The earth quaked beneath the synchronized thud of thousands of feet, the steady beat of war drums echoing across the plain like the heartbeat of a monster rising from the depths. Smoke, thick and bitter with oil and burnt wood, swirled across the churned battlefield, muting the morning light and turning the day gray and dismal. The Threian defensive line stood rigid, a wall of men and wood and hardened earth, pitted and scorched but not yet broken.
Captain Braedon adjusted his grip on the edge of the splintered fortifications, his gauntlet creaking as he leaned forward, peering through the smoke with narrowed eyes. The timber-reinforced wall stretched nearly a league in both directions, anchored by crude towers and backed by dugouts, pike nests, and artillery pits. Men bustled beneath him, preparing for another clash, their movements practiced but heavy with fatigue. They had been fighting since dawn, and the orcs had shown no signs of relenting.
