Chapter 75: The Council of the Rising City

  The council hall—once a war room filled with battle-worn maps, dented weapon racks, and the lingering scent of sweat and steel—had been reshaped. The long wooden tables now bore parchments filled with city plans, ink pots for official documentation, and wooden carvings of proposed expansions. Torches burned steadily along the stone walls, their warm glow casting flickering light over the gathered figures—each of them a key player in the future of the Stronghold.

  Or rather, the future city.

  Marcus stepped inside, his boots echoing against the polished stone floor. Despite his weeks of unconsciousness, he felt no hesitation—only the weight of expectation pressing down on him.

  His three-week slumber had not paused history. If anything, it had only sped forward, leaving him to catch up.

  At the head of the long central table, Miran stood, his golden eyes sharp yet welcoming. The Chieftain was clad in ceremonial armor, its etched runes shimmering faintly under the torchlight. Though still the dominant force in the room, Miran had clearly evolved beyond just a warlord—he now bore the weight of a ruler.

  As Marcus approached, Miran motioned for him to take a seat. “Good to see you standing, Marcus.” His voice carried across the chamber—firm but measured. “You shook the world, and now we have to build something strong enough to withstand what comes next.”

  Marcus exhaled, pulling out a chair and sinking into it. "No pressure, huh?"

  A few chuckles rippled through the room, but the air remained heavy with seriousness.

  Miran surveyed the gathered leaders before speaking again. "Three weeks ago, we stood on the brink of annihilation. The Thane sought to erase us. But we fought, we endured, and we survived." His fingers traced the edge of the war table. "That is not enough."

  The room fell silent.

  "Survival means waiting for the next threat. Strength means ensuring that we are never put in that position again." Miran leaned forward, his golden gaze sweeping across the room. "We will not be a people waiting for war. We will be a city that stands its ground."

  His words hung in the air.

  “We have decisions to make.” “And they start today.”

  The council hall was packed with figures of influence, each representing a vital aspect of the city’s foundation.

  Miran – The chieftain and de facto ruler, presiding over the meeting.

  Boruk & Ragn – Representing the military, focused on defense and security.

  Vira & Yara – Trusted advisors, representing internal governance and stability.

  Grek – The Trade Representative, advocating for economic growth and merchant relations.

  Thalron & Fillia – Representing the Adventurers’ Guild, negotiating the establishment of a branch in the city.

  Desmoin Heller – The Astorian Adventurers' Guild Leader, a human noble with slicked-back dark hair and piercing blue eyes.

  Traditionalist Orc Elders – A faction resistant to too much change, believing in Orc traditions over outside influence.

  Each had a stake in what the Stronghold would become.

  And each had their own vision.

  Miran outlined his proposal: A Council of Elders & Representatives—a mix of military, trade, and diplomatic leaders, ensuring balance in governing the city.

  Miran stood at the head of the table, his golden eyes sweeping across the gathered leaders. His hands rested firmly on the table, his posture unwavering.

  “For generations, we have been a warrior people.” His voice was steady, deliberate. “Strength determined leadership. The mightiest among us led, and that strength kept us alive.”

  He exhaled, gaze shifting to the plans laid before them—parchments filled with diagrams of walls, trade routes, and structures that signified something beyond survival.

  “But now, strength alone is not enough. If we are to become a city, we must wield more than weapons.”

  The room fell silent, all eyes locked onto him.

  “We need governance.”

  That single word carried weight, sparking murmurs among the orc elders, some of whom shifted uneasily.

  “What kind of governance?” one of them asked, arms crossed. “We follow the strongest. That has always been our way.”

  Boruk grunted, rolling his shoulders. “A warrior’s strength in battle does not always mean wisdom in leadership.”

  Ragn smirked, but his eyes were sharp. “If strength alone ruled, the Thane would still be standing.”

  A low murmur of agreement rippled through the room, though not all looked convinced.

  Miran nodded. “Which is why I propose a council—not just a ruler.”

