Chapter 497

The high sun cast long shadows across the blood-soaked field. Lieutenant Deramis, his face grim, barked orders in Threian, his voice barely audible above the roar of the orcish advance. His infantry, a ragged line of tired men, desperately tried to hold the line against a tide of brutal savagery. Their shields, battered and splintered, offered meager protection against the relentless onslaught.

"Hold the line! For the marksmen!" Deramis yelled, his voice hoarse. He thrust his sword, a scarred and dented blade, into the chest of an orc that lunged at him. The orc's guttural shriek cut short as he collapsed, a gurgling mess of blood and viscera.