The echoes of battle resounded from every direction, yet Gerome stood unmoving at the heart of the chaos—silent as a stone statue, his eyes fixed on the winding stone staircase that led to the upper floors of the castle.
The thunder of heavy hooves rang out across the hard floor as they charged through the side corridor leading into the inner keep.
It was the elite orc unit—the finest warriors who had followed Gerome through his bloodiest battles. They wore dark, patched and cracked armor, each piece telling the tale of a past battle, of victory or defeat.
Unlike the noisy masses below, they did not shout, did not boast. They waited in deadly silence... like blades steeped in shadow.
Gerome spoke, his voice low and rough like breaking stone: "Form up. We strike straight at the heart."
Then he advanced, his steps echoing dully through the narrow corridor, followed by a line of loyal warriors, their eyes gleaming with resolve, their hearts unfamiliar with hesitation.
.......
