Grom planted his axe in the wooden stump and wiped sweat from his brow. The training yard behind his clan hall stood empty except for him. He'd been chief for three months now, but the real work hadn't even started. His dream burned bright in his chest—to unite the warring clans of Highover through marriage alliances. No more raids. No more blood feuds between orcs, goblins, and trolls. His people would become something greater, bound together by family ties instead of torn apart by old hatreds. The other chiefs would laugh at first, but he'd show them. Peace through unity. Power through blood bonds. That was the future he would build. But he needed a place worthy of such unions. His current clan hall was too small, too plain. The clans would need to see strength and tradition in one structure. Grom walked through the construction site at dawn, his boots crunching on frost-covered ground. Mammoth tusks rose from the earth like giant teeth. Workers wrapped red cloth around wooden beams and hammered metal plates into place. The activity hall would tower over every building in the settlement. Its battle-worn look spoke of orc heritage, but its size promised something new. This was where he would host the first wedding ceremony. This was where rival chiefs would drink together and watch their children become family. He ran his hand along a massive tusk. The hall would be ready in two weeks. Then the real work would begin. But a wedding hall alone wouldn't be enough. The chiefs needed to see each other's strength before they'd trust marriage bonds. Grom sketched plans in the dirt with a stick—an arena where clans could meet and compete without spilling blood. Tusks and bones would line the walls. Red cloth would hang from the posts. It would be a place for tests of strength, for feasts, for talking instead of killing. He stood and brushed the dirt from his hands. Two buildings. One for binding families together, one for bringing rivals face to face. These would be the foundation of his alliance. The next morning, Grom stood in his workshop before a dark wooden table. An orc skull sat carved into its surface, and a ceremonial dagger rested beside it. He would need tokens for each alliance—something to mark the binding of clans. His hands moved over the wood as he planned what he would craft here. Blood tokens. Unity markers. Physical proof that two families had joined. Each alliance would receive something made at this table, forged with his own hands. The buildings would bring the clans together, but these gifts would seal the bonds. He picked up the dagger and tested its weight. Everything was taking shape. The structures stood ready. Now he just needed the courage to invite the first chief.