The next two hours blur in a whirlwind of preparation. Our chosen force assembles at the edge of camp—thirty of our best goblin archers with arrows treated in Morrigan's poisons, two ogres now fitted with crude armor salvaged from our battles, and us four: myself, Nerk, Morrigan, and our newest addition, Gorthal.

  The orc blood-priest looks different already. The ritual scars across his green skin pulse with a dull red glow that seems to beat in time with his heart. His eyes have taken on an unnatural clarity, and his movements possess a fluid precision that contradicts his massive frame. The bonding process is enhancing him rapidly, his inherent magical abilities accelerating the transformation.

  "Small force, good speed," Nerk murmurs as we prepare to move out. "Strike fast, strike hard."

  I've left our remaining forces in a defensive position under the command of Griznak, with strict orders to hold their ground unless specifically summoned. If this is somehow an elaborate trap, we'll need a fallback position.

  We move through the darkness with surprising stealth for such a diverse group. The goblins are naturally quiet, Morrigan practically silent, and even the ogres have been trained to minimize their typically thunderous footfalls. Gorthal leads us along hidden game trails, his intimate knowledge of the territory proving immediately valuable.

  "Blackjaw camp ahead," he whispers after an hour of rapid march. We crest a small rise, and below us, a half-mile distant, pinpricks of firelight mark our target.

  Through our bond, I can sense Gorthal's excitement and anticipation—a hunter closing in on prey. I get brief flashes of his strategic thinking: approach vectors, the likely positioning of sentries, the tent where Blackjaw himself probably sleeps.

  "What defenses?" I ask quietly.

  "Six sentries patrol perimeter," Gorthal replies, pointing out their likely positions. "Two guards at Blackjaw's tent. Rest sleep but ready—warriors, not common soldiers. Will respond quickly to alarm."

  I nod to Morrigan. "Can you silence the sentries?"

  The hagraven clicks her beak in affirmation. "Sleep spell. Short range, but effective. Must approach each one closely."

  "I'll handle that," Nerk volunteers. "Move faster than witch. More silent."

  "Good," I decide. "Nerk takes down perimeter guards with Morrigan's spell. Goblins position for covering fire. Gorthal, the ogres, and I go for Blackjaw directly. Morrigan provides magical support once the alarm sounds—because it will."

  With our plan set, we move into position. The goblin archers spread out silently, finding vantage points in the rocks and sparse trees surrounding the camp. Morrigan performs a brief ritual, imbuing Nerk with a sleep-inducing enchantment that surrounds his hands with nearly invisible shimmering energy.

  I watch with pride as my first bonded monster slips into the darkness, moving with predatory grace toward the first sentry. His transformation under my bond has made him something extraordinary—faster, stronger, and smarter than any mere hobgoblin could hope to be.

  One by one, the perimeter sentries drop silently as Nerk touches them, the magical sleep taking effect instantly. He drags each unconscious body into the shadows, preventing easy discovery. It takes less than fifteen minutes to eliminate all six—an impressive display of stealth and efficiency.

  When Nerk returns, giving the signal that the perimeter is clear, I nod to Gorthal. It's time for the blood-priest to prove his worth.

  "I need your blood magic," I tell him quietly. "Something to give us an edge when we hit Blackjaw's tent."

  The orc grins, tusks gleaming in the moonlight. He draws his black metal dagger across his palm without hesitation. The blood that wells up doesn't drop to the ground but hovers, forming complex patterns as he whispers in the guttural orc language.

  "Blood-shroud," he explains as the crimson energy expands to envelop our small assault team. "Masks sound, masks scent. Not invisible, but... harder to notice. Won't last long once we engage."

  Under the protection of Gorthal's blood magic, we advance into the camp. The ogres move with surprising grace, the enchantment dampening their typically heavy footfalls. Gorthal leads us directly toward the largest tent at the center of the encampment, marked by a banner depicting a wolf's head with a broken fang.

  The two guards outside Blackjaw's tent are alert but unsuspecting. One yawns, leaning on his spear. The other scans the camp with bored regularity, his gaze passing over us without recognition thanks to Gorthal's blood-shroud.

  "Now," I whisper.

  The ogres charge with shocking speed, each targeting one guard. Before either orc can shout a warning, massive hands clamp over their mouths while crude daggers find throats. The kills are quick, efficient, and most importantly, silent.

  Gorthal approaches the tent flap, his ritual scars pulsing brighter as he prepares another blood magic. He smears a symbol on the tent fabric with his still-bleeding hand, whispering words that make my skin crawl.

  "Blood-binding," he explains softly. "Temporary paralysis for anyone inside. Won't hold Blackjaw long—he's strong—but gives us moments of advantage."

  At my nod, we burst through the tent flap.

