Miikka's gaze locked on the valley's devastation from his hidden rocky perch on Mount Bergren. Remnants of structures smoldered in the basin below. Dragon's breath had seared the land. Fire, ice, acid. Leaving charred, corroded scars across what was once a lush landscape.

  The dam above leaked through hairline fractures. Mine openings dotted the area like dark, watchful eyes. A lone dragon lay slain, its massive skull wedged into a mine entrance.

  "Huh, that's weird. Dead Orcs gone walkabout?" Miikka scratched his head, flipping his dagger between his fingers as he squinted at the West cliff wall. "Battlefield's quiet as a tavern after I've skipped on the bill. Where'd all the corpses go? Not like they packed up for a holiday."

  He squinted against blinding sunlight. A dark shape hovered against the clear blue sky as the skeletal white figure circled above. Ivory, Crimson Ruby's minion.

  A small, authoritative Orc orchestrated chaos around a crushed water wheel. Miikka heard the small Orc's commands.

  GinRee barked orders at Orc women and children laboring in the scorching heat. "Ye good-for-nothin' little cubs, pull yer weight!" His eyes occasionally drifted to spaces where Black-Elf skilled workers once stood. Craftsmen fled during the dragon wars, leaving expertise voids that haunted him still.

  GinRee directed repairs on the broken water wheel. Each cog fell perfectly into place. The wheel, groaned back to motion under GinRee's skilled guidance.

  "Fixin' those damned hammers, we need 'em for the iron darts, or RoarZ will have our hides! Get movin' lads, curse yer laziness!" GinRee's sailor tongue lashed the air. Under his breath, he muttered, "If only me Black-Elves hadn't scattered... finest metalworkers these mountains had ever seen." He guided inexperienced orcish hands through delicate tasks.

  Miikka watched the female Orc Berserker.

  "Lieutenant BorBa, no sign of the saboteur in the valley," an Orc Berserker reported.

  "Search every cliff!" BorBa's hoarse voice commanded, her orders rippling through the ranks.

  Unlike her kin, BorBa cut an imposing figure even among berserkers. Her gray-green skin marked with ritual scars. A violet-hued tentacle hung from her belt, a trophy severed from one of those pale horrors. Her bloodshot eyes scanned cliffs.

  Miikka recognized that hollow exhaustion beneath her fury. Like many Orcs, she bore marks of disturbed sleep, dreams invaded nightly by Crimson Ruby's malevolence. Poisoned food had weakened many, but BorBa moved with stubborn defiance against whatever sought to break her clan's spirit.

  "Look all ya want, big girl! Not even your fancy tentacle trophy can sniff me out," Miikka snickered, nestling deeper into his rocky hideaway. He spun a small coin between his fingers, grinning at the chaos below. "Perfect spot for a perfectly-sized halfling, eh?"

  Three hummingbirds of extraordinary size, swooped into the basin. Each magnificent bird carried a pint-sized Orc on its back, their hands clutching small leather pouches.

  Shaman ThriL walked toward the small Orcs. "Don't just sit there. Give it over!" his voice echoed across the ravaged valley.

  The smallest Orc, face masked by a grubby handkerchief, pulled a small bag from his waist. He presented it to the towering Shaman with trembling hands, head bowed in adoration.

  ThriL turned toward the closest Orc. The Orc wobbled under the intense scrutiny, hands trembling as he reached for his leather pouch.

  "Give it here!" The Orc swallowed hard. ThriL opened it, revealing glittering contents.

  ThriL's eyes widened at the gems. He picked up one tiny stone. "These are but pebbles," he murmured, disappointment evident.

  "The bigger ones are buried deeper, Shaman," the Orc stammered. "The tornado that raged through Crimson Ruby's cloud citadel scattered them across the valley."

  ThriL caressed the tiny gemstones with reverence. Without breaking his gaze, he commanded, "Tell the diggers to only gather ones on the ground or inched into the earth."

  The Orc leaped onto his hummingbird with a respectful bow, vanishing skyward. The valley exhaled its tension.

  "What an unexpected twist," Miikka chuckled from his hideout.

  The Shamans retreated with their precious cargo toward a mine entrance. Miikka's fingers twitched. Opportunity balanced with danger.

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  "Worth the risk," he whispered.

  He descended with spider-like precision. The valley's heat receded as shadow embraced him. Patience guided his steps as he slipped between sentinel boulders toward the mine entrance.

  The threshold between daylight and darkness. Miikka paused, listening. Faint echoes of voices and footfalls against stone reached him. He counted heartbeats. Ten, twenty, thirty. Before slipping into the mountain's cool embrace.

  The mine shaft unfurled before him like a throat, roughly hewn and speaking of hasty excavation. Torch sconces dotted walls at irregular intervals, flames dancing nervously, casting more shadows than light. Perfect for a halfling who'd made secrets his trade.

  Miikka followed distant murmurs, his footfalls silent against packed earth. The tunnel's breath carried a metallic tang of musty stone and ore.

  Hundreds of paces inward, the passage widened. Miikka pressed against the rough wall, his thundering heartbeat threatening to betray his presence. Ahead, the tunnel opened into a chamber where shadows and firelight played complex games.

