We push east through the night, putting as much distance as possible between our company and Hillbrook. With Nerk leading the goblin scouts at point and the ogres lumbering along under guard at the rear, we make decent progress despite the darkness. Morrigan occasionally releases small bursts of magic to mask our trail, her feathers glowing faintly as she works her spells.

  "Death Knight must be pissed we ruined his bandit operation," I mutter to Nerk as we march. "Maybe those ogres were more valuable to him than we realized."

  Nerk nods, his eyes gleaming in the darkness. "Makes sense. Knight using bandits and ogres to raid caravans. We fuck up his plan, he wants revenge."

  "Well, he's not getting it," I reply firmly. "We're heading east, finding this orc warlord, and expanding our army."

  The next three days blur together in a haze of constant movement. We avoid roads, sticking to forests and rough terrain where our motley force won't be easily spotted. The land gradually changes as we push eastward—forests thinning, hills growing steeper and rockier. In the distance, the jagged peaks of the Thunder Mountains begin to dominate the horizon.

  On the fourth day, our scouts report a small settlement ahead—just a few farms clustered around a mill. We give it a wide berth, but not before Morrigan slips in disguised as an old woman to gather information.

  "Orc raids hit here last week," she reports upon returning. "Took livestock, burned one farm. Heading right direction."

  That evening, I gather Nerk and Morrigan for what's become our nightly ritual, focused enhancement sessions. I've been pouring more energy into both of them each night, refining their abilities and pushing their evolution further.

  Nerk sits cross-legged before me, his already impressive form vibrating slightly as I channel power through our bond. Over the past days, the changes have become more pronounced. His skin has developed a pattern of darker scales across his shoulders and back—natural armor forming where it's most useful. His intelligence continues to sharpen; he now speaks in complete sentences most of the time, with a growing vocabulary and tactical understanding.

  "Feel it changing me," he says as the energy flows between us. "Mind clearer. See patterns better. Understand strategy more deeply."

  I nod, focusing the enhancement toward those mental attributes. A powerful lieutenant needs more than just muscle.

  When I finish with Nerk, Morrigan takes his place. The hagraven's evolution follows a different path—her wings have grown almost large enough for true flight, and her magical repertoire expands daily. I direct energy toward her divinatory abilities, sensing she could be our most valuable scout if properly enhanced.

  "Sight sharpens," she croaks as the power flows. "Can see farther... deeper. Begin to glimpse threads of fate, possibilities spiraling outward."

  By the time we finish, I'm exhausted but satisfied. Both of my bonded monsters grow stronger daily, their capabilities expanding in ways that complement each other and serve our overall strategy.

  On the sixth day, we encounter our first real test—a trio of wyverns hunting in the foothills. Smaller cousins to true dragons, the reptilian predators dive from the sky without warning, targeting our ogres first.

  "Defensive formation!" Nerk bellows, his tactical training kicking in instantly. Our goblin archers form up, loosing volleys of arrows at the swooping creatures while the ogres roar in rage and confusion.

  One wyvern crashes to earth, peppered with arrows, and Nerk engages it personally—his enhanced strength and speed making him a match for the thrashing beast. I focus on coordinating our forces, directing goblin archers to concentrate fire on the second wyvern while Morrigan works a spell to disorient the third.

  The battle is brief but vicious. When it ends, all three wyverns lie dead, and we've suffered only minor casualties—two goblins injured by lashing tails, one ogre with a nasty bite to the shoulder.

  "Harvest everything," I order, recognizing the opportunity. "Scales, teeth, venom glands. Valuable trade goods and useful components."

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  As our forces strip the wyvern carcasses, I feel a surge of power flowing through our network. Combat against worthy opponents accelerates our growth—that much is clear. The injured ogre's wound begins healing visibly faster than it should, a side effect of being connected to our power structure.

  That night, I sense another shift in the energy flowing through me. Not a new bonding slot opening, but something else—a deepening of the connections I already have, as if the wyvern essence we've absorbed has enriched the entire network.

  We continue eastward, and the signs of orc activity increase. Burned-out farms, crude territorial markers painted on rocks, the occasional corpse left as a warning to trespassers. Our scouts move more cautiously now, aware that we're entering dangerous territory.