  Inside, two figures are caught by surprise—a massive orc sprawled on a pile of furs and a smaller, wizened creature beside him. Blackjaw and his shaman, Gul'Thak. Both jerk in momentary paralysis as Gorthal's blood magic takes effect, their limbs stiffening unnaturally.

  Blackjaw is every bit as impressive as rumors suggested—nearly eight feet of solid muscle, with tusks longer and thicker than Gorthal's, and ritual scars that make even my blood-priest's look modest by comparison. The legendary axe leans against his sleeping pallet, its black metal blade seeming to drink in what little light enters the tent.

  The paralysis holds only seconds before Blackjaw's massive form begins to twitch, fighting against the magical binding. The shaman remains frozen, apparently lacking his master's raw physical power.

  "Kill the shaman," Gorthal hisses. "Quickly!"

  One of the ogres lunges forward, driving its crude dagger into Gul'Thak's chest. The old orc shudders once, then goes limp.

  Blackjaw roars as he breaks free of the paralysis, the sound loud enough to wake the entire camp. So much for stealth. He lunges for his axe, but I'm already moving, kicking it beyond his reach.

  What follows is chaos. Blackjaw, even unarmed, is a terrifying opponent. He seizes one ogre by the throat and physically hurls the massive creature through the tent wall. Outside, shouts of alarm rise as the camp awakens to the threat.

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  Nerk intercepts Blackjaw as the warlord charges toward his axe, the two massive forms colliding with bone-shaking force. Enhanced by our bond, Nerk matches Blackjaw's strength momentarily, but the orc warlord's battle experience shows as he breaks the grapple with a practiced twist.

  "Gorthal!" Blackjaw spits, recognizing his blood-priest among us. "Traitor! Weakling!"

  Gorthal's response is not words but action. He slashes his dagger across both palms, blood flowing freely as he performs a more complex ritual. The blood rises, forming writhing tendrils that lash out at Blackjaw, wrapping around his limbs like crimson chains.

  "Not weak anymore," Gorthal growls, his enhanced blood magic clearly surprising Blackjaw.

  Outside, battle erupts as the camp's warriors rush to their leader's aid. The night fills with the whistle of goblin arrows and screams as our carefully positioned archers unleash devastating volleys. Morrigan's magic manifests as rolling mists that confuse and disorient the orcs, making them easy targets.

  Inside the ruined tent, our attention remains fixed on Blackjaw. Despite Gorthal's blood chains, the warlord's legendary strength allows him to fight on, roaring defiance.

  "The axe," Gorthal shouts to me. "He draws power from it even at a distance!"

  I spot the weapon where it fell, its black metal blade seeming to pulse with malevolent energy. Without hesitation, I lunge for it, wrapping my hand around the haft.

  Instant regret follows as white-hot pain shoots up my arm. The weapon feels wrong—alive somehow, and hostile to my touch. But I maintain my grip, dragging it further from Blackjaw.

  The effect is immediate. The warlord's strength visibly diminishes, his struggles against Gorthal's blood chains becoming less effective. Seeing the opportunity, Nerk and the remaining ogre pounce, pinning the weakened Blackjaw to the ground.

  Gorthal approaches, ritual dagger raised. "For the true prophecy," he intones, then plunges the blade into Blackjaw's throat.

  The warlord's eyes widen in shock, then fury, then fade to emptiness as his life drains away. Gorthal doesn't waste the opportunity—he places his bleeding palm against the dying orc's chest, chanting in that harsh language, absorbing something from Blackjaw's departing spirit.

  "His essence," Gorthal explains, seeing my expression. "His strength. His knowledge. Not all, but enough."

  Outside, the sounds of battle diminish as the orcs realize their leader has fallen. Morrigan appears at the tent's ruined entrance, her feathers ruffled but otherwise unharmed.

  "Camp secured," she reports. "Twelve orc warriors dead. Eight surrendered when they sensed Blackjaw's death." She tilts her head curiously. "How did they know?"

  "Blood bond between warchief and warriors," Gorthal explains, rising from Blackjaw's corpse with blood-slicked hands. "They felt his passing. Now they await new leadership."

  I look down at the legendary axe still clutched in my hand. The pain has subsided to a dull throbbing, as if the weapon is assessing me, deciding whether to accept my touch.

  "What now?" I ask Gorthal. "You said some would follow immediately, others would need convincing."

  The blood-priest nods, wiping his ritual dagger clean. "Those who survive here will follow. They witnessed our power. The main force at the valley camp will require demonstration." His eyes fix on Blackjaw's corpse. "Bring his head. And the axe."

  Dawn breaks as we stand before the assembled warriors of Blackjaw's forward camp. Eight survivors kneel in the dirt, their weapons confiscated, their expressions a mixture of fear and grim acceptance. Around them, our goblin archers maintain vigilant watch, arrows nocked and ready.

  Gorthal stands beside me, his transformation progressing visibly. The ritual scars across his body now glow continuously, and his physical form has begun to change—muscles more defined, posture more commanding. The bond is enhancing him rapidly, his inherent magical abilities accelerating the process.

