A Father’s Council:

  Rocka made his way toward his clan’s section of the stronghold—Clan Urgnash?Yal, the ruling clan of Urgnash?Yal itself. Along the path stood the mark of the battle master, carved deep into stone. Beneath it was his father’s name: Kraken Urgnash. For decades Kraken had defended the title, each mark etched for a victory in Tengwar. The wall bore many such scars, proof that he had held the mantle longer than most, and that his reign had been one of relentless triumph.

  Rocka stepped inside his family’s longhouse. His mother Alkaia Urgnash greeted him with a warm smile. She was a comforting sight after a day of toil and humiliation. Her hands were worn from endless work, yet her presence radiated strength. Rocka handed her his knapsack and the goose, returning her smile with weary eyes.

  “Yes, how are you, mother?” he asked softly.

  “I’m well. Food will be ready soon. Your father wishes to speak with you… poultry? Your father will not be pleased with this. He expects a hunter’s prize, not scraps.” Alkaia replied, taking the goose without comment, though the meagerness of it did not escape her notice.

  “Malokr took too much, as always. He leaves me with feathers while he feasts on flesh.” Rocka states.

  Alkaia shakes disapprovingly, “I wonder who’s to blame for that?”

  Rocka sighs, “so be it.”

  Alkaia states “go join your brothers, Rocka.”

  Rocka glanced across the hall. His brothers Goram and Traken sparred in the dojo, their movements fluid, seasoned, each strike echoing discipline. Beyond them, in the garden, Kraken Urgnash sat in meditation. The master of the stronghold was a stoic figure, scarred by countless battles, his presence tranquil yet commanding. He had built a true home for his clan, and now he prepared to face his final sunset.

  Rocka’s gaze lingered on his father’s scarred hands, steady in meditation. To him, surrendering such strength to tradition felt like madness. His own fingers tightened around the goose, a reminder of his meager prize. He thought of his mother—always quick to seize an opportunity, always scheming in small ways to keep the household thriving. She was pragmatic, sharp, yet when she looked at Kraken her eyes softened with respect. Rocka knew he carried more of her influence than that of his father’s, though even she bowed to the legacy he could never embrace.

  Rocka joined his brothers by their father’s side. The weight of the impending conversation hung in the air. Kraken drew a deep breath, opened his eyes, and spoke.

  “My sons,” his voice carried the weight of wisdom and years, “tomorrow marks my eightieth birthday, and the end of my time as elder of Clan Urgnash?Yal and battle master of this stronghold. At dawn, I will announce the thirty?second Tengwar tournament. And you will face your cousins, your battle brothers, and the other worthy contestants who hold valid claim to the title, to acquire my position. I know each of you has chosen your path—some more honorable than others—but you are all my sons, and you will forever be.”

  Goram straightened, pride burning in his voice. “Yes, father. At last our time has come. Years of battle, training, and mastery will bear fruit—or at least bring honor to the clan’s name, whether or not Mau?Lak deems it so.”

  Traken, youngest and eager, asked, “Father, this will be our first Tengwar tournament. How exactly will it unfold?”

  Rocka rolled his eyes at their predictable responses, feeling the sting of his father’s words more keenly than his brothers did.

  Kraken’s gaze swept over them, his voice deep and steady. “Tengwar, my sons, is a sacred tradition among our people. It has been performed through generations since the writing of the sacred doctrines, dating back to Mau?Lak’s first challenge for Clan Bhoar’s leadership in the First Era. Even before it bore the name, it was law among orcs.

  “This tournament places every male older than fourteen in single combat, match by match, until a final victor remains. The rules are simple, but the stakes are high. No striking below the pinter. Mercy is granted—or denied—by each victor, unless an elder objects. It is a test of strength, skill, and courage. Not just a chance for young warriors to prove themselves, and for veterans to keep their sword arm sharp, but a chance to become greater among many, a chance for greater glory.

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  “But remember, it is not only about muscle. It is about tenacity, discipline, tactics, and respect for our ways. Tomorrow, as you enter the arena, know that you carry the legacy of Clan Urgnash on your shoulders. Fight well, stand your ground, and remember Mau?Lak’s tenets: an orc must prove himself; an orc must die on his feet, not on his knees; and above all, strength must prevail—never let the weak endure.”

