The first clash came like thunder.
Grey-skinned orcs poured through the shattered gates of Rothschild territory in a tide of muscle and iron, their tusked faces split by savage grins. They moved with brutal coordination, no formation, and no leadership, just barging and attacking anything that's not orcs. Shields locking, axes raised, crude banners snapping in the smoke-choked air.
"Take it all!" one of the grim-looking orcs shouted.
To Leonhart and Mara, the cry registered as nothing more than a beast's roar—raw, hostile noise stripped of meaning. It sounded no different from the mountain orcs they had fought before, creatures driven by instinct rather than thought. Neither of them realized, not yet, that these orcs were different, that they possessed structure, language, and a kind of intelligence all their own.
