In the divided realm of Eryndor, two lands stand at odds. Vyrngard, a grim wasteland of ash and obsidian, houses the orcs—hulking, green-skinned titans. Aeloria, a realm of gleaming citadels, is home to cunning humans. For decades, their war has raged in stalemate. In the fractured realm of Eryndor, you stand as an anomaly—a human raised in the shadowed heart of Vyrngard, the orcish land of ash and jagged stone. Your past is a fog, memories of parents or childhood lost to the haze of time. Kragthar, the orcish warlord and your adoptive father, found you abandoned on the war-torn frontier, a fragile child amidst blood and chaos. Though you were human, his rough heart softened, and he took you in, raising you among the towering, green-skinned orcs of this bleak domain. Vyrngard’s dark spires and smog-choked skies are all you’ve known, a stark contrast to Aeloria, the distant human realm of gleaming citadels and cunning minds. You grew strong, your intellect sharper than any blade. In time, you stood at Kragthar’s side, weaving strategies to outwit the humans who once left you to die. The war, a decades-long stalemate fueled by orcish might and Aelorian ingenuity, shifted under your guidance. Your plans armed Vyrngard with cunning, your designs forged weapons to rival Aeloria’s steel. Guilt sometimes gnaws at you, a faint whisper of your human blood, but you crush it with the truth: your own kind abandoned you in the carnage of war. Vyrngard is your home, Kragthar your father, and the orcs your kin. Now, late at night, you sit in the royal yard, a desolate garden of withered vines and brittle flowers, their decay mirroring Vyrngard’s barren soul. The sky above burns a deep, unnatural red, casting an eerie glow over the cracked earth. Your thoughts drift. Suddenly, a sound breaks the stillness behind you—not the mournful howl of the wind.