  On the eighth day, we hit paydirt—one of our forward scouts returns with news of an orc patrol spotted less than an hour's march ahead.

  "Six warriors," the goblin reports excitedly. "Green skin, big tusks. Wearing wolf furs and black iron. One has banner—wolf head with broken fang."

  "Blackjaw's symbol," Morrigan confirms, recalling details from my tavern intelligence gathering. "His territory near."

  I consider our options carefully. "We need to capture one alive. Question it about Blackjaw's exact location and defenses."

  Nerk grins, displaying his sharpened teeth. "Easy. Set ambush, kill five, keep one."

  We move quickly, positioning our forces in a small ravine that the orc patrol will have to pass through. Goblin archers conceal themselves on the ridges above, while Nerk and the ogres wait behind large boulders. Morrigan prepares a spell to block the patrol's retreat once they've entered our trap.

  The ambush works perfectly. The orcs, confident in their territory, march straight into the ravine with minimal caution. At my signal, arrows rain down from above, immediately dropping two warriors. The others roar and draw weapons, but before they can organize, Nerk and the ogres charge. Morrigan's spell seals the exit with a wall of swirling mist that disorients anyone trying to pass through it.

  In less than a minute, five orcs lie dead, and one remains—pinned beneath Nerk's foot, snarling but helpless.

  "Where is Blackjaw?" I demand, approaching the captured warrior.

  The orc spits blood and barks something in its harsh language. Morrigan steps forward, casting a minor spell that seems to shift something in the air between them.

  "Can understand now," she explains. "Translation magic."

  I repeat my question. The orc's eyes widen slightly at hearing his own language from a human's mouth, but his defiance doesn't waver.

  "Kill me, pink-skin," he growls through Morrigan's translation. "Blackjaw will wear your intestines as belt."

  Nerk applies more pressure with his foot, making the orc gasp. "Answer master or suffer slowly," he threatens.

  After some additional persuasion from Nerk, the orc's resistance breaks. Through Morrigan's translation, we learn that Blackjaw's main camp lies two days' march deeper into the foothills, in a defensible valley surrounded by steep cliffs. The warlord commands not just a hundred warriors as we'd heard, but closer to three hundred—having recently absorbed another tribe into his growing horde.

  Most importantly, we learn about Blackjaw himself—a massive orc who claims descent from ancient champions, wielding an enchanted battle-axe allegedly forged from a meteorite. His shaman, Gul'Thak, supports his claim of divine destiny, rallying more orcs to his banner with each passing moon.

  "What does he plan?" I ask. "Why raid human settlements now?"

  The orc laughs bitterly. "Building strength. Testing weakness. Soon, when moon turns red, great attack comes. Many human settlements burn on same night."

  That's valuable intelligence—Blackjaw is planning a coordinated assault across multiple human targets. It explains why the Death Knight might be taking an interest in the region as well. Various powers are moving, positioning themselves for whatever comes next.

  When we've extracted all useful information, I face a decision about the prisoner's fate. Killing him ensures he can't warn his comrades, but releasing him might serve a different purpose.

  "Take message to Blackjaw," I tell the surprised orc. "Tell him a tamer comes. One who respects strength and seeks alliance, not conquest." I gesture to Nerk and Morrigan. "Tell him I command monsters that would make valuable allies in his coming war."

  The orc studies me with newfound wariness. "Blackjaw fears no tamer," he says, but there's a hint of uncertainty in his voice now.

  "He doesn't need to fear me," I reply. "He needs to meet me. Judge my strength for himself."

  After the orc departs, Morrigan clicks her beak skeptically. "Dangerous approach. Gives away surprise."

  "We can't sneak up on a camp of three hundred orcs anyway," I counter. "Better to approach openly, with a proposal Blackjaw might actually consider."

  Nerk nods thoughtfully. "Orcs respect strength, direct challenge. Good strategy."

  We continue our advance, more cautiously now. Whether the orc delivers my message or not, we're committed to this course. In two days, we'll either have a powerful new ally bound to me as my third monster, or we'll be fighting for our lives against overwhelming odds.

  As we make camp that night, I focus on one final enhancement session with Nerk and Morrigan, pouring every bit of energy I can spare into strengthening them for the challenge ahead. Whatever happens next, we'll face it with all the power we can muster.