The night air in the orc camp turned thick with tension as the white-haired Chieftess emerged from the treeline like a ghost from legend. Her broadsword dragged behind her, the blade scraping against the rocky ground with a low, ominous grind.
Moonlight caught her white hair, making it glow like fresh snow, and her red eyes burned with a cold, unyielding fire. She stood alone, seven and a half feet of scarred muscle and black iron armor.
Over twenty orcs—Borg's warriors, hardened raiders with axes and spears—froze in their positions around the keep's outer yard, fires crackling behind them. Shava watched from some distance, her hands gripping the hilt of her sword so tight, her palms bruised. Borg stood beside her, his face paling beneath the bruises.
