Chapter 529

The Threian camp sprawled across the southern banks of the Garthum River like a beast at rest, its iron hide shimmering beneath the midday sun. Tents lined in ruthless order, siege crews assembling Thunder Makers in neat rows, while gunners ran drills with their boomsticks under the barks of their commanders. The air was thick with smoke, gun oil, and the tension of an army poised for slaughter.

General Snowe stood at the edge of a hill overlooking the river, his white cloak fluttering in the wind. The Garthum wound its way like a silver serpent through the plains, but beyond its glistening skin lay the dark shadow of resistance. East of the river, scouts had reported a massive coalition of orcish tribes...a last stand gathering where the desperate mingled with the feral.

"They'll come soon," Snowe said to himself, as a breeze from the north sent ripples across the Garthum's surface. "Out of fear, if not resolve."