  He crouched behind empty ore carts, eyes adjusting to darkness and torchlight. Ancient stone tables dominated the space, surfaces scarred by centuries of arcane work. Tools of impossible sharpness hung from iron hooks while artifacts cluttered shadowed alcoves.

  GinRee and ThriL hunched over the central table, bodies bent at unnatural angles. Between them, gems scattered across stone caught torchlight, fracturing it into a thousand nameless colors.

  ThriL's voice rumbled like distant thunder, chanting words that slithered through the air, resisting being heard. Each syllable brought forth light that coiled around the gems. GinRee's stubby fingers worked with impossible precision, setting glowing stones into iron dart tips.

  "The alignment must hold," GinRee muttered, his sailor's accent momentarily abandoned. "These stones fight the setting."

  "They resist because they remember," ThriL replied with absolute certainty. "But they will yield to purpose greater than memory."

  The air wavered, dimensions bending slightly under their work's strain. The chamber briefly appeared underwater, viewed through a rippling lens.

  Miikka's arm hairs stood at attention. "Well, that's not your everyday Orc parlor trick," he thought, fingers instinctively reaching for his lucky coin. "Whatever they're cooking up with those sparkly rocks is serious business. Nasty, powerful, probably worth a fortune to the right buyer." He suppressed a low whistle. "Swift-River would sell his mother to get his hands on this little secret. Hmm, might be my ticket out of this mess... or into a bigger one."

  As he edged backward, his elbow brushed a loose rock. The stone tumbled, a small sound.

  ThriL's head snapped up, eyes narrowing toward Miikka's hiding place.

  The halfling's breath crystallized in his lungs. One heartbeat. Two. Three. Then a distant crash elsewhere in the mine. Perhaps a settling support beam. Pulled ThriL's attention away. The Shaman returned to his work.

  Miikka retreated through the mine's throat. Outside, twilight painted the scorched landscape in deceptive beauty. He scanned the deepening sky for Ivory's bone-white silhouette. The abomination would be waiting.

  A bitter taste filled Miikka's mouth. "Damn Swift-River and his promises," he whispered, words dissolving into mountain air. "And damn me for believing them."

  Memory unfurled. Vardan's sneering face slaughtering Miikka's kin, Crimson Ruby's impassive gaze as villages burned. Vengeance against Crimson Ruby had seemed worth any price.

  Until now.

  The Orcs below, despised throughout the realm, fought for something beyond mere survival. Fighting for their young, crafting desperate magic from scattered gems. Something almost admirable in their tenacity.

  Miikka studied the dam, its vulnerable points mapped across his mind. One word to Swift-River about those structural weaknesses: water would cascade through the valley, drowning whatever defenses the Orcs prepared, whatever magic they conjured from mysterious gems.

  One word and his path to vengeance against Vardan would remain open.

  One word, and he would become precisely what he despised.

  Night deepened. Stars emerged. Below, torches ignited throughout the valley, pinpricks of defiance against gathering dark. GinRee and ThriL continued their mysterious work, unaware of how precarious their future had become.

  Miikka's fingers traced a small medallion hidden beneath his shirt. A clan relic. The metal bit into his chest, unnaturally cold.

  "What am I becoming?" he whispered to indifferent stars.

  The question hung unanswered. Ivory's bone-white form appeared over the eastern ridge. Time for decisions had run out.

  Miikka stood, bones creaking, and began the treacherous descent toward his rendezvous.

  The gems glinted with hidden potential. Miikka spun his dagger absently, mind racing through possibilities. What were those green-skinned brutes up to? The stones hummed with something ancient, something worth killing for. Or dying to protect.

  "Fancy rocks for not-so-fancy Orcs," he mused, recalling the reverence in ThriL's hands, the precision in GinRee's work. Ballistas in the valley, darts with gem-tipped points, Shamans working midnight rituals... pieces of a puzzle just beyond his grasp.

  He'd seen desperate gambits before. Watched leaders throw everything at impossible odds. These Orcs were fighting something beyond steel and flame. Whatever poison weakened their young, whatever nightmares haunted their sleep... these stones mattered.

  "Not my circus, not my monkeys," he whispered. Yet curiosity gnawed at him.

  "Clever beasts," Miikka muttered. "Fighting dark magic with their own ancient arts."

  His gaze slid to the dam. Wood and stone defied the mountain's runoff. His eyes traced stubborn grooves resisting the aqueduct's flow.

  He noted where the weakest points aligned with Orcs' defensive preparations. If the dam burst, their sophisticated gem-dart perimeter would wash away before completion. The floodwaters would obliterate both physical defenses and magical protections in a single surge.

  "I'll need help," Miikka said with disgust. "Vardan's magic..." The realization rippled through his consciousness. Alliances with the dark sorcerer always exacted their price, but the dam wouldn't yield to his talents alone.

  As dusk claimed the sky. Miikka's plan solidified. He cast a final sweeping glance at the dam, the industrious village, and the relentless GinRee.

  Then, a skeletal dragon circled high above. Ivory's bone-chilling presence served as stark testament to Miikka's perilous pact with Swift-River. To reveal Crimson Ruby's location.

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  Next time: The shadow speaks. The sorcerer answers.

  Breach of Balance ---

  https://docs.google.com/document/d/1PPs1k_nWYycNd7pPdF8Wo1_7Poa3ZBXG044eWFnwJ9w/edit?usp=drivesdk