I know the secrets of this dungeon,” he said, his voice steady. “And I know what lies beyond this cavern. Let me speak, and I will share my knowledge.”

Grathak’s eyes narrowed, suspicion warring with curiosity. Finally, he gestured for his warriors to lower their weapons. “You have my attention,” he growled.

The mysterious orc nodded, then glanced at Thaldor, his expression unreadable. “Stay quiet,” he murmured, before stepping forward to address the horde.

Thaldor leaned against the wall, his body trembling with relief and confusion. Whoever this orc was, he had bought them time—but to what end, Thaldor could only guess. For now, he could do nothing but watch and wait, the weight of his survival resting in the hands of a stranger.