  Kraken’s eyes closed briefly, then opened with finality. “Rest well and eat plenty. Tomorrow Mau?Lak, the stronghold, and I will be watching. Make us proud.”

  The brothers rose together, bowing their heads, and turned back toward the longhouse. But Kraken’s voice halted Rocka.

  “Rocka. Stand fast.”

  Goram and Traken passed inside, leaving Rocka alone before his father. Kraken’s gaze was heavy, his tone sharpened. “I must speak with you in light of your recent behavior—your recurring escapades to the human town. As your father and master, I ask: what are you thinking? This is not becoming of a son of Urgnash?Yal. Neglect of duty, indulgence in decadence… your sword arm grows flabby. You partake in merriment and debauchery when you are not of age, nor rite.”

  Rocka’s chest tightened. Frustration and shame warred within him. He knew there was truth in his father’s words, yet the sting of them cut deeper than any blade.

  Rocka tried to rebut, his voice edged with defiance. “Yes, I understand, but I am bringing tribute to the stronghold. I am earning my keep, even if not through combat or warfare. So I take a load off and gallivant with the Norsemen—I fail to see the issue.”

  Kraken raised his hand, silencing him. His voice was iron. “Gallivant with the Norsemen? Interesting choice of words. Be that it may… The issue is that you are not proving yourself. You are not following orcish way. Mau?Lak teaches that training comes first, always, and that weakness must never prevail. Look at these past months—you vanish for weeks, you do not volunteer for raids or hunts, you are seen drunk, and there are rumors of you courting human females and undesirables. The people claim you run amok in decadence.”

  Rocka shook his head, lamenting. “Nay, I will never partake in such rot. Besides, I do not think Norsewomen fancy me much.”

  Kraken’s frustration boiled over. “So you have attempted it then. Either way—look at you.” He jabbed Rocka’s belly with his staff. “Tubby and flabby. What fruit will this yield tomorrow in the tournament? You will be crushed. And do not use the excuse of being less blessed. Your younger brother Traken bears similar stature, yet he trains relentlessly. At his age he has returned from three successful raids, even brought back the head of a Slav. Goram, your elder brother, has made a name for himself in the stronghold and now properly courts our women. His time is nearly here.”

  Rocka snapped, “What is your point?”

  Kraken’s eyes hardened. “Do not interrupt me, lad. Honor your father and master. My point is not to compare you, but to make you aware of how the stronghold views you—compared to your brothers, compared to me, as my legacy.”

  Rocka fell silent, the weight of his father’s words pressing down. Kraken continued, voice heavy with finality. “At this point, it matters little. What’s done is done. Though you may not care now, your reckoning will come—not from me, but from the tournament. After tomorrow, I will not be able to shield you. This may be the last time we speak like this. Consider it my final council. Your brothers have already received theirs—under more pleasant pretenses.”

  Rocka’s jaw tightened. “I get it. It is your final journey. But I will not weep, you old fool. Am I dismissed?”

  Kraken kept his face firm, though his voice softened. “I suppose you are. Rest now—for tomorrow will be a hard day. Mau?Lak preserve you, my son.”

  Rocka rose and walked toward his room, passing Alkaia. She had overheard enough, and concern was etched across her features. She approached her husband, her tone heavy with a mother’s worry.

  “He did bring a goose earlier.” Alkaia says quietly.

  Kraken sighs exasperated, “A goose? Not even won in a hunt, but bought from raiders.”

  “What will become of him?” she asked quietly.

  Kraken’s shoulders sagged. “I do not know. It seems I have failed him—as his master and his father. I overlooked his progress while I focused on the triumphs of the other boys. I fear it is too late. His path may already be set in stone.”

  Alkaia placed a gentle hand on his scarred shoulder. “You did your best. You can only do so much. I fear for him, yes… but though I did not give birth to all of them, I have loved them as if they were my own. I never wished to pry, but tell me—why did you never take more wives?”

  Kraken’s gaze softened as he looked at her. “The last thing I needed was more rivalry among siblings. And besides—you are the only one who gave true warmth and love to me and this home... Do not fret for the boys. They will find their way. As for Rocka… though his path may be painful, he is more resilient than most perceive. He will endure.”

  Alkaia nodded, her heart eased but not unburdened. Kraken’s words carried hope, yet her worry lingered, a shadow that would not leave.