  He pointed toward the gathered leaders. “A city is not just a warband. We need warriors, yes. But also planners, traders, diplomats. We need a foundation that does not break when one leader falls.”

  Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Miran motioned toward three core sections of governance he envisioned:

  The War Council – Oversees military defense, strategy, and security. Led by Boruk, with Ragn managing intelligence and scouting.

  The Trade & Infrastructure Council – Oversees economic growth, trade, resources, and city expansion. Spearheaded by Grek as Trade Representative.

  The Civic Council – Oversees laws, justice, and diplomacy, ensuring the city remains stable as it grows. A balance between orc tradition and the needs of a mixed-race city.

  Each would have representatives to balance power—preventing any one group from dominating the city’s direction.

  Not everyone agreed.

  “A council?” One of the older orcs, his tusks yellowed with age, scoffed. “You mean to have warriors bow to merchants? To spies? We are orcs, not humans playing politics.”

  “Warriors should lead, as they always have.” Another elder grumbled. “Miran is our chieftain. He should rule as such.”

  A few voices echoed agreement. Some orcs had grown accustomed to following a single leader—and anything else felt weak.

  Grek, ever the opportunist, leaned forward with a sharp grin. “And when Miran dies?”

  The room went silent.

  Grek continued. “No leader rules forever. Do you want your city to fall apart every time the strongest warrior gets himself killed?”

  The bluntness of his words caused a few to bristle, but they did not refute him.

  Marcus, who had been silent until now, leaned forward, resting his arms on the table.

  “A strong leader is great.” His voice cut through the noise. “Until they fall, or someone stronger comes knocking.”

  The room’s attention snapped to him.

  Marcus continued, his tone firm. “If you want this place to last, it can’t be built on just one person’s strength. A council makes it stable. You don’t just need warriors; you need planners, traders, scouts, and rule-makers. You need balance.”

  He exhaled. “Where I come from, I’ve seen what happens when power isn’t balanced properly. When a single leader holds all the power, the moment they fall, everything they built crumbles. But if power is shared—if different branches check and balance each other—then the city stands strong, no matter who leads.”

  Miran’s golden eyes gleamed with curiosity. “Explain.”

  Marcus sat forward, holding their attention. "We divide governance into three branches, each responsible for a different aspect of leadership. Each one has its own power, but none can act without the others.”

  "First—The Executive. This is the leadership that enforces laws, directs the military, and makes final decisions in times of crisis. A warlord, a chieftain, or a council of generals would oversee this.”

  Boruk and the other warriors nodded, liking the sound of it.

  "Second—The Legislative. The ones who create and refine the laws, oversee trade, and ensure the city runs smoothly. Representatives from different guilds, trade unions, and influential figures would sit here.”

  Grek’s grin widened. "Ah, now that is something I can get behind."

  "Lastly—The Judicial. This group ensures that both the military and the trade council act within the law. They oversee disputes, handle legal matters, and ensure that justice is upheld.”

  The older orcs, who had seemed hesitant before, started murmuring among themselves. This wasn’t just letting outsiders take control—it was structuring power so that it could not be abused.

  Marcus leaned back. "This way, no one person or group rules everything. Each branch relies on the others. The warriors protect, the traders build wealth, and the law keeps order."

  Miran exhaled, considering it carefully.

  Boruk was nodding. “I like it. It makes sense.”

  Ragn grinned. “It makes spying easier if people actually tell you what the rules are.”

  Some of the elders were still uncertain, but the weight of reason was tipping against them.

  Finally, Miran stood. “Then it’s settled.” His voice carried the tone of finality. “The Council will govern, with representatives from each of the city's pillars.”

  It was done.

  The Stronghold was no more.

  A city had begun to take shape.

  Boruk stepped forward, his massive frame casting a long shadow across the table.

  “The Thane is gone, but that doesn’t mean the threats stop.” His voice was low and firm. “We need a standing army—not just warriors who fight when called, but full-time, trained soldiers. A true army.”

  Ragn spoke next. “Strength isn’t just about an army. We need scouts, spies, and intelligence gathering. The Thane’s forces will reorganize, and we need to know before they move.”