  "Warriors of Blackjaw," he addresses them in the orc language, which Morrigan translates for me through our bond. "Your warchief has fallen. The false prophecy dies with him."

  He gestures to me. "Behold the true fulfillment of the ancient words—a tamer who commands beasts and spirits alike, who transforms his followers into greater versions of themselves."

  The surviving orcs murmur among themselves, their eyes darting between Gorthal's glowing form, Nerk's impressive hobgoblin physique, and Morrigan's otherworldly presence.

  "I am Gorthal, blood-priest and now blood-prophet. Through the tamer's power, I bring the old magics back to our people." He lifts Blackjaw's severed head by the hair. "This was necessary. A sacrifice to begin our ascension."

  The orcs watch with wary respect as Gorthal performs a brief but impressive blood ritual, using Blackjaw's blood to create floating symbols of power that circle our group. It's theatrical but effective—a demonstration of his enhanced abilities that visibly impresses the warriors.

  "You have choice," he concludes. "Join us, grow stronger under the tamer's power, or die beside your former master."

  Not surprisingly, all eight choose to join. With Blackjaw's head as proof and these warriors as witnesses, we prepare to march on the main camp in the valley. Three hundred orc warriors await—some will resist, many will join, but by day's end, my monster army will have grown exponentially.

  As we organize our expanded force for the march, I examine the black metal axe more carefully. The pain of touching it has faded completely, the weapon apparently accepting my ownership. Its blade seems to drink in the morning sunlight rather than reflect it, and strange symbols etched along the haft remind me of the runes on Death Knight armor.

  "Star metal," Gorthal explains, noticing my examination. "Rare. Powerful. Death Knights seek it obsessively."

  "Why?" I ask.

  "Unknown," he admits. "But the metal responds to blood magic particularly well. Blackjaw knew some basic rituals, enough to enhance his strength through the axe. In your hands, with my blood magic to activate it properly..."

  He leaves the implication hanging, but I understand. This weapon could become something extraordinary with our combined powers. Another tool in our growing arsenal.

  But this is not the weapon for me. I'm not a warrior—I'm a tamer, a commander. My power lies in my monsters and my tactical oversight, not in personal combat.

  "Gorthal," I call, making a decision. "This belongs with you."

  The blood-priest looks surprised as I hold out the legendary weapon. His ritual scars pulse with excitement as he approaches.

  "Master wishes me to wield Blackjaw's axe?"

  "I'm not a fighter," I say firmly. "I almost got killed back there. My place is coordinating from a safe position, not charging into melee combat. This weapon needs someone who can use it properly."

  Gorthal takes the axe reverently, its black metal surface seeming to respond to his touch, the strange symbols along its shaft glowing faintly with the same reddish energy as his ritual scars.

  "A wise decision," Morrigan approves from nearby, her beady eyes watching the exchange with interest. "Master's power lies in bonds and command, not blade-work."

  Nerk nods in agreement. "Lieutenants fight. Master directs. Proper hierarchy."

  Gorthal lifts the axe experimentally, its massive size looking appropriate in his enhanced grip. Without hesitation, he draws his ritual dagger across his palm and smears blood along the weapon's edge. The black metal drinks it in eagerly, the strange runes flaring bright crimson before settling into a subtle, pulsing glow.

  "Blood-bound," he announces with satisfaction. "The axe accepts me."

  "Good," I reply, relieved to be rid of the thing. "Now we focus on the main force in the valley. I'll coordinate from the rear with Morrigan. You and Nerk lead the assault."

  As we organize our expanded force for the coming confrontation, I can't help but reflect on my narrow escape. Getting too close to the action is a rookie mistake—one I won't repeat. My monsters are my weapons, my extensions in battle. My job is to enhance them, direct them, and let them do what they do best.

  Gorthal strides among the captured orc warriors, Blackjaw's axe prominently displayed on his shoulder. The sight has an immediate impact—several drop to one knee in recognition of its power and symbolism. Through our fresh bond, I sense Gorthal's satisfaction and growing confidence. The axe completes his image as Blackjaw's rightful successor, making our takeover of the orc forces that much smoother.

  "We move on the main camp within the hour," I announce to my lieutenants. "Morrigan will scout ahead. Nerk, organize our goblin forces into proper ranged support units. Gorthal, prepare those who've joined us to convince their brothers at the main camp."

  As we prepare to move out, I survey what I've accomplished in just one night. My third bond is established with a powerful blood-priest who brings unique magical abilities to our force. We've eliminated a significant rival and stand poised to absorb his three hundred warriors into our army.

  My monster army grows stronger by the hour. Whatever obstacles lie ahead—be they Death Knights, human kingdoms, or darker threats yet unrevealed—we'll face them with ever-increasing power.