  His name was formally put forth as spymaster.

  Thalron smirked. "Or, you could just hire adventurers for the dirty work."

  That sparked debate—should they rely on outsiders or build their own strength?

  Marcus weighed in. “I’m with Boruk and Ragn. You need your own force. Adventurers can be useful, but you can’t build security on people who can take their coin and leave.”

  Miran nodded. "Then we form the Guard—our first standing military force.”

  Grek took the floor, rolling out a map of potential trade routes.

  “This city doesn’t just need walls and warriors. It needs trade. We have resources—ores, monster materials, crafted goods. But we need allies to grow.”

  Desmoin Heller, the Astorian merchant lord, leaned forward, his blue eyes glinting. "And allies cost coin, my friend."

  Some orc elders resisted, voices gruff and unyielding: “We are warriors, not merchants!”

  Marcus, once again, was asked to weigh in.

  "Trade doesn’t make you weak." His voice was clear, steady. "It makes you valuable. The moment you have something others need, you stop being a target and start being a power.”

  The council agreed. Grek would oversee trade negotiations, forming official merchant guilds within the city.

  With governance, security, and trade set in motion, only one thing remained.

  A name.

  The Stronghold was no longer just a fortress. It was no longer merely a place of war and survival. It had evolved—stone by stone, decision by decision—into something greater. The city needed an identity that represented that transformation.

  Miran leaned forward, his golden eyes scanning the table. “A fortress holds, a city thrives.” He exhaled, rubbing his chin. “This place needs a name fitting of what it’s becoming.”

  The room murmured with voices of consideration.

  “It should honor our ancestors,” one orc elder suggested. “It must be something strong,” Boruk added, crossing his arms. “A name to make our enemies tremble,” Ragn muttered with a smirk.

  Grek, ever the businessman, shrugged. “Something marketable wouldn’t hurt either.”

  Vira tapped her fingers against the table. "Something that signifies rebirth. Growth. A second chance."

  Then, all eyes turned to Marcus.

  He hadn't said much during the naming discussion, but as they spoke, his mind drifted back—not just to his battles here, not just to the bloodshed, but to his old home.

  A place far beyond this world.

  A place that stood as a symbol of resilience—of struggle, ambition, and reinvention.

  A place that, if you could survive in, you could survive anywhere.

  Marcus leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. He let the weight of the moment settle before he spoke.

  "New York."

  The room fell silent for a moment.

  Miran blinked. “New York?” He tested the words on his tongue, repeating it slower this time. "New… York."

  The orc warriors exchanged glances, mulling over the unfamiliar sound.

  One of the elders, a battle-scarred orc with tusks worn down from years of war, grunted. “Hmph. Sounds orcish.”

  Another orc nodded, rolling the name in his mouth. “Yes. Strong. Short. Like a war cry.”

  Boruk cracked a grin. “New York… it does have a bite to it.”

  Ragn smirked. “Tch. It’s got an edge. Sounds like a place where only the tough survive.”

  Even Grek tilted his head, considering. "Has a sharpness to it. People will remember it."

  Miran exhaled, staring at Marcus. "What does it mean?"

  Marcus smirked, leaning back in his chair. "It means…" He paused for dramatic effect before grinning. "If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere."

  The room rumbled with murmurs of approval. The orcs nodded, slamming their fists against the table in agreement.

  Vira chuckled under her breath. "Sounds fitting."

  Miran, finally, let out a deep, satisfied chuckle. He stood, placing his hands on the table.

  “Then it’s settled.” His voice was firm, carrying the weight of finality. “From this day forward, this place is no longer just a stronghold.”

  He looked around at his people—at the warriors, the traders, the guild members, and Marcus himself.

  “Welcome to New York.”

  A thunderous roar erupted from the gathered orcs and warriors. Fists slammed against the table, voices bellowed the name, and the chamber shook with the declaration of a new era.

  Marcus sat back, arms crossed, watching it all unfold.

  The city was born.